Your energy is my energy. My energy is your energy.

It’s 12:40pm, the high pitch whistles of security reverberate through the halls as the student body clears out of the courtyard from lunch, up the stairwells, and into their 8^th period classes. Unlike most days this past year, I was not ready for the 30+ students about to enter our classroom.  I was not standing at the door with a smile eagerly awaiting to greet them. Instead, I had placed a stool in the doorway to keep the door open (eventually asking a student to hold the door open) while I stood at my desk, frantically finishing whatever I was in the middle of.  As per usual though, a slide with the class’ opening activity (or “bell ringer” as my school refers to it), was projected onto my not-so-smart-anymore smart board. However, despite the normalcy of the classroom’s learning expectations and routines, the majority of the students dawdled around the room either engrossed in the latest social media post, thoroughly engaged in their hallway conversation/gossip, or a combination of both.  A handful of students bombarded me at my desk, as I barked orders for the class to settle down, open their notebooks, and begin their bell ringer.  In the midst of the chaos, I noticed the sassiness of a student and felt her aggravated energy.  At the uttering of an under the breath comment followed by laying her head down on the table – a clear sign of rebellion and thus disengagement – still from my desk, I called her name and requested a conversation.  When she arrived at my desk, now cleared of all students except her, I innocently and sincerely asked “What’s going on? I can tell something seems to be up.” Boldface she responded “It’s you. It’s your energy! Normally you are at the door greeting us with a smile and excitement to learn, but today you’re here, at your desk, yelling at us to settle down.”

She stopped me in my tracks.  Her response was the last thing I had anticipated her to say, knowing she had recently experienced some issues with other students trying to bait her into unwanted drama.  But her response was exactly what I needed to hear. It gave me pause. I took a deep breath in and out, not out of infuriation with her, but to focus on and calm the frantic energy within; she was right.  I then responded to her, “you’re right. But look around the room and notice what’s going on, here’s how you can help me…” I proceeded to ask for her assistance in encouraging her classmates to settle into the classroom routines and expectations, readying themselves to engage in learning.  And so, she did. With one more deep breath in and out, I followed behind greeting each grouping of students with a smile and a new sense of energy.

This Makes 13 - Finding My Oxygen Mask

This month, June 2019, marks the completion of my 13^th year as an educator.  It is a chapter, that just 12 months prior, I didn’t think I would ever write.  A year ago, I was finding it hard to breath and wasn’t sleeping through the nights. I was living in a constant state of overwhelming frustration, stress, and anxiety. I was waking up regularly in a panic, heart racing, hands shaking, tears in my eyes.  I felt as though I was drowning, gasping for air but only coming up with a mouth full of water.  For twelve years I had made my career my life. For twelve years I put my students’ needs in front of my own (only to later realize that honoring my needs is ultimately honoring theirs).  And within twelve years of teaching, I completely lost myself.

I struggled to control my emotions. My relationships with students, colleagues, family, friends, suffered. Each day, prior to walking into the school building, I would take a deep breath in (1… 2… 3… 4… 5) and out (1… 2… 3… 4… 5…) to settle my heart and trick my mind, that today was going to different, today would be a good day.

But that good day rarely came. The promotive, collective, and safe classroom environment I so desperately tried to cultivate had quickly deteriorated. I had become toxic, contaminating not only myself but those around me. Eventually, my students were the ones to lose out - academically and otherwise. I had become the kind of teacher I vowed I would never be.  As the 2017-2018 school year came to an end, I thought my only option was out. I thought, this is what they must mean by “burn out.”

At the advice and loving nudge of my family, while sitting at rock bottom paralyzed by exhaustion and fear, I sought out help from a professional psychologist – who I proudly continue to see once a week.  I came to realize that I may have reached the cusp of “burnt out,” but my passionate flame for education was not ready to be extinguished.   I was ready to live my life differently. I was ready to admit that I was not super human; I couldn’t be everything to everyone, especially if I continued to neglect being everything to myself first.  I was finally ready to find and put my oxygen mask on.

But putting on my oxygen mask meant stepping away from my intimate partnership with The Algebra Project & Young People’s Project. It meant unintentionally stepping back from working and collaborating with friends and colleagues, who I carry so much respect and admiration for in both the field and the work they do. It meant I stopped following certain educators on social media because I would constantly find myself heading down that rabbit hole of “I’m not doing enough. I should be doing more.” And at the core it meant giving all I had while I was at work, but ultimately learning to detach and leave work at work. 

I spent much of the year mourning these losses.  Self-deprecating.  Struggling to forgive myself for being human; for needing oxygen. But eventually the tears and panic ridden sleepless nights subsided.  I could finally walk into the school building with a smile believing today would be a good, no, a GREAT day.  I could also greet my students at the door, each period, with that same smile and excitement to learn – despite the insanity happening around me.

Until now, I never fully understood why the flight attendants informed adults to put their oxygen masks on first. For 12 years I disregarded the instructions not realizing I was slowly cutting off my oxygen supply.  Thankfully, and not without a tremendous support team (including my students), in this 13^th chapter, I found my oxygen mask and put it on.  In this 13^th year, I can breathe easily, confidently, and honestly.  In this 13^th year, I am stronger. In this 13^th year, I am healthier. In this 13^th year I believe (and hope) I was a kinder, more understanding, patient, and effective educator.

Here is to the next 13. Let the journey and growth continue…