This month, June 2019, marks the completion of my 13th
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 13th chapter, I found my
oxygen mask and put it on. In this 13th
year, I can breathe easily, confidently, and honestly. In this 13th year, I am stronger. In
this 13th year, I am healthier. In this 13th 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…
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