Teaching On The Hardest Edges of Love

Some days are harder than others. Some hours are harder than others. Some moments are harder than others. I’m not sure what you guys are experiencing but things here at my school got rough the last couple of weeks of the first quarter. High expectations, new expectations, new students, more deadlines, more stress. I wonder what strategies teachers have (and remember to use) when we really need to focus on returning to ourselves. When there is no other choice but to push through but we feel so close to breaking. How do we continue to grow meaningful relationships with kids when we’re in survival mode? How do we continue to give grace to kids when it feels like everything is impossible? When overwhelm sets in, how do we deepen our capacity for compassion and unity?

My dad died about six years ago. Weirdly, some things I learned in grief therapy have been popping up as I explored that last question. I know, it sounds like things just got dark, but stay with me . . . My therapist was always saying, “Build faith that this won’t swallow you.” And then encouraging me to really examine, how much can I hold? As I understand it, this idea came from a fellow named James Hillman and he probably had no intention of it being translated into work for teachers but I think it works here too. What I think my therapist and James wanted to me understand was that survival is in the knowing. I believe compassion fatigue is also a real thing. My first year as a counselor I didn’t even realize it was happening until it was too late. I wanted to hold all of it . . . every kid, every parent, every late rent payment, food insecurity, CPS call, trauma, heartbreak, eviction, risk assessment . . . Here’s my observation of what happens when we reach compassion fatigue, 1st time, 4th time, 400th time; we start distancing ourselves from the hurt. We start telling ourselves we can’t hold anymore. The homeless kid who refuses to let you just teach and insists on being a distraction to other students, the pile of kids not reading on grade level that feel left behind, the kid you know is lonely but doesn’t have the skills to make or maintain friendships. It’s all the things we know that just feel so heavy and we can’t “fix.” The problem is, when we distance ourselves from the hurt, we distance ourselves from our students. I have to constantly remind myself my job isn’t to fix anything. Issues are rarely about resolution. My job is to give kids the space to feel what they are going through. So, not only how much can I hold, but how much can I allow to touch me? Most of us, because of our own “stuff”, the aperture has become so small that we can barely register the sorrow of the world or even our own classrooms. It’s survival . . . but what if our survival strategies are the thing also blocking our capacity for compassion and unity? And for sure our capacity for true connection.

Here's a couple ways I think we can keep trying to allow more stuff in . . . (more stuff from grief therapy).

Be present. Be communal. I know that sounds like old advice but not all old things are outdated. This one is aging well. If we can’t sit with our students with an open heart, don’t sit with them yet. If we aren’t in a good place to exclude distractions, let’s not try and model that. Wait until you can. We have to teach kids the skills they are missing. One of the ones I see consistently is how to be present and how to share with others. By the way, I see it missing in adults as well. And how can we teach our kids to be present and communal if we are unwilling to practice it with each other or them?

Slow down the pace. Speed keeps us on the surface. If we’re always thinking two steps ahead, which we always are (probably another survival strategy) we tend to feel and process less. The memo we live by is just keep moving, just keep smiling, pretend you know what you’re doing, stay on schedule. That pacing guide isn’t just pretty, it’s real. BUT think about the message we send kids when we refuse to wait for them. At best, we’re saying we don’t believe them. You could do it if you just tried harder. At worst, we’re telling them it doesn’t matter, they’ll never catch up anyway. I can’t think of a single situation this isn’t true for: academic, social emotional, behaviors, skills . . . all of it. I’m going to say it one more time: speed keeps us on the surface. We cannot deepen our capacity for compassion or unity if we can’t slow down.

Unmet Needs. I mean, I kinda didn’t even want to put this one on here. Is there any collective group of people with more unmet needs than teachers?! A close second might be moms but we don’t have time for that Venn diagram. I will say this, if you’re a mom and you’ve never heard this before, mom rage is real. The only reason I’m including that fun fact is because people are finally starting to talk about it. I have never heard anyone talk about teacher rage, where it’s coming from, or what we are supposed to do about it. And certainly no one is normalizing it. That’s because if teachers let it out, we get fired. But rage is just unmet needs. Right? In toddlers, in elementary kids, in middle school kids, in high school kids . . . and in adults, but for some reason teachers are exempt from grace in this category. So, this goes two ways. We have to recognize our own unmet needs. Have you ever wondered why some kids or some behaviors trigger you more than others? Our PAC (Positive Action Center) facilitator came to me the other day and said, “Why do I get so angry when I’m giving a direction and the student laughs?” I said, “Pull up a chair and let’s unpack your childhood.” J We did not do that, but I did ask her to think about what need she has that isn’t being met when a kid is laughing at her request. She said, “Sometimes because I’m not a teacher, I worry that people won’t take me serious . . . .” You guys . . . this isn’t rocket science! If we want to deepen our capacity for compassion and unity, we also have to be willing to meet the unmet needs of our kids. And even more challenging is figuring out what those needs are and allowing that hurt to touch you.

Build faith that it won’t swallow you. Back to the beginning. I really believe we are teaching on the hardest edges of love. We must be willing to teach our kids unconditionally and with open eyes and hearts. To not lower our expectations or shut down our empathy. Trust that you can feel it without you carrying it home. Trust that you can enter each conversation with warmth. Trust that you won’t drown.

I know this was a heavy one. But teaching is heavy sometimes. Remember there are so many people who are rooting for you and will help pull you out of the weeds when you need it. My email is maryjo.kraus@ops.org if you want it to be me.