entry thirty-six

 Sunday, May 4, 2025

As I reread through past reflections in my journal, I keep coming back to one striking realization—there’s a noticeable absence of depersonalization in my experiences and in those of my team. It’s surprising, especially since burnout research so often names it as a core component. Instead, what shows up in my writing and our conversations is exhaustion, frustration, and an intense emotional investment in our students—even when I feel overwhelmed.

I’m beginning to wonder: am I missing signs of depersonalization? Could it be showing up in a way I’m not recognizing? I don’t feel detached from my students. If anything, I care so much it hurts. I internalize everything. I carry guilt, overextend myself, and question whether I’m doing enough. Maybe I haven’t emotionally shut down—but maybe I’m holding on too tightly. That kind of emotional overinvestment might be its own version of burnout.

Still, I’m asking: in what ways could depersonalization be showing up? Is it in the sigh I let out before a student even opens their mouth? In the way I go silent in meetings, not because I don’t care, but because I’m too depleted to contribute? Or maybe it’s in the sarcasm that slips out when I’m trying to cope. These subtle moments might be small acts of emotional distancing—protective shields I haven’t consciously named.

This time of year magnifies everything. Student behaviors are escalating, and the pressure of end-of-year assessments is relentless. But even now, I don’t feel numb—I feel raw. Maybe that’s a form of resilience. Or maybe I haven’t yet learned how to find the distance I need to stay well. Either way, I know I need to reflect more deeply: what does it cost me to care this much, this constantly? And how do I recognize when care crosses into harm—for myself?

Lately, I’ve noticed a quiet sense of detachment creeping in—not from students, but from the systems around me. The endless demands, the data meetings, the lack of follow-through from leadership—it’s these institutional layers that feel most distant. I wonder if my focus on student-centered care is masking a deeper burnout with the broader system. Perhaps I’m not depersonalizing my students—I’m depersonalizing the structure, the policies, the meetings. Maybe that’s the only way I’ve been able to keep showing up for the humans in front of me. But what happens when even that buffer begins to wear thin?