entry twenty-seven

 Wednesday, April 16, 2025

Today forced me to confront something I’ve ignored for far too long: the toll this job is taking on my body. At 9:30 a.m., a strange pain crept into my chest—tight, awkward, not quite sharp, but impossible to ignore. My breathing became shallow, like I couldn’t quite catch a full breath. I tried to press on, keep my focus on the students, but I was distracted by the fear bubbling just beneath the surface.

The nurse at my school told me to go to urgent care and the nurse at urgent care doctor requested I report to the emergency room. Her request landed heavier than anything I’d heard all week. My administrators sent concerned texts. My co-teacher and assistant reached out with care. Still, I sat in the waiting room alone, wondering: Is this how it ends? Is this just burnout in disguise, or something deeper?

Today felt like a wake-up call I didn’t want, but probably needed. Sitting in the emergency room, hooked up to machines, I kept asking myself: Is this burnout? Anxiety? Something worse? I don’t know. But what I do know is that my body is tired in a way that rest alone can’t fix. This wasn’t just a rough day—it was my body waving a white flag after years of holding the line. As I sat in that stiff ER chair, waiting for results that might tell me something—or nothing—I couldn’t help but scan my body for signs I’d ignored. The headaches. The shallow breaths. The fatigue that clung to me no matter how early I went to bed. My heart wasn’t just tired; it was waving a red flag. And in that sterile, humming room, a thought hit me hard: I can’t keep living like this.

As a veteran special education teacher, I’ve spent years pushing through— for my students, my team, and the endless to-do lists. I’ve grown used to ignoring the signs: the tight shoulders, the fatigue that sleep doesn’t erase, the racing heart when classroom energy spikes. I’ve told myself, “This is just the job. Keep going.” But today was different. The pain in my chest wasn’t just physical—it felt like the accumulation of years carrying too much, of absorbing everyone else’s needs while silencing my own. Burnout doesn’t always arrive as emotional exhaustion. Sometimes, it’s physical. It’s your body waving a red flag after years of putting everyone else first. In that moment, it wasn’t just stress—it was fear. And beneath that fear was grief. Grief that I’ve let myself become this depleted. Grief that the care I pour into others hasn’t always been matched with care for myself. The truth? I don’t know how to slow down. I don’t know how to stop caring. But today made something painfully clear: if I want to keep doing this work—if I want to be well enough to show up—I have to start showing up for myself, too.

My mantras remind me: I do what I can with what I have where I am.” Today reminded me that if I don’t have my health, I won’t have much to give. It’s time I take self-care seriously—not just as a buzzword, but as a commitment to myself, my longevity, and my life beyond the classroom.

I’ve always believed in showing up, in giving my best, in being the one people can rely on. But I’m starting to understand that self-care isn’t selfish—it’s essential. If I want to keep showing up, I have to show up for myself, too. If I don’t, eventually, I won’t be able to show up at all.

Echoes of Empty Hands

There’s a grief that rises  

not from loss,  

but from forgetting to hold  

the pieces of yourself  

you once cherished.  

It settles like dust  

on a shelf left untouched,  

quietly growing  

until it’s all you see.

It doesn’t shout,  

this grief—it whispers,  

soft as a breath,  

a longing for things  

that were once cared for  

but were set down  

for others to hold.

The hands that gave,  

that offered care,  

now ache  

from the weight of absence—  

the absence of their own touch,  

the absence of their own need.  

And in the stillness,  

there’s a knowing  

that the offering was endless,  

but the taking was never returned.

It’s a grief that curls in,  

like a forgotten thread,  

unseen until it tangles  

the fabric of your heart.  

And you wonder,  

as the weight presses  

and the thread tightens,  

when was it  

that you stopped  

caring for yourself?