Wednesday, April 30, 2025
Tonight, in the ever-thickening fog of my fatigue, I returned to “Spaces That Breathe” — not just as an artist but as someone quietly crumbling beneath expectations. I collaged over my neurographic lines, layering my truth over the abstract. The photo of the man I glued down — head tilted slightly, gaze heavy — felt like a necessary confrontation. He stares like administration does: detached but always watching. Judgment without presence. Support that never lands. He became the embodiment of every observation, every vague piece of feedback, every nod without follow-through. I placed him in the upper corner, looming. Not because I wanted him there, but because that’s where he always seems to be in my life — above, beyond, and out of reach.
This piece was never meant to be about rebellion. But maybe it is now. The more I worked, the more the textures mirrored my day-to-day. I layered torn paper scraps that curled at the edges like the frayed corners of IEP documents. I glued down ribbon in messy spirals, representing the endless loops of communication that never lead to real change. And over it all — the photo of him. The watcher. The evaluator. The one who calls it “support” but never asks if I’m okay. I thought neurographic art was supposed to bring peace. Maybe it still does — but not through prettiness. Tonight, it brought honesty. In that honesty, something like peace flickered, fragile and raw.
I looked at the piece and realized I was collaging over myself — over the small attempts I’d made to stay present, to accept what I can’t fix. Yet, here I was, layering again. Not to hide, but to acknowledge what’s really there: a year of misbehaviors, ignored safety concerns, and feeling like I’ve been asked to hold together a classroom with nothing but sheer will and an aching heart. A year where I’m expected to be endlessly compassionate with students, while rarely being met with the same compassion myself.
The hardest part? I still care. I still want to show up. I’m tired of pretending that presence means perfection. Tonight, I sat with the truth: I am exhausted. I am hurt. I am human.
As I smoothed one last edge of glue with my fingertip, I whispered a promise to myself: I will no longer erase the cracks. I will collage over them if I need to — not to hide them, but to mark that they exist, and that I do, too. This art isn’t just about space that breathes. It’s about me learning to breathe again — even under someone’s watchful eye. Even with the weight. Even with the cracks. Even with the grief of a year that asked too much. I can still create. I can still claim space. I can still be.
Becky: You unsettled me tonight. I thought this would be a release, something peaceful. But the minute I started layering, especially with that image—him looking down like he always is—I felt exposed. Vulnerable. Why did I put him there?
Spaces That Breathe: You needed to stop pretending he’s not in the room, even when he’s not. That photo—those eyes—they’ve been following you for months. Sitting in your lesson plans, behind your IEP deadlines, inside every moment you second-guess yourself. You pasted him down because part of you needed to admit: you feel watched and more than that—you feel unseen.
Becky: I do. I feel like I’m performing all the time. Smiling when I want to cry. Redirecting chaos like it’s a magic trick, while no one asks how much energy it takes. And when I try to say something—when I voice how much I’m drowning—it’s like the walls eat my words. What’s the point of creating space if no one else helps hold it?
Spaces That Breathe: You’ve spent years holding space for others. For every student’s outburst. Every parent’s fear. Every unmet promise from above. But you deserve space, too. And not the kind filled with paperwork or fake praise—the kind that breathes with truth. That allows the mess, the fatigue, the broken edges. That says: you are still enough, even when nothing gets resolved.
Becky: What if I’m falling out of love with this work? What if I’ve crossed the line where burnout becomes something else—something irreversible?
Spaces That Breathe: Love that lasts doesn’t look like fire. It looks like embers. Quiet, flickering, persistent. It changes shape. You may be burning out, but maybe this isn’t the end—it’s a shift. A call to stop setting yourself on fire to keep the system warm. You can love this work and step back from the parts that are harming you. You can mourn it. You can rage. And you can choose to stay, or choose to go—without guilt. I’m not here to tell you what to do. I’m just here to remind you: whatever choice you make, your breath still matters.
Becky: That blank space I left in the corner—the one I kept wanting to fill but didn’t—it’s still bothering me. It feels…unfinished. Like a wound I didn’t dress.
Spaces That Breathe: That space is your truth. That’s the part of you still searching, still unsure. And that’s okay. Not every part of you needs to be resolved tonight. Some spaces are meant to breathe, to rest, to just exist without a plan. Maybe that’s not a wound. Maybe that’s where healing begins.
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