entry sixty-three

 Wednesday, June 25, 2025

    Looking back over everything I’ve collected this year—my journal entries, the poems scribbled on the backs of meeting agendas, the drawings, the voice memos, the hard conversations—it’s overwhelming. Truly. There’s so much. So much I carried. So much I felt. So much I didn’t say out loud until I finally had to. I’ve lived entire chapters of my life inside the walls of that school building, and this year added layers I’m still unraveling. Reading through it all felt like opening a box I didn’t remember packing—every piece soaked with urgency, grief, pride, exhaustion, love. I didn’t know what to do with it. It was too much to just sit with. I needed to do something with it.

    So—I paused. And I started cutting. Old newspapers. Printouts. Scribbled reflections. Cool student doodles I’d kept in folders. Even string. Even sticks. I just started gathering and slicing and laying it all out, not with a plan, but with a kind of instinct. And then I began weaving. One piece over another. Up, over, up, over. Strip by strip. The rhythm took over. My mind quieted for the first time in weeks. It wasn’t about creating something “pretty.” It was about threading the pieces of my year into something my hands could understand, even when my heart couldn’t. The act of weaving—steady, repetitive, simple—was calming. It slowed my breath. Slowed my racing thoughts. As I reached for more materials, I found two things tucked in a folder I hadn’t opened in ages. A portrait a former student had drawn of me—my hair wild, my smile too big, but full of warmth. A sun, drawn by another, with radiant beams. I didn’t even think. I just added them. They belonged there.

    This weaving—this strange, tactile memory map—is more than just an art piece. It’s a container. A story. A reminder. It holds the weight of what I’ve experienced this year, and it’s also holding me. This is my story. This is my song. For the first time in a long while… I’m listening.

Unfolded, Untangled, Understood

The scribbles,
the half-formed thoughts
on meeting margins,
the words I whispered
only to myself—
they waited
until I was still enough
to hear them.

Burnout isn’t always
a fire.
Sometimes it’s paper piles,
missed lunches,
the feeling of unraveling
in silence.

It was too much
to carry in my chest,
too much
to leave in a file.

So I stopped.
not with a plan,
but with my hands.

scissors first,
then scraps—
paper, string,
edges of days
I thought were lost.

I didn’t know
what I was making.

…but I kept going

up
 over
  up
   over

until the rhythm
did what thinking couldn’t.
until my breath
finally slowed.

There,
in that quiet—
something shifted.

In the quiet,
I found a piece of myself
drawn in someone else’s lines—
a smile I had forgotten,
a sun I hadn’t seen in months.

I added them
without question.
because they knew where they belonged.

This weaving
is not a product.
It is not a decoration.
It is a map,
a container,
a body of memory.

A soft resistance
to the urgency
that nearly erased me.

It doesn’t fix anything,
but it holds everything.
It reminds me—
I was there.
I gave.
I bent.
I stayed.

Now,
I rest.
not because it’s easy,
but because it’s necessary.

For the first time in a long while,
I listen—
to the thread,
to the pause,
to myself.

“My Story, My Song”

mixed media on paper

me: Every time I look at you, I feel a mix of things—relief, discomfort, even a little pride. You hold a lot.

My Story, My Song: That makes sense. You put a lot into me. Not just materials—actual experiences. You needed somewhere to unload what had been building up all year.

me: Yeah, I didn’t realize how much until I sat down and started cutting paper. It felt impulsive, but I think I was reaching for something—some way to make the chaos feel less scattered. There was so much inside me. I couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with what I was feeling, but working with my hands slowed me down.

My Story, My Song: You needed that. You’d been stuck in a pattern of reacting all year. No room to pause, let alone process.

me: The rhythm of the weaving helped. That repetitive motion—up over, up over—it gave me structure when my thoughts were still messy. I was overwhelmed by everything: behavior issues, system demands, paperwork, and the emotional weight I carried for everyone but myself. I needed something that didn’t ask me to solve a problem or fix anyone.

My Story, My Song: This time, you weren’t trying to fix. You were trying to listen—to yourself.

me: That’s what surprised me. I started pulling scraps from all over—old reflections, student doodles, printed emails I never responded to. I was grabbing fragments of the year and realizing each one had a feeling attached to it. Frustration. Guilt. Connection. Exhaustion. It hit me how much I had ignored, minimized, or brushed off just to keep functioning.

My Story, My Song: You didn’t have time—or permission—to feel it all while it was happening. But you’re giving yourself that now.

me: I found that student portrait of me. I had forgotten it was even in my folder.
Looking at it almost broke me. They drew me smiling. Not tired, not angry, not stressed—just smiling. It didn’t match how I saw myself this year. But it’s how they saw me.

My Story, My Song: That matters. It’s evidence that you were still showing up in ways that made a difference—even if you couldn’t see it at the time.

me: That sun drawing from another student—so bright and loud, like it was trying to take up space I had forgotten I was allowed to claim. Putting those pieces into the weaving felt right. It felt like letting them remind me of who I was, underneath the burnout.

My Story, My Song:You are still there. Burnout didn’t erase you—it just buried you for a while. Now you’re starting to come back to yourself.

me: Honestly, that’s part of what scares me. Coming back to myself also means facing how far away I drifted. I ignored my own limits. I accepted things I shouldn’t have. Sometimes I wonder how I let it get that bad.

My Story, My Song: Because the system is built that way. And because you care. And because you’re human. This isn’t about blame—it’s about honesty.

me: I’m not proud of everything. But I am proud I didn’t give up. I stayed. I showed up. Even when I was running on empty, I kept going. I know now that surviving isn’t the same as thriving. I don’t want to go back to that version of myself.

Artwork: Good. This time can be different. You’ve already started doing the work to make it so.

me: I don’t know exactly what’s next. I’m still tired. Still untangling a lot. But I’m more aware now. More honest. That alone feels like a shift.

My Story, My Song: Awareness is a beginning. And you don’t need to have it all figured out. You just need to keep checking in—with yourself, not just everyone else.

me: For once, I’m trying not to rush to the next thing. I’m learning how to pause. How to reflect. How to let rest be part of the process.

My Story, My Song: That’s the heart of it. This is your story. This is your song. You’re not performing it for anyone else—you’re finally listening to it yourself.

me: Yeah. And I think I’m ready to stop tuning myself out.