Monday, May 23, 2025
Now that the school year has ended, I can finally feel myself coming back into my body. For months, I moved through the days like I was underwater—hearing everything but absorbing nothing. I gave every ounce of myself to my students, to paperwork, to problem-solving, to classroom management, to everyone and everything but myself. There were times I sat in my car after school, staring at the dashboard, wondering how I’d do it all again tomorrow. I’d walk into the building with a smile on my face and an ache in my chest, asking myself quietly, How did this become unsustainable? When did this stop feeling like purpose and start feeling like survival?
There were mornings when the weight of it all—student needs, unmet expectations, the constant pressure to "do more"—made it nearly impossible to get out of bed. I missed medical appointments. I skipped meals. I let myself fall to the very bottom of my own list. I reached a point where I truly considered walking away. That would’ve been a period and the end of a sentence, but something in me resisted. Instead, I placed a semicolon - not because I felt strong, but because I knew I had to pause—not quit—and figure out how to keep going differently.
The semicolon became the moment I called the clinic and scheduled my asthma infusion—the one I had postponed three times. It was when I finally told someone I wasn’t okay. When I stopped pretending that overextension was noble. When I let the nurse take my pulse and blood pressure and heard her say, “You look more relaxed today.” And I realized: it’s summer. The stress has left my body. And it wasn’t me—it was the job. The system. The relentless demands. The semicolon was the first time I allowed myself to ask: What if it’s not me who’s broken? What if it’s the expectations?
I’ve spent years believing I had to carry it all—behaviors, parents, admin pressure, IEPs, trauma, tears—with no complaint. But this year, I broke in quiet, private ways. And in those cracks, I also found clarity. Burnout didn’t come on suddenly for me. It built slowly, in missed moments of self-care, in swallowed frustrations, in the normalization of self-sacrifice. When it peaked, I didn’t quit teaching—but I did quit abandoning myself. That’s what the semicolon meant for me this year. It’s pause for me to reclaim my humanity. I’m still a teacher. But I’m also a person. A person who needs breath, rest, dignity, and boundaries.
This year didn’t end in triumph, but it ended in truth. I am still here. My story is still being written. Next year, I will write it with more compassion—for myself.
mixed media on paper
The Semicolon
I came to the edge—
not with a scream,
but with a whisper no one heard.
A breath caught in my throat
between exhaustion and duty,
between silence and collapse.
I could have stopped.
I could have ended the sentence—
the meetings,
the meltdowns,
the paperwork that multiplied in my sleep.
The constant asking and the never-enough giving.
But I didn’t.
I wrote a semicolon instead.
A pause.
Not a finish.
Somewhere beneath the layers—
of data sheets and behavior incident reports,
of broken pencils and broken systems—
there is still a pulse.
A quiet beat that says,
“You matter too.
Rest is not rebellion.
You are not the problem. The system is heavy.”
The semicolon is my resistance,
my refusal to vanish under the weight
of invisible labor and unmet needs.
It is the breath I finally took,
the moment I stepped back,
not away.
It is my reminder:
This story is mine to tell—
and I’m not done yet;
me: Here you are. Layers on layers. Chaos, color, curves. Why did I even start this on Lady and the Tramp?
I’m Still Here: You needed something familiar to hold the unfamiliar. Even in the softness of old stories, you knew there was more to say.
me: You’re kind of a mess.
I’m Still Here: So are you, but look closer—there’s a pattern in the mess. A language made of lines. It’s not scribbles. They are pathways.
me: These circles? Five of them. Orange, green, red, purple… and yellow, right in the middle. Why so many?
I’m Still Here: Each one is a moment. A mood. A memory. A part of you asking to be held, not hidden. That yellow center? That’s your light. Still glowing, even after everything.
me: The black heart… with the semicolon? That one’s hard to look at. But I couldn’t not include it. It had to be there.
I’m Still Here: Because it is there. The ache, the pause, the choice to continue.
That semicolon says, “I almost stopped. But I didn’t.”
me: And Lady? I left just enough of her showing.
I’m Still Here: You left just enough of you showing. Gentle, loyal, and till dreaming - even when exhausted. This isn’t just a painting—it’s a mirror. It’s your burnout, your beauty, and your survival.
me: And the small white circle within the large one?
I’m Still Here: That’s your safe place. The core of you that didn’t disappear.
Even when the outer circle—your job, your expectations, your weariness—tried to swallow you whole.
me: It’s strange. I look at you and feel both exposed and comforted.
I’m Still Here: That’s what healing looks like. Not polished. Not perfect. But honest. You drew your way back to yourself.
me: So what now?
I’m Still Here: You breathe. You rest. You keep drawing—lines, boundaries, breath. When school returns, don’t forget this version of you. The one who made space on a children’s print to finally say, “I’m still here.”
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