entry fifty-three

 Friday, June 6, 2025

    I sat in therapy this week and felt the tears coming before I even spoke. My therapist didn’t need to ask. She knows. The exhaustion lives in my eyes now. I told her how my body feels heavy before the day even begins, like I’m walking through invisible cement. Then, I admitted something I hadn’t said aloud before: I don’t know who I am outside of this work anymore. Being a special education teacher has consumed me so fully, so completely, that I’m not sure where I end and the demands begin.

    We talked about Mel Robbins again. I keep coming back to her—her words are like a rope I can grab when I feel like I’m slipping. Her “Let Them Theory” has been both uncomfortable and freeing. Let them misunderstand me. Let them question my choices. Let them gossip. Let them walk past my classroom without seeing the micro-miracles I pull off every single day. For someone like me, who takes pride in doing the job right, in being deeply ethical, thoughtful, and responsive—it’s hard to let them. It feels like abandoning my own dignity. Maybe dignity isn’t in proving my worth to others. Maybe it’s in holding onto myself. Not shrinking, not apologizing, not explaining. Let them keeps me from burning myself to ash just to gain approval I’ll never actually receive. It's a boundary. It’s a whisper reminding me: You are enough, even if they never say so.

    Then there’s her 5 Second Rule. I’ve started using it in tiny moments—before emails, before I speak up in meetings, before I decide to give in to the hopeless voice in my head. “5-4-3-2-1” has become a lifeline. It’s such a small thing, but it disrupts the spiral. It’s like hitting reset when my chest is tight and my thoughts start galloping. I use it when I don’t want to write another IEP. When I have to call a parent about a behavior incident, knowing full well they’ll assume I failed somehow. When I stare at the piles of modifications and feel like I’m failing at everything. Then, I act. I move. I breathe. And the task that felt impossible begins. Sometimes just beginning is enough.

    I told my therapist that Mel Robbins, my critical friend, and I are weirdly in sync right now. Mantras. Micro-steps. Manifestation. Not in the fluffy sense, but in the gritty, desperate sense of needing something to get through. My friend and I say, “Day by day. Step by step.” And I hear Mel’s voice echo it back: You’ll get over the hump. You will. Just don’t stop. And somehow, that faith—no matter how small—pulls me through.

    That Google review hurt. It made me feel erased—like all the years I’ve poured into this work didn’t matter. The way it misrepresents me and my intentions still stings, and seeing it appear again on Yelp just reopened the wound. But I’ve been trying to apply what Mel Robbins calls the “Let Them” theory. Let them judge. Let them misunderstand. Let them write their version of the story. I don’t have to control how others see me. What I can control is how I respond and what I know to be true about the work I do. I show up for students with challenges that most people couldn’t begin to understand. I invest time, energy, care, and consistency into every plan, every meeting, every conversation. I’m not perfect—but I’m authentic, and I work with integrity.

    Mel Robbins’ 5 Second Rule has helped in those moments when I start spiraling—when I want to defend myself or sink into shame. I count down: 5-4-3-2-1, and I shift my focus. I redirect to something that grounds me—maybe supporting a student, writing a note, or just walking away from the screen. Therapy has helped too. On Mondays, I talk through this with my therapist, how the reviews trigger deep feelings of vulnerability and powerlessness. Mel’s mantras remind me that I can take control, even in small ways, by choosing not to give my energy to what I can’t change. I keep coming back to this: their review doesn’t get to define me. I define me. One breath, one choice, one day at a time.

    Today felt like a tidal wave—student misbehavior crashing around me, an IEP meeting looming, and last-minute instructions to revise goals again, right before it all began. It's exhausting. Some days feel like a test of endurance, a race with no finish line. In the middle of the chaos, when my breathing got shallow and my chest tightened, I reached for Mel Robbins’ 5-second rule. 5-4-3-2-1—move, redirect, shift. I clung to it like a lifeline. The thoughts about that horrible Google review crept back in—uninvited and sharp—and I met them with Robbins’ mantra: Let them. Let them misunderstand. Let them twist the story. Let them be wrong about me. I had to repeat it more than once—over and over like a soft chant—and eventually, it worked. It didn’t erase the sting, but it created space. Enough space to stay grounded, to keep going, to not spiral. I can’t control their words, but I can control how I rise from them. Today, that was enough.

    I’m learning is that burnout isn’t just physical fatigue. It’s a spiritual disconnection. A loss of meaning, of identity, of hope. But these tools—therapy, Mel’s ideas, my friendship, even journaling—are slowly stitching me back together. I don’t need to do it all at once. I just need to keep showing up, five seconds at a time.

Let Them, While I Breathe

Let them misunderstand.
Let them whisper in the teachers’ lounge
or type cruel words in digital ink
as if they know the hours
I have stitched into children’s hearts.

Let them think I’m too soft,
Let them think I’m too much, too tired—
because I am.
But I am here.
Still.
And that matters more
than their distance from the truth.

Let them ask,
“Why does she care so much?”
Let them not see
the late nights spent rewriting goals
so one child might see their name
next to a checkbox marked progress.

And when it all floods in—
the data, the meetings,
the emails unanswered,
the eyes of a child lost in a meltdown—
I count:

5… the weight of it all.
4… the urge to disappear.
3… the knot in my throat.
2… the world narrowing.
1… move. breathe. begin again.

This is not magic.
This is grit disguised as grace.
This is what it means to stay
when everything says leave.

Let them not understand.
Let them doubt.
Let them walk away.
While I stay,
and rise,
and return—
five seconds at a time.