entry twelve

 Monday, March 17, 2025 

Working in an inclusion setting requires strong communication and collaboration, and despite the challenges, I feel like my co-teacher and I make a good team. He is 79 years old, deeply set in his ways, and firm in his approach. Still, our students are making gains, and from an outsider’s perspective, we work well together. Even administration has commented on how much they appreciate our collaboration and the way we balance each other in the classroom. Yet, there’s something that’s been weighing on me—his yelling at me. 

It happens randomly, and I never see it coming. He’ll suddenly start shouting at me over the smallest things—sometimes in front of the students, sometimes in front of our coworkers. It is not okay. I feel like crap when it happens. It’s humiliating, frustrating, and leaves me questioning if I did something wrong. But I know I didn’t. No one deserves to be spoken to that way. 

When I’ve brought it up, he insists he’s not yelling, but I know what I hear. I know how it makes me feel—uncomfortable, small, exhausted. I want to believe he doesn’t mean harm, but that doesn’t make it any less damaging. It’s hard enough to do this job without feeling like I have to walk on eggshells around my own co-teacher. Some days, I catch myself bracing for it, anticipating the next outburst, which adds another layer of stress to my already overwhelming workload. 

Shawn McNiff talks about the importance of becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable—leaning into the discomfort instead of resisting it. But how do I do that here? How do I sit with this discomfort without letting it break me? Maybe it means acknowledging that this situation is not ideal, that I cannot change my co-teacher, but I can change how I respond. Maybe it means advocating for myself, even when it’s hard. 

The irony is that despite this tension, we still manage to make things work for our students. I can acknowledge that, but I also have to acknowledge that this dynamic is draining me. Administration sees the good, but they don’t see these moments of disrespect. My burnout is already a heavy weight to carry. Being yelled at shouldn’t be an added burden. I wish I knew how to address this in a way that actually makes a difference. I’ve tried to brush it off, tried to remind myself that I’m here for the kids, but that doesn’t erase the way it makes me feel. Maybe I need to sit with this discomfort, reflect on what I can and cannot change, and find a way to demand respect—because I can’t keep feeling this way. 

At the same time, I wonder if I’ve been making excuses for him—telling myself that this is just how he is, that he’s from a different generation, that he doesn’t mean to be harsh. But does that make it acceptable? If I wouldn’t allow a student to speak to me this way, why should I tolerate it from a colleague? I need to remind myself that I deserve respect in this space just as much as anyone else. And that might mean having a difficult conversation. It might mean setting a boundary, even if it’s uncomfortable. But something has to change. 

How did my burnout show up in my personal life today? 

After an exhausting day, I found myself mentally and emotionally drained at home. I had no energy left for simple tasks like making dinner or engaging in meaningful conversation. Instead of relaxing, I replayed moments from the day in my head, ruminating on my co-teacher’s latest outburst and how I should have responded. I felt myself shutting down, unable to enjoy the time I had away from work because my mind wouldn’t let it go. 

What did I do today to manage and reduce my own burnout? 

I took a walk after work with my dogs, hoping that fresh air and movement would clear my head. I also made an intentional effort to do something small just for myself—I listened to music that made me feel good and allowed myself to decompress. Even though it didn’t erase the stress, it gave me a moment to breathe. 

How did I feel about it? 

I felt slightly better, but the weight of the day still lingered. I know that burnout isn’t something that goes away overnight, and I know that I have to continue finding ways to protect my peace. Taking that small step to care for myself was a reminder that I matter, even when the work feels overwhelming. I am trying. I am enough.