Dear Tired Educator: A Soft Place to Land

Introducing the "While I'm Still Here" Series

Before I begin, I want to name what this space is, because this is not just a blog. This space was created from lived experience—moments that do not always make it into professional conversations, yet carry the most weight. It was born from the tension of loving education deeply while also being stretched, challenged, and, at times, undone by it.

As a doctoral candidate studying K–12 leadership, educator experiences, and systemic change, my work centers on emotional labor, identity, and the expectations placed on educators to continuously perform strength, resilience, and excellence. At the same time, I am still actively working within the very system I am researching. I am still in classrooms, still navigating institutional expectations, and still experiencing the realities that theory attempts to explain.

It is within that intersection—between research and reality—that this space was created.

Dear Tired Educator: A Soft Place to Land is a space for educators who are still showing up while carrying more than they should. It is a space for honest reflection, not polished performance. A space where lived experience is not minimized, but honored and examined.

Within this blog, the series While I’m Still in It serves as a real-time documentation of my journey as both an educator and a researcher. Through these reflections, I explore what it means to lead, learn, and sustain within K–12 education while actively experiencing its demands. This includes connecting lived moments to research, examining the emotional and psychological weight of the work, and building my Generational Resilience Leadership Framework (GRLF) in real time—grounded not only in theory, but in practice.

This work is not being done from a distance. It is being lived, processed, and written as it unfolds.

Because the truth is, education cannot be fully understood from the outside looking in. It must be experienced—sat in, wrestled with, and, at times, survived.

What follows is not theory alone. It is reflection rooted in experience, and a moment that shifted my understanding of what it truly means to be an educator.

A Reflection: Becoming the Research While Living the Reality

The most humbling experiences are often the ones you cannot fully put into words. And somehow, I am still trying.

Over the past month, I have stepped into countless classrooms—each filled with different babies, different needs, and different energies. Each space required something different from me. However, nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the self-contained SPED classroom.

Before going any further, I have to pause and offer a deep, sincere respect for SPED educators, especially those in self-contained settings. What I witnessed was not simply teaching. It was calling. It was capacity. It was grace under pressure in its most lived form.

Somewhere in the middle of the day—between elopers, pull-ups, Baby Shark, and what felt like constant motion—I had an epiphany.

I am living at the intersection of contradiction.

I am a doctoral student studying systems, frameworks, and solutions for K–12 education, while simultaneously existing within the very system I am trying to critique, understand, and ultimately transform. I am researching the pain while still experiencing it. I am writing about educator burnout while actively navigating exhaustion. I am studying the Superwoman Schema while realizing I have been performing it in real time.

If I am honest, there is a level of dissonance in that reality that almost feels like delusion.

Because how do you heal a system that you are still bleeding in?

How do you become an expert in something that is still actively breaking you?

How do you lead change while surviving the very conditions that demand it?

And that is when it settled in me—maybe this is the work.

Not researching from a distance.

Not analyzing data in isolation.

But becoming the research.

Documenting it. Naming it. Living it. Writing it in real time.

Because what I experienced that day was not theory. It was truth.

When I walked into that classroom, I met “Ms. T,” who I quietly named Sweet T. She had a warmth about her—a grounded presence and a beautiful spirit that immediately shifted the room without needing to say much.

I walked in slightly anxious, greeted the scholars, and immediately felt a wall. Sweet T gently guided me, explaining who was nonverbal and helping me understand the dynamics of the room. There were seven scholars in total. Three were nonverbal. Five wore pull-ups. These were observations I noticed quickly, but did not yet fully understand.

I sat my bag down, pulled out my snacks, and briefly assumed I might observe.

That assumption lasted maybe two minutes.

Because soon after, one of the babies had found their way into my purse, pulling out Oreos. My water was no longer mine. My phone became the classroom DJ, cycling through Baby Shark and dance breaks. From that moment forward, I did not sit down again.

While there was humor in the chaos, what stayed with me most was her.

Sweet T never sat down.

She never complained.

She never raised her voice.

She never disconnected.

She simply showed up—fully, consistently, and with care.

And when she asked me when I was going to lunch, intentionally putting me before herself, I realized something that I will carry with me:

Some of the most impactful educators are the most overlooked.

The moment that humbled me most came when she stepped out of the room.

Within five minutes—just five—I was undone.

There were three elopers.

Two students crying at the same time.

Two arguing over playdoh.

And me—standing there with five years of experience, accolades, recognition, data, and results—realizing that none of it prepared me for that moment.

I shifted into what I can only describe as instinct mode. Not panic. Not fear. Just immediate adjustment.

And in that moment, something became clear:

You cannot lead what you have not experienced.

You cannot speak on systems you have not sat inside of.

You cannot transform education from the outside looking in.

If I want to be an expert in K–12 education, I have to understand all of it. Not just the parts that reward me. Not just the parts that recognize me. But the parts that stretch me, humble me, and force me to grow.

By the end of the day, something shifted.

The babies learned my name. They hugged me. They kissed my cheek. They fought to sit next to me. They trusted me.

And those nonverbal scholars communicated something deeper than words ever could.

They communicated joy.

They communicated safety.

They communicated connection.

For the first time in a long time, I did not feel accomplished because of performance.

I felt accomplished because of presence.

Now, I find myself at a crossroads.

Do I remain in K–12?

Do I transition out?

Do I lead from within the classroom or beyond it?

I do not have that answer yet.

What I do know is this: over the next 30 days, I am documenting this journey.

Not as an expert.

Not as someone who has everything figured out.

But as someone living it, processing it, and naming it in real time.

Because somewhere between being a tired educator and a doctoral candidate, there is a story that needs to be told.

And maybe, just maybe, that story becomes the bridge between research and reality.

The Landing

To every Sweet T…

I see you.

I honor you.

And I pray you never forget how powerful your presence is.

Dear tired educator…

This is your reminder that what you do matters.

Even on the days it feels unseen.

Even when it feels like too much.

This is your soft place to land.

From the classroom, not the sidelines.

Stay connected to the journey. If this reflection resonated with you, share it with an educator who may need a reminder that they are not alone. If you are living this work too, I invite you to sit with it, reflect on it, and name it.

This space is for you.