It was lunch time, and I was sitting in the little room outside the office prepping materials for an assessment. I was just about to get up and grab some pencils when a teacher passed by and looked in. “Oh it’s nice to see you!” came her bright greeting, and it was undeniably nice to see her too. I’ve had the opportunity to work with this educator a couple of times now; my system role sees me moving about quite a bit, and at each new school it’s always a bonus to run into people I have collaborated with in the past. She’s a dedicated teacher, always on the go and brimming with positive energy, someone you always feel better for having spoken with.
Today she seemed a little different, though. A little quieter.
Our conversation lasted about twenty minutes, the third period bell sternly enforcing its end. But while we were chatting, she spoke about how much her students would be able to do if they had adequate supports, and I could hear the frustration in her voice. She had multiple needs in her class, and as the only educator in a room of 30 students, along with vanishing funding for special education and ESL, her worry for her students was palpable.
Such situations are far from isolated. Every day teachers show up and give their best for students, and despite all the challenges still manage to accomplish incredible things. But let’s face it: no matter how devoted the educator, no matter how skilled their pedagogy, the underfunding of our school system can sometimes create an unshakeable type of stress, when we routinely see students who do not have the specialized supports and manageable class sizes they need to truly thrive. Couple that with the worries and struggles we may have in our personal lives, set it all against the backdrop of our roiling world, and you have the perfect recipe for stuckness.
Ugh, stuckness. I loathe it. Stuckness is the worst. That trapped feeling, like boots you can’t pull out of squelchy mud. Where solutions to our problems seem so out of reach, so distant, that we feel that we aren’t really making any progress at all.
But – as I discovered not too long ago – there is sometimes a way to make the worry a little more manageable.
It was a couple of years ago now, and I was telling a friend about a problem. It had been bothering me for some time and I felt, well, stuck. That there was no solution to my dilemma and never would be. That I was doing absolutely nothing to get to where I needed to go.
But what my friend said next helped, at least a little bit. She told me to imagine I was driving a car, and while not at my destination quite yet, it was important to recognize that I was headed in the right direction. Contrary to what I felt, I wasn’t doing ‘nothing’: I had a list of steps I’d already taken, and I had a plan for steps I’d continue to take. I was aiming for my goal, doing what I could do. And sure, unruly passengers might occasionally climb aboard with me, squawking and screeching and doing their best to remind me I wasn’t there yet (thank you very much, unhelpful thoughts). But, my friend said, you don’t have to listen. They can spew doom all they like, because you know where you’re going and you have the skills to get there. So instead of absorbing the panic and helplessness, I could continue on, perhaps with a little more self-compassion, knowing that although I hadn’t arrived at the solution yet, I was headed the right way.
So as we continue the cold trudge through February, whenever I feel myself trapped in stuckness I’m going to think of that gradual, winding road trip. It’s the right image for me; it may or may not be the right image for you. But if there is a challenge you are facing in your day-to-day teaching, it is my hope that you can see all the things you are doing, all the little steps moving you forward, knowing you are making a difference in children’s lives every day. And that as we continue to care for students, as we continue to collaborate and help one another, and as we continue to advocate for the supports our students need, we are headed in the right direction together.
