entry twenty-six

 Monday, April 14, 2025

Some thoughts from my second meeting with my critical friend have taken root and won’t let go. One that keeps circling in my mind: everything is hard for everyone. It’s such a simple truth, but it’s shifted something in me. It reminds me that I’m not failing—this is just hard work. Human work. My critical friend also stressed another truth I’ve been holding tightly: nothing is forever, nothing is permanent. That reminder has been a lifeline lately. The stress, the noise, the emotional weight—they’ll pass. Just like the good days do. Nothing lasts forever, and that’s both sobering and freeing.

In the thick of it, I turn to my mantras like tools from a well-worn toolbox. “Just keep swimming,” Dory whispers when I feel like I’m barely staying afloat. “Chin up, tits out, onward”—a mix of humor and determination. “It’s not permanent”—a quiet balm for when everything feels stuck. “I do what I can with what I have where I am”—a reminder to meet myself where I’m at.  

My critical friend reminded me that we are replaceable, and that thought stings. It makes me wonder if I should care less. But if I stop caring, what’s left of me? So I care. Deeply. I rest when I can. And I keep swimming. The idea of being replaceable—has been echoing in my head more than I’d like to admit. It’s a hard truth to sit with. In education, the system keeps moving regardless of who’s in the classroom. Substitute plans get written, new teachers get hired, the calendar turns. I could walk away tomorrow and everything would still go on. That’s the sting. Not because I expect to be irreplaceable, but because I pour so much of myself into this work—my time, my heart, my energy, my identity. To think it could all be swapped out so easily feels... hollow.

When I ask myself if I should care less—to protect myself, to ease the weight—it feels like I’d be cutting off a part of who I am. Caring is baked into my being. It’s the root of why I teach. If I stop caring, I worry I’ll go numb. I worry I’ll lose that spark of purpose. So instead, I care—and I care deeply.

I also know I need to care for myself with the same intensity. That’s where rest comes in. That’s where boundaries begin. It’s not one or the other—it’s both. Care and self-care. Heart and healing AND always, I keep swimming.

Words I Keep 

I carry them like tools—  

not flashy, not loud,  

but worn and reliable.  

Truths I’ve gathered quietly  

from long days, hard lessons,  

and the soft advice of those who’ve walked beside me.  

They are not magic.  

They don’t erase exhaustion  

or fix the broken systems  

or quiet the classrooms  

that buzz with more need than I can meet.  

But they help me breathe  

when the weight presses in,  

when I question if I’ve done enough—  

or if I even can.  

Some are reminders to pause,  

to let the silence settle  

before the next wave.  

Some hold me together  

when I feel myself unraveling—  

not with answers,  

but with a steady presence.  

They don’t make me strong.  

They don’t make it easy.  

But they keep me going,  

one moment at a time.  

Because I’ve learned  

that the right words,  

held close and repeated when it matters,  

can be anchors.  

Not to keep me still—  

but to keep me from drifting  

too far from myself.