entry fourteen

Thursday, March 20, 2025 

    I am tired. No, exhausted. The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by a weekend of rest, the kind that lingers even after a full night’s sleep. Every morning, I set my alarm for the last possible second, dragging myself out of bed just in time to get to work. There’s no leisurely breakfast, no peaceful start to the day—just a rushed, exhausted shuffle into another overwhelming day. By the time the school day ends, I’m completely spent. I have nothing left to give. I go home, sit down for what’s meant to be a short break, and suddenly hours have passed. My body aches, my head pounds, and the thought of even doing something simple—like making dinner—feels like climbing a mountain. My dogs stare at me expectantly, their tails wagging, waiting for our walk. The park is so close, but even that feels like too much. I take them, of course, because I have to, but there’s no joy in it anymore. 

    People ask what I do for fun. I used to have an answer. I used to enjoy reading, crafting, going out for coffee. Now, I feel like a hermit, too tired to engage in life outside of work. Fun feels like a luxury I can’t afford. Burnout has drained me of everything that makes me feel like me. I don’t even know what I would do if I weren’t so tired all the time. How do I reclaim my energy, my motivation, my sense of self? I keep telling myself it will get better, but when? And how? Some days, even my own reflection looks foreign to me—tired eyes, slumped shoulders, a face that seems to carry the weight of every exhausted moment. I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror and wonder, Was I always this worn down?My body feels heavy, not just from fatigue but from the constant emotional labor of my job. Every decision, every redirection, every moment of patience feels like it takes a little more from me, leaving me emptier than the day before.

    The person staring back at me in the mirror looks hollow, as if the exhaustion has carved out pieces of who I used to be. My eyes, once bright and full of warmth, are now shadowed with deep, dark circles—evidence of too many sleepless nights spent worrying about work, about students, about everything and nothing at once. My shoulders droop under the invisible weight of responsibility, of expectations, of the relentless demands of the day. My skin looks dull, drained of color, as if it too has absorbed my fatigue. The lines on my forehead seem deeper, not from age but from stress—etched in place by years of furrowed brows and clenched jaws. My lips, often pressed into a tight line, rarely curl into an effortless smile anymore. Even my posture betrays me. I stand before the mirror, yet I am not standing tall. I am slumped, as if my body itself has surrendered to exhaustion. I reach up and brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear, noticing how my hands tremble slightly from weariness. Was I always this worn down? I don’t remember. I don’t recognize myself. And that, perhaps, is the most exhausting part of all. 

    I know this level of exhaustion isn’t sustainable, yet I push through, day after day, because what else can I do? The work doesn’t stop. The needs don’t disappear. My students rely on me, and walking away feels impossible. But staying—staying like this—feels impossible, too. I try to remind myself that I am more than this exhaustion. That somewhere underneath the burnout, the stress, and the never-ending to-do lists, there is still a person who loves to create, to laugh, to feel inspired. But right now, she feels buried, and I don’t know how to unearth her. Maybe the first step is admitting it: I am tired. No, exhausted. And I need something to change.

    Miranda Oh’s quote—"Chin up, tits out, onward!"—is the kind of battle cry I need but struggle to embrace. It’s bold, unapologetic, and full of resilience, the kind of attitude that says, “Keep going, no matter what.” Some days, I feel like I don’t even have the strength to lift my chin, let alone march forward with confidence. Still, there’s something about those words that lingers in my mind. They remind me that even in my exhaustion, even when I feel like I have nothing left to give, I am still standing. I am still showing up. Maybe that’s what “onward” looks like for me right now—not in grand gestures or bursts of energy, but in the small, stubborn acts of getting out of bed, teaching another day, and walking my dogs even when it feels impossible.  

    It also makes me wonder: If I keep going like this, will I ever feel strong again? Or am I just pushing forward on fumes, pretending I’m okay? “Chin up, tits out, onward” sounds like a call to reclaim my power, but what if I don’t know how? What if onward needs to look different—more rest, more grace, more breathing room? Maybe “onward” doesn’t have to mean “at full speed.” Maybe, for now, it just means “one step at a time.”

The Art of Carrying On

It’s not in the handbook—
this stance I take
when the classroom hums with chaos,
when the copy machine eats my last nerve,
when the ache behind my eyes
settles in like an old friend.

I armor up with coffee and dry humor,
sling my tote bag over one shoulder
like a shield,
and walk into the storm—
lesson plan in one hand,
deep breath in the other.

Chin up,
because I’m being watched.
By wide eyes that need calm,
by parents with expectations,
by admin emails
stacked like bricks in my inbox.

Tits out—
not for anyone else,
but for me.
For this body that carries
the weight of IEPs,
meltdowns,
missing prep periods,
and the sob I save
for 3:37 PM in my car.

Onward,
because I don’t have
the luxury of stopping.
Not today.
Not when a student’s only safe place
might be this room.
Not when silence
would mean another teacher
feels alone in their unraveling.

This isn’t about glamor.
It’s survival
in sneakers and a spirit-worn sweater.
It’s the rally cry I whisper
between bathroom breaks
and invisible planning periods.

Chin up,
because this work is sacred.
Tits out,
because I refuse to shrink.
Onward,
because even burned out,
I still burn bright.