entry twenty-two

 Wednesday, April 9, 2025

I didn’t realize how much I needed this conversation until I was in the middle of it—until the words started tumbling out and I felt that rare sense of being understood without needing to explain every detail. This second meeting with my critical friend wasn’t just a check-in; it felt like sitting with a tangled ball of yarn in my lap—one that’s been knotted from years of wear, tension, and trying to hold everything together. I’ve been pulling at it alone, making it tighter without meaning to, overwhelmed by the mess of threads looping over and under each other. But during this conversation, it was like someone gently sat down next to me and started working through the snarl with me—not rushing, not judging, just patiently helping loosen one knot at a time. Some strands slipped free with ease, others took more time, but there was relief in knowing I didn’t have to untangle it alone.

We covered a lot: student misbehavior, exhausted boundaries, overwhelming workloads, co-teacher tensions, and the emotional weight that builds slowly but constantly. But what sat with me most deeply was our shared frustration that we’re being asked to do more than teach—we’re parenting, babysitting, absorbing trauma, all while being expected to deliver academic miracles. It's not just exhausting—it’s disheartening. And yet, we show up, again and again like soldiers returning to the front lines, even when the battle seems endless. We’re asked to wear so many hats—educators, caregivers, counselors, disciplinarians—while the expectation of our “teaching” role stays the same, if not grows. It’s like trying to balance a pile of stones on one hand—each responsibility adding weight, and still, there’s no acknowledgment of how much it costs. But we show up, despite the exhaustion and disheartenment. We do it because we care, even when it feels like the system doesn’t. We do it because somewhere in the middle of all the chaos, we see the potential in our students. We continue because we believe in the difference we can make, even if it feels like the world is asking for more than we can give.

I opened up about how setting boundaries still feels unnatural to me. I’ve been conditioned to push through, to absorb the chaos, to make it all work. But lately, I’ve felt like I’m running on fumes. The physical signs—dark circles under my eyes, foggy focus, the weight in my chest—are telling me something has to shift. My critical friend reminded me that exhaustion isn't a weakness; it’s a signal and one I need to stop ignoring like the check engine light I’ve been pretending isn’t on, hoping the car will just keep going. Just like a car, I can’t run on empty forever without breaking down. That conversation gave me permission to pause, to consider that boundaries aren't walls—they’re care. Maybe honoring my limits isn’t selfish; maybe it’s the bravest thing I can do for myself and my students.

We talked about the sense of invisibility that comes with special education—the behind-the-scenes meetings, the endless documentation, the emotional triage we do for kids who come to school with more baggage than books. And all of this happens while trying to maintain dignity and professionalism when co-teachers snap, or when admin overlooks our needs. This reminds me of the feeling of being the person who does all the prep for a party—setting everything up, organizing the details, and making sure everything runs smoothly—while everyone else gets the credit when the guests arrive and the fun begins. It’s like you’re behind the scenes, working hard, but no one notices the hours you’ve put in until something goes wrong. The effort feels invisible, and it’s easy to get frustrated when it seems like no one sees or appreciates the work you’re doing. But, like with the party, you keep going because you know it matters in the end.

These conversations are becoming part of my scaffolding. Like the tape and torn fabric on the sticks of my art piece, this connection is holding me together. When I feel like I’m unraveling, these moments stitch me back up, reminding me that I’m not alone—and that even when I’m stretched thin, I still matter. I am not alone in feeling overwhelmed, in questioning my limits, or in carrying the emotional weight of this work. I am not alone in needing rest, in craving understanding, in searching for something steady to hold onto when everything feels too much. These conversations give shape to the unspoken—validating the weariness, honoring the effort, and gently reminding me that my experiences are real and shared. Each word exchanged becomes another knot in the fabric, another layer of support in a structure I’m slowly learning to trust.