Friday, June 27, 2025
I am no longer at school. The hallways, the bells, the constant motion—they're behind me now. The silence in my days feels strange, but also like a kind of relief. For the first time in months, I’m not bracing myself. My body is slowly returning to me, no longer running on urgency or adrenaline. Today, I reread my journal entries I kept since the beginning of my dissertation journey the school year. They’re heavy. Each page holds fatigue, frustration, and the quiet desperation of a teacher trying to carry too much, too often. But as I moved through the words, I didn’t just feel sadness—I felt clarity. Those entries are proof: I was present. I stayed. Even when I was breaking.
After spending time with my last art piece, “My Story, My Song,” I realized I needed more space to process everything I had read and revisited. It was a lot to hold. So, I began a new neurographic artwork. It turned into an outdoor scene—a bright blue sky, a red-yellow sun shining boldly overhead, two pinwheeled flowers swaying in the grass. And me - I’m in the picture, looking back and up at the sun. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was trying to express, but now it feels obvious: that figure is me—pausing, breathing, seeing again. Then, in the corner: the turtle. Small, almost hidden, but unmistakably deliberate. Next to it, written in soft script: “no rush.” That message stopped me more than anything else I’ve spent an entire year rushing. Rushing to manage behaviors, write reports, respond to crises. Rushing to meet other people’s expectations—students, families, administrators, the system itself. Rushing to hold everything together, even when I was falling apart. I realize now: the rush wasn’t just about time. It was about pressure. Urgency. Guilt. The constant belief that if I just moved faster, worked harder, gave more—then things would get better. Then maybe I’d finally be “caught up.” I never was. I never could be. The turtle, though, says something entirely different. No rush. Not in healing. Not in understanding what this year did to me. Not in figuring out what’s next. There’s so much power in that. No rush means I don’t have to jump into planning next year. No rush means I don’t have to explain or justify how tired I am. No rush means I can rest without guilt. It means that nothing meaningful about recovery can be forced into a timeline. The turtle reminds me that slow isn’t weakness. Slow is wise. Slow pays attention. Slow is what I’ve denied myself all year, because I thought speed equaled success, but speed only got me to burnout faster.
I’m listening to the turtle. I’m choosing slow. I’m letting the summer stretch without a to-do list. I’m allowing my nervous system to settle, my thoughts to soften. I’m letting myself be a person again—not just a professional. The man in the drawing—the one looking up at the sun—isn’t in a hurry. He doesn’t need to be. Neither do I. No rush. Not anymore.
There are two pinwheeled flowers in the picture and I’m looking backward at them. Rereading my journal entries, this is me looking back on the year. Two main sources of burnout rise to the surface. The first was constant behavior management without adequate support. I spent more time de-escalating than teaching. I became the counselor, the disciplinarian, the safe space—sometimes all at once. I’m used to being the calm in the storm, but this year, the storm never let up. It was relentless. And more than once, I wrote about sitting in my car before school, already unraveling before the day had even begun. I started questioning whether I was making any difference at all. The second was emotional overextension. I gave too much. I absorbed everything—student pain, family stress, the pressure to do more with less. I skipped breaks. I stayed late. I carried it all home and let it steal my sleep. I lost sight of where I ended and the job began. Somewhere along the line, my compassion became depletion.
Now, away from it all, I can see why I drew the sun so large. I needed light. I needed warmth. I needed to remember what it feels like to stand still and just be. The pinwheeled flowers remind me of movement and softness, the possibility of joy in small things. The man—me—looking back and up, is beginning to feel again. To see again. I’m not healed. I’m out. And I’m starting to believe that I deserve more than survival. I’m starting to believe I can choose something different. Maybe not today, maybe not all at once—but soon. This time, I won’t forget where the sun is.
After the Rush
I am no longer rushing—
not through hallways,
not against clocks,
not beneath the weight
of endless demands.
Silence feels unfamiliar,
yet it holds a quiet promise—
a space to breathe,
to come back
to myself.
There is no need
to carry everything all at once,
no need to fix it all
right now.
The weight of urgency
softens when I slow down,
when I let the pace
match what I can hold.
“No rush.”
A simple truth,
a small voice
that breaks through
the noise of pressure.
Slow is not failure.
Slow is wisdom.
Slow is attention.
Slow is the medicine
I forgot to give myself.
In this stillness,
I remember who I am—
beyond the tasks,
beyond the roles.
I am more than survival.
More than exhaustion.
I am beginning
to believe
that healing
cannot be scheduled,
cannot be rushed,
cannot be forced.
It unfolds
in quiet moments,
in gentle rhythms,
in the patience
to just be.
And in that—
I find myself again.
mixed media on paper
me: Now that I’m no longer at school, it feels different. I feel different.
Looking Back, Standing Still: That’s because you have shifted. You’ve stepped out of the storm, even if only for a moment.
me: Looking at that man—that’s me—standing still, looking back and up… It feels strange to see myself not doing anything, not reacting, not rushing. Just… existing in stillness. For so long, I didn’t allow myself that. I was always fighting, always pushing, always bracing for what was next.
Looking Back, Standing Still: That stillness is the space you’ve been aching for, even if you didn’t know it. It’s the quiet after the storm, where your soul can start to breathe again.
me: The sun in the sky feels overwhelmingly bright, almost too much. It’s hope, yes—but it’s also a reminder of what I forgot all year. How I stopped looking up. I was so consumed by exhaustion, by trying to hold everything together, that I forgot the world could still hold light.
Looking Back, Standing Still: The sun never left you. It was always there, waiting. You just couldn’t see it through the weight you carried.
me: And the two pinwheeled flowers. At the time, they were just shapes, colors filling space. Now, I see them as fragile markers of something stubborn—something inside me that kept turning, kept growing, even when I felt broken.
Looking Back, Standing Still: Exactly. They are quiet resilience. Small but real. Like the parts of you that kept hoping, even when everything felt impossible.
me: And the turtle. I almost erased him, thinking he was insignificant. But now, he feels like a lifeline. That simple message—No rush—it’s what I’ve been starving for without knowing it.
turtle: I’m here to remind you that healing isn’t a race. You don’t have to fix everything at once. You don’t have to carry all the weight all the time.
me: I’m scared, honestly. I’ve been so used to moving fast, to pushing harder, to not stopping—even when it hurt. Slowing down feels like admitting I’m not enough. Like giving up.
turtle: Slowing down isn’t giving up. It’s brave. It’s an act of love toward yourself. You’re learning that survival isn’t just about enduring—it’s about healing, too.
me: What if I’m forgotten while I rest? What if the work waits for no one? What if stepping back means losing everything I care about?
Looking Back, Standing Still: Your worth isn’t measured by how fast you run or how much you carry. It’s in your presence, your being. This stillness isn’t absence—it’s strength.
turtle: Healing can’t be rushed because it’s not just about fixing. It’s about rediscovering who you are beneath the exhaustion and expectations. No rush means giving yourself permission to be human.
me: That permission feels foreign—and precious. I want to rest, but I’m afraid of what that means. Afraid I’ll lose myself in the quiet.
turtle: You won’t lose yourself. You’ll find yourself. Slow is how you reclaim your power—piece by piece.
Me: So, moving forward means learning to walk gently—with myself, with the work, with the time I need.
Looking Back, Standing Still: Yes. Carry this stillness as your foundation. It’s what will hold you steady through what’s next.
turtle: Never forget: No rush. Your healing, your growth, your return—they all deserve the time and care you’ve been denying yourself.
me (softly): No rush. I’m starting to believe that.
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