entry fifty-two

 Thursday, June 5, 2025

    I keep wondering if the problem is me. If maybe I care too much, give too much, try too hard. I’ve been told I’m good at what I do—intentional, empathetic, responsive. I put my whole self into this job because I believe the work matters. I modify with precision, plan with compassion, document everything down to the last detail, and show up—day after day—with the kind of integrity I was taught this profession demanded. But lately, I’m starting to question whether that same integrity is breaking me.

    The to-do list isn’t a list anymore. It’s a landscape—vast, overwhelming, and impossible to traverse without losing something vital in the process. I’m writing IEPs with fidelity, cross-referencing goals with classroom realities, tweaking accommodations that should have been enough the first time. I’m collaborating during lunch, planning during the drive home, catching up on emails in parking lots, and skipping my own water breaks so I can debrief with a gen-ed teacher who doesn’t share my prep. I'm supporting my colleagues while trying to design behavior systems from scratch and analyzing data that never tells the full story. I do it all because it matters. Because they matter.

   Yet—I feel like a fairy princess. Not in the whimsical, magical sense, but in the desperate, absurd sense—like someone expected to wave a wand and conjure transformation out of thin air. Like someone who’s looked at as the one who "can handle it," who "always pulls it off," who will "figure it out." What if the wand is cracked? What if I’m the one who’s splintering?

    A colleague told me she hides in her room at the end of the day. I envied her for having a door to close. I don’t even feel like I have that. There’s no buffer between the emotional labor and the physical grind. No place to be still, to not be “on.” I’m everyone’s support system. But where’s mine? I’m not looking for applause. I’m looking for air. Space to be something other than constantly responsible. I keep asking myself: Would it be easier if I did less? If I just didn’t care as much? If I allowed the corners to stay unrounded, the emails unanswered, the IEPs rushed? But every time I try to imagine that, something inside me recoils. That’s not who I am. That’s not why I became a teacher. How long can I keep doing the work with integrity when it feels like the system punishes the very thing I’m trying to uphold? I’m burning my own candle down to keep other people’s lights on, and I’m afraid of what happens when there’s nothing left to burn.

    There are now six days left with students. Six days to hold it together, to show up, to find magic in exhaustion. I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it. But I wish someone would see what it costs to keep doing it this way. I don’t want to become bitter. I don’t want to become a shell. But something has to give—and I’m terrified that “something” is going to be me.

“Only Magic Could”

They think I carry a wand—
and maybe I do.
Not the glittery kind from storybooks,
but something forged
from checklists,
IEPs,

lesson plans
whispered encouragement
between small groups

and individual check-ins

I swirl through the day
like some enchanted being,
spinning modifications from thin air,
turning meltdowns into moments
of connection,
weaving behavior plans
while reciting data points
like ancient spells.

They ask me for everything—
calm and clarity,
compassion and compliance,
schedules, visuals,
collaboration without a moment’s breath.

I give it.
I always give it.
Because I want the magic to feel real
for the kids who need it most.

But behind the sparkle,
my cape is torn.
My crown is cracked.
My wand flickers.

There are too many tasks,
too many expectations
stacked like tower blocks
waiting to tumble
on top of me.

And still, I wave my wand
again and again—
because only magic
could make this possible.
And somehow,
I still believe.

"She Said This Was Me"

mixed media on paper

me: You came from the scribbles, the overload. I see every loop in those neurographic lines and remember each meeting, each meltdown, each demand. Why did I start with the chaos?

She Said This Was Me: That’s where you live most days—inside the storm. It’s honest. You didn’t draw from fantasy. You drew from the reality no one else sees behind your closed classroom door.

me: It was exhausting. Each circle felt like a closed loop—IEPs, behavior plans, crisis calls, parents who cry, administrators who forget I’m human too. I felt trapped. I am still trapped.

She Said This Was Me: Yet out of that entrapment, you chose to grow. You didn’t erase the loops. You didn’t tidy the lines. You made something alive—something with roots, with branches, with light. That was a choice - a quiet defiance.

me: The tree and the sun... I cut them out, lifted them from the tangle. It felt like… salvaging the sacred from the wreckage. And the rest—the rest I laid down. Like all the tasks I don’t finish, the weight I don’t voice.

She Said This Was Me: Exactly. You set boundaries with your scissors. You named what deserves to be carried forward. That is not failure. That is healing.

me: Then there’s her. The princess. She came from a student—she said it was me. It wrecked me a little… that someone so small still sees magic in me when I feel so far gone.

She Said This Was Me: That child sees what burnout hasn’t been able to steal: your essence. Your softness. Your presence. She sees you as a protector of wonder, even when you feel invisible. That portrait was her mirror held up to you.

me: I don’t feel magical. I feel like I’m disappearing in paperwork and policies. Like I’m holding the emotional weight of a thousand things no one thanks me for. The wand? It feels empty.

She Said This Was Me: Maybe the wand isn’t about power. Maybe it’s about permission. To imagine. To rest. To protect the parts of yourself you refuse to let burn out. Even if the only thing the wand does today is point toward what matters—that’s enough.

me: I’m afraid I’m losing parts of myself. My gentleness. My spark. My patience.
I’m afraid I won’t find my way back if I let go of too much.

She Said This Was Me: You are not lost. You are becoming. The countryside, the sun, the tree—they’re reminders that there is still breath in you. That joy is not erased by exhaustion. The mess? You didn’t destroy it. You respected it. You placed it down, lovingly. That’s what healing can look like—acknowledging the storm and still planting a seed.

me: So you’re saying… I’m not broken for needing beauty. Or rest. Or magic.

She Said This Was Me: No. You’re not broken at all. You’re rebuilding. Every time you choose color, softness, or silence—you wield the wand again. You remind the world that a teacher is more than a task list. You remind yourself that you are still here. And you are still whole.