Unqualified
I lay in bed at night staring up at the ceiling fan; even in the darkness, I know it needs cleaning, just like the baseboards, the window panes, and my desk at work. It all mounts on top of one another, the thoughts of what I need to do and what I'm not doing well. Every day I leave and contend with students who are forced into sitting in the seats I provide for them. I sing for my supper. Try to make it enjoyable, bring in pieces that intrigue them, and make the material more fun and obtainable. Then I go home and read the boring parts that are supposed to educate me, to make me a better teacher for them. "Honey, what's for dinner?" "Mom, I need (whatever it is today)." I'm not qualified. I'm not ready. I cannot handle it all. The weight of the need to's, the have to's, the shoulds, the seemingly making of a better life for me all feels unreal. A facade of the person I am inside. Yet, I keep living in the shell. Breathing in the uncertainty because, I well, have to.
Teaching feels so unobtainable most of the time. The microaggressions, I think, as a result of a sly comment that wasn't intended to make me feel a certain way, an outcast, yet, I do. Kids who like me but hate everything I do daily, so why read in an age where it's unimportant? I argue the necessity only to listen to the news when it's clear the world doesn't read either. Then I go to school myself, reminded that I am less than others, that I don't have, that the choice to become a mom and fight through life meant that I needed to juggle many hats at once a long time ago, and I didn't do it then, so this exhaustion is my penance. Oh, and I need to plan a fantastic lesson to teach tomorrow so the day can repeat. Never mind the family that gets parts of me between the dinner I didn't cook again and the half-awake eyes of a half-dead soul as I try to pay attention to their day. Tired is an understatement. This tiredness cannot be fixed by sleeping. So what happens instead? I get sick. My physical body takes on the manifestation of my emotions inside and decides to shut down for me. In this, I feel guilt. Guilt for everything that won't get done due to my inability to stay well.
They say don't leave the profession; you're so good at and love it.
Do I love the smiles when a student gets it, and the words suddenly click? Yes.
Do I adore picking out a great book to share and talk about at length? Yes.
Do I love the concept of teaching something new to a kid? Yes.
But at the same time, do I love hearing an officer tell me that the safest thing I can do in an emergency is to jump out of a second-story window, as the bones may break. Still, the adrenaline will kick in, knowing that I have a device that makes my bladder function embedded in my body, and it may shatter upon impact?
Do I love hearing about school shooting number 90 near a place I have lived, and we talked about visiting this summer?
Do I love blatant disrespect and deviance daily?
Do I love that my "classroom management skills need to be adjusted" to have fewer classroom interruptions?
Do I love the weekly schedule changes shortening a lesson I stayed up late Saturday night creating?
Do I love continual training regarding compassion when I feel fatigued myself?
Do I love the impossible standard I keep myself accountable to because I care about someone else's future more than mine most days?
Do I love the stress of bearing someone else's burden by being an empathetic ear when they are too young, too impressionable, and too small to handle all of the emotions themselves?
Do I love taking work home even when I try not to?
Do I love the demanding parents telling me I'm working their kids too hard instead of helping them with their homework which is not my job?
Do I love having class upon class about how to be a well-rounded, better-educated instructor with material I will likely never use?
Do I love breaking up another fight, another verbal altercation, all while I know you're talking about me behind my back?
Do I love sacrificing things that I love in the light of things that might make my next day more manageable at the expense of my paycheck, free time, and sanity?
No one asked you to do all this; they say, sure, but if you don't, are you "effective."
My dream was to become a teacher. To mold little minds and watch them grow.
These days though, it's more complex than that. If I'm honest, the little mind I care most about is the mind of my own. So I've left. Tried another career, only to feel the monotonous annoyances that came with it. Day in and day out, more of the same. The variations of agony, thinking, what is the point in this? At least you can see the point of teaching.
Then there's being a mom. I need to be there for my little neurodivergent smarty pants. It takes her longer to process. Her emotions are more extensive than she can handle, and she needs me to help navigate the world. What that looks like is a little different every day. A "regular" job means I can't be there when she's falling apart because she will. It might be a month or 6 months, but as sure as the sun rises, it will happen. What then? What if it brings a seizure of epic magnitude bringing down all the progress we've made so far as she enters the throngs of puberty? I need to be available above all. Mom first, the world second. So I returned to the field, only to have the reason I left amplified.
So many times, people talk about how the profession for you is the one where it only sometimes feels like work, where you thoroughly enjoy what you do even on the hard days.
Where do I fit?
The sense of identity I thought I had left somewhere in the migraine I had amid technology failing me yet again as I tried to make my life "easier."
This is not about doubt. This is about feeling overwhelmingly and abundantly unqualified for the life I have to live. Every second of every day, I am not qualified enough to fill all the roles I take on. And no, some magical training isn't going to help it. So here I am, like so many, doing it all while allowing myself to be eaten alive. Why not walk away?
I need to be qualified to figure out where.
