entry sixty

 Tuesday, June 17, 2025

    It wasn’t entirely spontaneous. I called her first. We agreed to grab dinner together. It was a semi-planned road trip—but still so different from the rigid schedules and constant demands of the school year. I drove with no clipboard, no bag of student medications, no boxes of bandaids, nor student crisises buzzing in my mind. Just a few snacks, a Diet Coke I picked up on my journey, a need I didn’t fully realize until I was already halfway there - the need to feel like myself again.

    She welcomed me like no time had passed. We eased into the evening without pressure. We talked and talked - not about data or deadlines, but about real life: the good, the messy, and the unresolved. We wandered through a little art space. Not a curated gallery, just shelves and walls full of handmade things—quiet proof that people out there still create beauty for the sake of it. We grabbed dinner at a cozy joint where we caught up on the things we didn’t even know we were carrying. To close the night: frozen custard. It was peaceful, a little messy, and exactly right. We sat outside and let the night breeze wash over us, sticky fingers and all.

    It was good to see my friend. Maybe even better—it was good to feel seen. Not as a teacher. Not as a fixer. Just as me. The version of me that doesn’t check the time every five minutes or mentally tally what still needs to be done. The version of me that laughs at dumb things and savors dessert slowly. This trip didn’t solve everything, but it did soften the edges. It reminded me that connection heals. That being known—really known—matters. That rest is not earned by exhaustion, it’s deserved because I’m human. I drove home late with a quiet heart. Not buzzing. Not overwhelmed. Just… still. In this season of stillness, I’m beginning to reclaim myself—one semi-planned joy at a time.

The Ones Who See Me

Some days,
I’m unraveling
before I even park my car.
I sit for a moment,
hands gripping the steering wheel,
already bracing for the noise,
the needs,
the never-ending list
that begins before the bell rings.

But then—
someone leaves a piece of chocolate or a coffee on my desk.
No note.
No fuss.
Just the quiet message:
I see you.

At school,
my friends speak without words.
We know each other’s breaking points
before we admit them out loud.

We share glances across the hall,
as our classes pass,
a whispered
“I’ve got you. Take five.”

We speak in survival shorthand:
“Did you eat?”

“Need a minute?”
“Same.”

They hold me up
in ways no one else sees -
quiet gestures

that make all the difference.

Outside these walls,
my people don’t ask about behavior plans
or lesson plans gone sideways

or ideas for IEP goals

or ways to boost test scores
They ask about me.
They remind me I’m more
than the exhausted version
the job sometimes carves out of me.

With them, I laugh differently—
not with the brittle edge of burnout,
but the warmth of being seen
as someone
who doesn’t have to earn rest.

I wear patience like a second skin,
but it wears thin.
And when it does,
it’s these friendships—
quiet, sturdy,
unassuming—
that hold me up.

They don’t fix the system.
They don’t erase the weight.
But they hand me pieces of light
I forgot were mine to hold.

E ven when I’m too tired
to say thank you,
I know:
They are the breath
between the bells.
They are why I’m still here.