A Teacher's Grief

There’s a reason why teachers call our students our kids. It’s because we love them that much. We cheer for them. We roll our eyes at them. We cry for them. We stay awake at night worrying over them.

Teachers spend more time each school day with our students than with our own children. Our students begin to feel like our children. The line blurs.

Students-kids.

Work-life-love.

Teachers are grieving. We did not get to say good-bye. We aren’t sure when or if we will see them again. We are worrying.

What about the kid who couldn’t sleep at night because parents were fighting in the other room? What is happening when that child goes to sleep tonight? Who will comfort that child in the morning?

What about the kid who runs the neighborhood after school with no supervision? Who is giving him a band-aid and a hug today?

What about the kid who has nothing to do at home? Who is challenging him, motivating him, encouraging him?

What about the kid whose mother just finally pulled herself out of poverty?

What about the kids left in the charge of older siblings, cruel with power?

What about the kid who was living in an unsafe home? The classroom was his refuge. Where will he find peace now?

What about… what about… what about…

There are too many worries to list. Too much sadness to count. It is a physical weight on our teacher hearts. These children we love feel out of reach.

We’ve lost our refuge, too. The classroom was our refuge from worry. In the classroom, we could do something. We could fight worry and fear with action. We could give them attention; love; safety. We could sit with her, just to listen. We could keep him busy and engaged. We could feed him. We could love her. Now we worry that we’ve lost the power to provide all those things for our kids.

Today I’m taking the day to sit in my sorrow. To cry. To worry. To feel the depth of these fears. I’m letting my toes dangle down into the cold, deep water. The scary unknown prickles my back. I’m feeling it today, and I’m naming it: grief.

But I’m not staying here.

Tomorrow, I’m choosing action. I’m choosing faith and love. I’m making a new refuge; building a new nest. I don’t know how it will look, or if I’ll be able to gather them all, but I’m choosing to fight for my kids. I’m leaving the cold, the dark, and the scary. I’m headed for brightness and warmth, and I’ll be bringing my kids with me.