entry thirteen

 Tuesday, March 18, 2025 

Today, the weight of grief feels unbearable. I’ve cried and cried, but it never seems to be enough. My uncle gone, yet in my mind, I still see him—I daydream, and he’s right there, smiling, talking, grumpy just as he always was. Then reality crashes in, and the loss feels fresh all over again. It’s surreal, like I’m living in two worlds: the one where he still exists and the one where he doesn’t.   

I’m exhausted. Burnout was already taking its toll, draining me, stretching me too thin. Now grief has layered itself on top of that, making everything feel heavier. I walk into my classroom and wonder, “How can I be present for my students when my heart is somewhere else?” They need me, yet I feel hollow. I hear their voices, but their words barely register. I see their struggles, but my energy to respond with patience and care is frayed. 

    Teaching was already a constant emotional demand, a balancing act of patience, advocacy, and resilience. But grief amplifies my exhaustion. It makes me question how much I have left to give. I worry—if I can’t take care of myself, how can I take care of them? The hardest part is pretending I’m okay. In the classroom, I have to push through, to be the steady presence my students rely on. I paste on a smile, give the morning greeting, and try to follow the lesson plan, but inside, I’m somewhere else. The grief follows me like a shadow. When I sit at my desk, my hands tremble slightly, the weight of sadness pressing into my chest.   

    Yet, I keep going. Maybe showing up is all I can do right now. Maybe that’s enough. I’m exhausted. Burnout was already taking its toll, draining me, stretching me too thin. Now grief has layered itself on top of that, making everything feel heavier. I walk into my classroom and wonder, *How can I be present for my students when my heart is somewhere else?* They need me, yet I feel hollow. I hear their voices, but their words barely register. I see their struggles, but my energy to respond with patience and care is frayed.  

Surviving the Middle

Uncle Tom, you'd roll your eyes at this—
Another meeting, another new rule.
You’d smirk and say, “Keep your soul intact, kid,”
While I drown inside this crowded school.

Your wisdom came like lightning—quick,
Unfiltered, sharp, and strangely kind.
You made room for messy truths,
When the world just wanted my “teacher mind.”

I miss the way you told it straight—
How you saw through forced routines.
Now I whisper pep talks in the mirror
While drinking cold coffee between screams.

You built clarity out of chaos,
Named the burnout for what it was.
You never blamed us for breaking down
In a system that never hit pause.

Now I trudge through midyear months,
With too much data and not enough sleep.
The lessons feel like lifeboats,
But the sea beneath is deep.

Still, I hear your laugh when I almost quit—
Feel your nod when I bend, not break.
You’d tell me I’m still human,
Even when all I can do is fake.

This exhaustion isn’t weakness—
It’s the scar of staying near.
Of showing up for wounded kids
With a heart I haven’t cleared.

Uncle Tom, I miss your anchor.
You made it okay to rage and rest.

During this IEP season and when student behavior spikes, 

I need that kind of faith
To believe I’m still doing my best.

So I write this in the quiet
Between behaviors and broken plans,
Still holding the thread of your voice—
Like chalk dust in tired hands.

Me: Uncle Tom, How do I capture everything you were in just a few lines?   

Poem: Grumpy yet wise, your humor so clear, you filled the world with your insight.  

Me: You really did. You saw the world differently, with a sharp wit and a mind full of ideas. I miss the way you challenged me to think deeper, to see beyond the obvious. Without you, everything feels a much less vibrant.   

Poem: Now I walk in silence, where your laughter used to fill the air. 

Me: The silence is the hardest part. No more unexpected phone calls, no more hearing your voice carry across a room. I keep waiting for you to show up in the ways you used to. But all I have now are echoes.   

Poem: But I’ll carry your spirit with me, in every thought and memory bright. 

Me: I know. And I want to. I just wish I didn’t have to carry you in memory alone. I want you here, in the present. I want one more conversation, one more story, one more laugh.   

Poem: But oh, how I wish I could hear you, just one more time, now and forever. 

Me: Me too. More than anything.