entry fifty-six

Wednesday, June 11, 2025

    Last week’s conversation with my critical friend cracked something open in me. It wasn’t a new realization exactly—more like peeling back a layer I’d hardened over out of necessity. Speaking honestly about the emotional toll of this work made me feel both seen and exposed. I hadn’t realized how much of myself I’ve buried just to keep going. The conversation felt like finally letting out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. As we talked, I became more aware of everything I’ve been carrying—confusion, exhaustion, disappointment—and how the absence of genuine support from leadership has slowly eroded my sense of confidence and clarity in this role.

    What surfaced most clearly is how deeply I’ve internalized the idea that my boundaries are negotiable. That to be a “good” teacher means enduring disrespect, absorbing violence with grace, and meeting emotional crises with a calm smile and a perfectly scaffolded lesson. But something in me is rejecting that now—quietly but firmly. I’m starting to say: No, actually. I will not be harmed in the name of professionalism. That harm isn’t a “learning opportunity.” It’s a violation. Yet, the moment I name this, I feel punished for it—subtly, systemically. I’m made to feel like I’m the problem. That I should be more patient, more flexible, more emotionally restrained. I start to doubt myself: Maybe I am too sensitive. Maybe I don’t have the temperament. Maybe this burnout is just me failing. But deep down, I know that’s not the truth. The truth is that I am human. I care. I care enough to be brokenhearted.

    There’s this line I keep coming back to from our conversation: “They’re not even looking in the same direction.” That image lingers. It’s not just about misalignment—it’s about willful disregard. It’s the feeling of carrying a heavy, unruly load, shouting for help, and watching the people in charge turn their backs to pet a puppy on the floor. It’s absurd. It’s infuriating. But it’s also devastating. Because I still want to believe they’ll turn around. That they’ll notice. That they’ll say: You shouldn’t have had to carry this alone. But they don’t.

    In the absence of that support, I’ve started retreating—not out of laziness or lack of care, but as a survival tactic. I arrive later. I leave earlier. I don’t bring work home. I don’t let myself fall in love with every student the way I used to. And weirdly, I feel better. I feel more balanced. But also—I feel numb. Detached. And that scares me. Because that detachment used to be the line I swore I’d never cross. That was the line between teaching as a job and teaching as a calling.

I keep wondering: Have I crossed that line? Or am I standing right at the edge, trying to decide if I can keep going without losing myself?

    There was a question I asked today that I can’t stop thinking about: How do we embrace discomfort without equating it with failure? I think that’s the core of what I’m sitting with. I don’t want to be the teacher who gives up. But I also can’t keep being the teacher who gives everything away—especially when it feels like no one notices or cares until it’s too late.

What does it mean to stay when staying costs so much? What does it mean to leave when the work still matters so deeply? I don’t have answers. But today, I sat with someone who understands. And that mattered. In a system that keeps telling us we’re alone, we created a small space of solidarity. It didn’t solve the problem. But it made the weight feel a little less unbearable.

    Maybe that’s the thread I hold onto right now: I’m not broken. I’m tired. I’m human. And I’m still here—for now. That has to count for something.