From Fire to Frying Pan: Teaching After Trauma

My school year started last week, over two months after the official start. I was on family leave after months of crisis mode, and things finally turned a corner.

I know I’m not alone among colleagues or students. Many endure grief and trauma. Perhaps my experiences will help someone feel less alone, and perhaps you’re comfortable commenting on ways you’ve weathered difficulty as well.

A Gentler Re-Entry

I’m thankfully not the same person I was last May. After chronically overextending myself, I was isolated, burnt out, and resentful. Coming back, I knew my old way of doing business wouldn’t cut it. I wouldn’t last. It’s not new learning, but a sharper focus.

Who can I surround myself with to bring me joy and grounding? If trauma has taught me anything, it’s an earlier recognition of people and situations that bring me anxiety or self-doubt. It’s also a profound appreciation for those who make me feel stronger and less alone. I’ve pledged to spend less time around the former, and strive to be the latter.

Where am I happiest? I’m in the hallway at the beginning and end of each day. You’ll see me hugging and high-fiving kids, reading the “weather” for how the day will go. You’ll see me dropping by my colleagues’ rooms, asking how they are doing and meaning it. The planning can wait. 

What do I need? I need joy in teaching. So, I made the scary decision to do less work outside of school. I was worried about disastrous consequences, but so far I’m pleased. I’m more present for my family, and I’m more present with students because I’m no longer overworked and resentful. It’s a win-win.

Where is Writing?

I’ve thought about where all of my experiences leave me as a teacher of writing, and more importantly, as a writer. It’s hard exercising patience with myself during a time where writing isn’t a priority for me. The story below (the latest installment of several) articulates it best.

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Lainie’s been gone a while, thought Story. Looks like I’ll have to pay her a visit and nudge her along. 

She knocked on the door. After what seemed an eternity, Lainie answered. “Oh. Hey.”

”You knew I’d be coming by, right?” Story replied.

”I guess so, but things are…complicated.”

Story took a good look at her longtime friend and sparring partner. The woman in front of her was pale, disheveled, sapped of energy and joy. “Are you…okay?”

”No. And I don’t have it in me to chat right now, so you need to go.” Lainie shut the door.

It’s not often Story was speechless, but she stood before the closed door, dumbfounded and worried. Story was all about a good plot twist, but she wasn’t expecting this one. Still, what could she do but turn around, retrace her steps down the street, make her way to the coffee shop, and hope for Lainie to come back around?

And wait she did. Days, weeks, months. From her booth at the back of the coffee shop, Story observed. From time to time, Lainie came and went, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Never mind, she thought, Lainie knows I’m here. 

One morning, Lainie entered, ordered her customary chai, and instead of ducking out the front door, she gave a long glance at Story, took a deep breath and braced herself for humiliation. I may as well get this over with, she sighed. 

“Listen,” confessed Lainie as she plopped into the booth, “I think I’m done.” 

“With your chai? I’ll totally take it,” smirked Story.

”Ha, ha. No, I mean writing. Poetry, fiction, personal narrative…all of it. I don’t think I have it in me. Things have just been too hard. I like you and all, but I can’t meet your expectations.”

“So don’t.”

Lainie rolled her eyes. “Quit joking already.”

”I’m not. Just think of how much you’ve had going on. Sure, I can help you work through some of it, but only when you’re ready.”

”I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready,” Lainie said. “And when I feel like that, I just know I’m disappointing you. I hate it.” 

Story steadied her gaze. “You know I’m a figment of your imagination, right? You know all those expectations and disappointment and guilt aren’t mine, right?”

Lainie listened, considered.

Story continued. “Let them go. Let me go. You need other things right now. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find a hobby. You find some healing.”

Story rose, brushed the scone crumbs from her sweater, and said, “Now come give me a big old hug. I’m not sure when I’ll see you next.”

Over the years, Story had been an obligation, a nuisance, a source of dread. But now, as they hugged, Lainie felt validation and compassion. Her thoughts lightened and her heart filled. Watching her muse walk away, Lainie thought, I’ll see you sooner than you think.