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…

If we let them, our students will also change our lives.

A year ago today, Winter Break 2017, I was desperately searching for reprieve. Sitting at the edge of the ocean, listening to the waves crash down on the shore, tears streamed down my face wondering how I was going to muster up the the strength to go back to work come the new year. I was lost, professionally and personally. I was consumed by the anxiety of who and what I felt colleagues, family, and friends expected me to be and do and who and what I was doing and wanted for myself (both in and outside of work), causing a tailspin of depression. Consequently I had slowly become a teacher I vowed I'd never be - one who hated showing up to work, that lost her cool at the drop of a hat - bright faced yelling out of frustration for no real reason - and created the opposite of welcoming learning environment.

As I sat on the beach that day, I knew I couldn't continue doing what I was doing - but not for just me, for my students. My students deserved either a healthy me or not me at all. Something had to change, and deep down I knew I didn't want it to be teaching. Now, a year later, having worked my way out of that deep depression, (through the help of weekly therapy) I hope to share reflections not on what I have or have not done to impact my students lives, but rather pay tribute to my students; reflecting on their actions and decisions which have in-turn changed my life, inspiring me to work towards finding healing and happiness, for them and most importantly for myself.

The post to follow will be a journaling of my continued personal journey in search of self-care, self-love, and a healthy and sustainable work-life balance as a passionate educator.