School began a few weeks ago in our community. Already, I see weariness on educators’ faces. I hear solemness in their stories.
They speak of staff who did not return. They wonder aloud about how to support children most affected by abuse and neglect. They contemplate where to place students who cannot settle within a classroom environment. They deliberate what to do with “the runners.”
Some whisper about looking toward the exits themselves.
Education is hard right now, particularly in communities serving our most vulnerable families. These are places where children arrive in the morning with nervous systems that easily tip into fight, flight, freeze, or collapse into hopelessness.
If we are honest with ourselves, these are the schools where many staff members struggle with these regulation issues as well.
When I step onto a school campus, I perceive teams of kindhearted, intelligent, hard-working adults operating on a continuum of exhaustion. These are people who years ago studied to enter education with a vision fueled by hope. But regardless of their years of study, some days no amount of hope (or tenacity) can generate the learning environments they once envisioned.
In these communities, the public education system seems like a boat designed in the 1900s to float in a swimming pool on a perfect day. But here, school staff are hustling to keep that boat afloat in the middle of an ocean. During a hurricane. With duct tape.
In the highest-need communities, there is an added scramble to keep pace with an increasing number of children arriving with chronic stress, sleep issues, ADHD, and most likely undiagnosed neurodevelopmental disorders from prenatal, infant, and toddler environments not aligned with early human brain development.
Each year, some of our best and brightest staff are lost, as teachers and principals jump ship to seek less turbulent employment opportunities elsewhere.
With no ocean-equipped vessel on the horizon, perhaps among the rolls of duct tape we hand out to staff to keep this ship afloat, it would be wise to pause and honor our grief.
Because whether we like it or not, we are impacted by our grief. And if we do not create space to honor and metabolize this grief, it will likely show up as impatience, irritability, anger, disillusionment, depression, absenteeism—or serious medical conditions a few years down the line.
It is OK to feel grief.
It is OK to grieve the professional life we once dreamed of living. The children who arrive unsettled and unready to learn. The parents who lack social or emotional resources to effectively nurture their children. The classrooms of students we cannot support the way we yearn.
It is OK to grieve the policies that prioritize adult needs over child development.
It is OK to grieve the colleagues who quietly concede defeat. Those who intermittently hunker on the deck as they look towards retirement.
It is OK to feel angry, too.
There is a lot to be angry about. Education is critical to the lives of children and our collective future. We leveraged our intelligence and charisma to overcome multiple barriers to prepare for it. And yet here we are, lacking the fundamental ingredients required to create the dreamy classrooms and schools we once envisioned.
The trick with anger is consuming it in a manner that supports long-term health and fortitude. In other words, we must find a way to feel our anger while simultaneously softening to our innate humanity.
Though our culture fears perceptions of weakness, grief may be the steadiest ground upon which to hold this anger in a constructive, sustainable, life-giving manner.
There are many ways to honor grief. This is not a one-size-fits-all kind of thing.
Recently, I asked a therapist for support in managing my own frustration with the lack of effective resources schools possess to support vulnerable children’s readiness to learn. I described trying to hold my anger in a figurative inner bowl that has separate, equal compartments for anger, grief, wisdom, and care. But even with this visual to hold my experiences, I explained, my frustration continued. She responded by asking me to consider stirring some of the grief into my anger.
As I paused to imagine doing this, I felt myself soften. My soul quieted.
My thoughts slowed.
A few tears slipped from my eyes while I considered my grief for our local children. As I felt my sadness, I imagined stirring wisdom and care into my frustration as well. Mixed together, these inner sensations offered a container to hold the challenges some of our community’s youth endure.
The past few years, I’ve leaned heavily on the work of educational psychologist Kristin Neff. I first learned of Neff’s work while attending a Stanford University training on treating adverse childhood experiences in pediatric settings. Neff studies how to use neural physiology to decrease stress in the nervous system that may otherwise hinder executive functioning.
Since learning of Neff’s work, I regularly use the following simple practice she teaches. (If no one’s watching, I softly place a hand on my chest while completing it.)
I briefly pause during a challenging moment while quietly telling myself:
- This is a moment of suffering.
- It is normal to feel suffering. Others are feeling this suffering, too.
- May I be gentle with myself in this moment.
This pause can often help me show up for a difficult moment with a nudge of greater calm and clarity.
For those of us who rely on our work serving vulnerable communities to feel competent as professionals and worthy as human beings, there is wisdom in giving ourselves space to grieve.
As we harness the best within ourselves to begin a new school year, may we normalize stirring a bit of grief into our daily self-care. Because this grief may offer a reminder to be gentle with ourselves—and gentle with the vulnerable children we are here to serve.
