I’m tired—bone-deep tired—of student misbehavior, especially the unkindness. The name-calling, the eye-rolling, the constant put-downs. The way students tear each other apart with words that cut deeper than they understand. I spend so much of my day just trying to put out emotional fires. Why can’t we just get along? Why is basic kindness so hard to teach, to sustain, to believe in? I find myself wondering if something is broken—if the system, the culture, or even our collective empathy has cracked. I shouldn’t have to beg for respect. From students. From adults. From anyone. It shouldn't be this hard.
Words can hurt. More than people realize. Bullying isn’t always about fists or pushing—it’s mind-wrenching, a slow stab to the heart. And recovering? That’s a whole battle of its own, even for the strongest among us. You try to stay strong, to rise above, but sometimes it just feels like you’re being stepped on again and again. The painful truth is—bullying doesn’t discriminate. Girls bully girls. Boys bully boys. Kids bully adults. Adults bully each other. And it chips away at self-worth in ways that are hard to repair.
Today, one of my students said to another, “You don’t look human. You look like an alien. You look like a snail.” My stomach dropped. The cruelty was so casual, so normalized. And it reminded me—this behavior doesn’t stop at the classroom door. I’ve seen colleagues bully each other. I’ve felt it myself. When I first transferred to this school, my co-teacher would send me Sunday emails criticizing every little thing—my tone of voice, my bulletin boards, how I interacted with parents. Week after week, I dreaded those messages. She still spreads lies about me to staff, years later. It’s disheartening. This culture of undermining has to change. It’s not okay. None of it is.
What hurts the most isn’t just the bullying—it’s the silence around it. The way people turn a blind eye, pretend it’s just “miscommunication” or “personality differences.” But I know what it feels like to be targeted, isolated, and made to feel like I don’t belong. That co-teacher’s Sunday emails weren’t suggestions—they were attacks, laced with sarcasm and superiority. “Maybe if you actually prepared your lessons, the students would listen,” she wrote once. Or, “It’s clear your management style isn’t working—try following my lead next time.” Those words didn’t just sting—they stayed.
I remember crying on Sunday nights, dreading Monday mornings. I considered quitting. I questioned my worth, my career, my calling. And now, years later, the same toxic energy still circulates—whispers in the lounge, passive-aggressive comments in meetings. This isn’t just kids being cruel. It’s a culture problem. A failure to uphold kindness and respect across all levels. I work hard to teach my students empathy, to model compassion—but what message are we sending when adults in the building act with cruelty? How can we ask children to be kind when the grown-ups aren’t held to the same standard? Bullying—whether from students or staff—should never be normalized. And yet, here we are. Still fighting to be seen.
Here’s the thing: on the other side of the art piece—hidden from the chaos and the tearing—there’s something else. Something quiet, but just as powerful. Taped to the other side are thank-you notes from students. Stick-figure portraits of me smiling, even when I didn’t feel like smiling. Messages that say things like, “Thank you for all your hard work.” or “You are nice.” It’s not perfect. It doesn’t erase the hurt. But it reminds me—kindness does exist. Maybe this is reframing. Maybe it’s the silver lining I didn’t know I needed. I hold onto those small gifts, those moments of sweetness, because they are proof that my work matters. That empathy isn’t dead. That I am seen—even if just by the ones who haven’t yet learned how to hide their hearts.
Me: Why do you look like this? Why am I the only still thing in this mess while the world rips apart around me?
Suffocated by the Swirl: That’s how it feels, isn’t it? You're frozen in your strength, while everything around you spirals—kids lashing out, adults whispering, paper torn from your time, your worth. The snake around your neck is your silence. The crocodile is every policy that tears without repair.
Me: I’m choking. Not just from the snake, but from the weight of what I’m holding in. The cruelty. The disrespect. The expectation to endure it all without breaking. Why does no one see this?
Suffocated by the Swirl: They see, but they look away. They name it “resilience” and expect you to wear it like armor. This armor tightens every time you stay quiet. Every time you let another comment go. Your exhaustion? It’s inked into every inch of this canvas.
Me: I teach kindness every day. I model empathy, but I don’t feel it returned—not from the students, not from my colleagues. What’s the point of pouring so much of myself into a place that leaves me empty?
Suffocated by the Swirl: That’s the heartbreak, isn’t it? That you give, and give, and give—and still, you’re asked for more. The giving has value. Not because they always receive it, but because you are still choosing compassion in a system that has forgotten how to hold it. That is resistance too.
Me: So what now? Do I keep showing up like this, throat tight with silence, surrounded by chaos?
Suffocated by the Swirl: No. You show up with the sign, yes—but maybe next time, the snake loosens because you speak louder. Maybe the paper starts to mend because you stop apologizing for your truth. Maybe, just maybe, the art becomes not just a mirror—but a map. You don’t have to stay trapped in this image forever. You can redraw it.
Me: Why do I still feel like the problem? Like I’m the one who’s failing? I’ve tried every tool I know. I’ve stayed late, held space, given grace. And still, they twist my intentions, ignore my boundaries, test my humanity. What else do they want?
Suffocated by the Swirl: They want what you've always given—your patience, your presence, your power—but without ever asking what it costs you. The system isn’t built to hold your pain. It’s built to absorb your labor. And when you crumble, it will ask why you didn’t hold yourself together better.
Me: So I’m disposable? Replaceable? Just another burned-out name they’ll forget when I finally walk away?
Suffocated by the Swirl: No. You are not disposable. You are a human being who was asked to be a savior in a broken system. Still, you show up. Not because you owe them, but because your heart is stubborn. And soft. And necessary.
Me: I’m exhausted. All the time. I’m starting to forget who I am outside this room, outside this fight. And I’m scared. Scared that the longer I stay, the less of me there will be left.
Suffocated by the Swirl: That’s the danger—when survival becomes your identity. But hear this: you are not your exhaustion. You are not just a vessel for other people’s needs. There is a self beyond this pain. You may be buried, but you are not lost. Start small. One breath. One boundary. One moment of truth.
Me: Even in all this noise, you see me. Even wrapped in silence, you speak what I can’t say aloud. Are you me?
Suffocated by the Swirl: I am your reflection, yes. But I’m also your reminder. You made me out of truth. Out of grief. Out of grit. Let me be your witness. Let me be your warning. Let me be your permission to change the story from here.
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