entry twenty-three

 Friday, April 11, 2025

TGIF—Seriously. By the time the last student left my classroom, I just sat there, feeling like I’d run a marathon. My body was heavy, my ears still ringing from the noise, and my heart just plain tired. I needed a coffee midday yesterday, and today I could’ve used three before noon. The kids were louder than loud, like every emotion they’d bottled up exploded all at once. The noise crashed over me—loud, relentless, and impossible to escape. Every direction I turned, something demanded my attention: a meltdown here, a conflict there, questions flying at me before I could finish the last one. By afternoon, my patience was barely holding on. But somehow, I made it through—exhausted, yes, but still standing. That counts for something.  

Student behavior was especially challenging today. It was like the room was a tangled ball of yarn, with every student pulling in different directions, creating a knot of chaos. No matter how many times I tried to untangle the threads, nothing seemed to smooth out. I found myself repeating instructions, reminding them of boundaries, and calming escalations before 9:00 a.m. By lunch, my patience was hanging by a thread, and I could feel myself clenching my jaw, counting to ten—again and again—just trying to untangle the mess without snapping.  

Even though today felt like chaos, I’m trying to remind myself this is part of the process. Maybe the noise is showing me where I need more support, rest, and boundaries. And maybe, just maybe, days like this are the compost pile—messy, smelly, and overwhelming—but full of the stuff that eventually grows something better. Sometimes the shit in our lives is fertilizer for new growth. It’s not pretty while you’re knee-deep in it, but it’s doing work beneath the surface. Maybe what feels like burnout now is actually the breakdown before the breakthrough.  

Fridays always seem to be when the kids unravel, but I also know I’m running on fumes. The combination is brutal. I try to keep routines tight and expectations clear, but it’s hard when I’m physically and emotionally worn down. This reminds me of trying to keep a balloon inflated with a tiny hole in it. No matter how hard I try to maintain control, the air slowly leaks out. The kids’ energy and the demands of the day pull from what little I have left, and I’m left scrambling to patch things up before it all deflates. It's exhausting, but somehow, I still manage to keep the balloon floating. Just barely. It’s not always graceful, but I make it through, and that's what counts. The hole may still be there, but I keep trying to fill it.  

Even so, I made it. That counts. Survival is the win. I remind myself I’m doing the best I can. These days test me in every way—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. It’s like I’m carrying a heavy backpack, one that keeps getting filled with rocks each day. Some days, I feel like I might buckle under the weight, but I keep walking forward. I still show up. I still care. And that counts. That has to. Because right now, that belief is like the strap on my backpack—the one thing keeping the weight from spilling everywhere. It may dig into my shoulders, but it holds everything in place. It keeps me moving forward, even when I feel like I can’t take another step. Without it, the burden might scatter and bury me. With it, I can hold on just long enough to make it to the weekend. Here’s to rest, deep breaths, and not setting an alarm tomorrow.  

TGIF (Teacher’s Grief in Full) 

The bell rings—finally—  

and I sit in the quiet aftermath,  

a battlefield of crayons,  

unanswered questions,  

and chairs askew like fallen soldiers.  

My body sinks into the chair  

like it’s the first kind thing I’ve felt all day.  

My coffee's cold. My patience, gone.  

My heart? Still somewhere near the reading rug  

where I lost it around 10 a.m.  

They came in buzzing—  

energy on high,  

logic on low,  

and I, the conductor of a runaway train,  

no track, no brakes,  

just squeals and glitter and noise  

spilling in every direction.  

I whispered reminders,  

shouted expectations,  

offered grace like it was candy  

and still—  

the line was crossed a hundred times  

before snack.  

By noon, I was a ghost  

haunting my own classroom,  

floating from table to tantrum  

on a thread of breath  

and the last bit of caffeine.  

But still—I stayed.  

Still, I taught.  

Still, I showed up with tired eyes  

and open hands.  

Because that’s what we do.  

We gather the mess,  

we hold the weight,  

we plant seeds  

even when the soil feels dry  

and we’re the ones crumbling.  

And now—  

Friday.  

The sacred sigh of survival.  

The slow unclenching.  

The quiet cup of tea.  

No lesson plans. No shoes.  

Just stillness.  

I made it.  

Not perfect,  

not pretty,  

but present.  

And that, for today,  

is enough.