To the Teacher Who Has Nothing Left to Give

The other day my husband and I were driving in the car, talking about the beginning of another school year. We found ourselves thinking back to the many first days and weeks of school we've experienced over the years and how each one holds its own memories—the successes, the failures, and everything in between that comes with starting fresh alongside a new group of children.

As I reflected, there is one year that will forever stand out to me - the year I was pregnant with Dawson.

We found out we were expecting on Father's Day, and just two months later I was heading back to work with a small baby bump already beginning to show. But I had also been diagnosed with Hyperemesis gravidarum, and I was constantly sick. I was weak, woozy, and exhausted. At the same time, I was grappling with the reality that my grandma was nearing the end of her life back in Colorado.

As I started that school year, I had very little of myself to give.

I showed up. I smiled. I fought back the overwhelming urge to throw up. And I greeted each of my kindergarteners with a smile and a hug.

That year I had a child who would elope—or run—when he became overwhelmed. His dad would drop him off, and he would immediately run after him, even several minutes after his dad had already left the building.

Normally, this would have been something I could handle. But that year, it nearly broke me.

I remember the second day of school. I intentionally held this child's hand while another adult walked the rest of my class to our room. I wanted him to know he was safe with me and that he belonged in our classroom.

When he sat down on the carpet, I remember thinking, We did it.

But almost as quickly as I celebrated that small victory, he was back on his feet and running out the door.

I stood up and ran after him, only to realize I couldn't even tell which direction he had gone. I rushed toward the playground doors in a panic, terrified he had made it outside.

He wasn't there.

Then another teacher—someone I honestly wasn't very close with—walked up and simply asked, "How can I help?"

That was all it took.

I completely fell apart.

Standing in that hallway, I started sobbing from sheer exhaustion and worry. Through tears, I asked if she could go find him while I returned to the rest of my students.

She did.

She brought him safely back to my room, sat with him until he felt settled, and then even waited in the hallway for a few more minutes to make sure he didn't elope again.

At first, I was embarrassed.

I was usually able to hold those big emotions together in front of my students. But the truth was, I simply didn't have it in me. Physically and emotionally, I had reached my limit.

Still, I kept showing up every day.

I kept smiling.

I kept giving everything I had—even when it didn't feel like very much.

Shortly afterward, my grandma passed away.

As we prepared to travel back to Colorado to celebrate her life and mourn her loss, there was one more important event I needed to show up for: Back-to-School Night.

It was the evening when kindergarten families came to learn what the year would look like, explore our classrooms, and connect with their child's teacher after the excitement of the first few days had settled.

And I had nothing left.

My principal came in to check on me before the event, and I broke down at my kidney table.

This picture was taken the morning of the Back to School Night

I remember sobbing as I told him I didn't know what to do with my class. There were some challenging behaviors, and nothing I had tried so far seemed to be working.

In his gentle, matter-of-fact way, he simply told me to go home.

I sat there in my nice dress while my husband waited in the parking lot with our bags packed, ready to begin the eight-hour drive as soon as the evening was over.

Go home?

I had an event.

I had parents to speak with.

I had responsibilities.

But my principal insisted he would take care of everything. Then he said something I'll never forget:

"The most professional thing you can do right now is take care of yourself."

So that's exactly what I did.

I turned off the lights in my classroom, locked the door, thanked my teammates for stepping in, and walked away.

As we began the long drive back to my hometown, I cried.

I cried because I had reached the point where there was simply nothing left to give.

I spent that time with my family.

We celebrated my grandma's life.

I ate comfort food, always hoping it would stay down. 

Most importantly, I rested.

When I returned to school, I was still incredibly exhausted. That was simply the reality of my pregnancy.

But I had enough.

Enough energy.

Enough strength.

Enough of myself to continue doing the incredibly important—and incredibly demanding—work of teaching.

As I think back on that school year now, I recognize it as my year of pure exhaustion.

But I also know there are teachers preparing to head back to school over the next few weeks who are living through their own version of that year.

Maybe their summer wasn't relaxing or rejuvenating.

Maybe they recently lost someone they love.

Maybe they're struggling financially.

Maybe they're battling a medical diagnosis.

Maybe they're carrying burdens no one around them even knows exist.

And yet...

They will show up.

They will smile.

They will do the very best they can.

If I could offer one piece of unsolicited advice to those teachers, it would be this:

Show up for yourself so you can continue showing up for your students.

Ask for help.

Accept it when it's offered.

Lean on your building leaders, your instructional coach, your teammates, or the people who care about you.

And give the best you have—even if it isn't your personal best.

That year, I gave the best I had.

It just looked different than it had any other year.

It made room for grace.

It made room for imperfection.

It reminded me that "my best" isn't measured against yesterday or someone else's expectations. It's measured against what I have to give today.

Sometimes our best is overflowing.

Sometimes it's simply enough.

Both are worthy.

As another school year begins, I hope every teacher knows that I am cheering for them.

May this year be filled with growth, joy, and moments that remind you why you chose this profession.

And if this happens to be your year of pure exhaustion, I hope you remember that showing yourself grace isn't giving up.

Sometimes, it's the very thing that allows you to keep showing up.