entry forty-nine

 Friday, May 30, 2025

    Yesterday’s meeting with my critical friend brought some difficult truths to the surface—truths I’ve been holding beneath the surface for too long. We spoke about burnout, not in the abstract, but as something deeply personal and visceral. It’s more than exhaustion; it feels like fragmentation. I described it as being like a balloon that’s lost all its air—once lifted by purpose and energy, now deflated, barely recognizable. I’ve begun to feel like a ghost in my own classroom, still moving, still functioning, but without the fullness of presence or connection. That image—of haunting rather than inhabiting—has been sitting heavy with me all day.

    We explored the loneliness that comes with invisibility. There’s a deep, aching need to be seen—not just as a teacher, but as a human being who is trying to hold far too much. The recent false accusation felt like the sharpest cut yet. Not because I fear the truth—I know it and so do those who were present—but because of the silence that followed. No one asked if I was okay. No one stepped into the classroom to acknowledge what I was carrying. That kind of neglect makes you feel erased, like your years of service, integrity, and love can be undone by a single untrue sentence.

    What I didn’t expect in our conversation was how clearly we connected burnout to identity. I’ve spent so many years building a professional self grounded in care, trust, and reliability. And now, I find myself wondering what remains when that self is questioned, distorted, or doubted—especially publicly. This isn’t just about being tired. It’s about losing clarity on who I am in this work and what I’m worth when things fall apart. We talked, too, about how student misbehavior often comes from a place of pain, how these outbursts are really cries for help. I’ve always believed that, and I still do. But lately, that belief is harder to act on. Empathy still lives in me, but it coexists now with a deep fatigue, and if I’m honest, a fear of emotional collapse. How long can someone keep absorbing the storm without becoming it?

    Perhaps the most painful realization was how much of this I endure silently. I get through each day by keeping it all together outwardly—smiling, redirecting, praising, singing, staying calm—while inside, I feel like I’m unraveling. The truth is, I’m afraid that if I let the unraveling show, everything will fall apart. So I keep it in. But that silence has a cost. There’s no resolution here yet—just awareness. And maybe that’s the first step. Meeting with my critical friend reminded me that even when the system doesn’t see me, there are still people who do. People who can hold my story without judgment. People who understand the weight of staying in this work when it feels like it’s breaking you. I’m still here. I’m still breathing. And maybe for today, that’s enough.