On Teacher Burnout
A reckoning with disillusionment
The past four months I have been reckoning with disillusionment and grappling with teacher burnout that I naively once thought myself immune to. Work has felt more challenging than ever, my self esteem has felt lower, and the moments I usually find joy in have seemed mundane. I wouldn’t say that the first three and a half years of my career have been a breeze– far from it. But, as reflected in my earlier writing, I have navigated the challenges and chaos of teaching with a deep sense of purpose, gratitude, humility, humor, and (honestly, shamelessly), confidence in what I have brought to my school. The relationships I have formed with students and coworkers have been confirmation that I am where I want to be, need to be, that I am doing good, making a difference, “changing lives”... all that a teacher could hope for. And, until this year, I have never doubted that what I was doing was enough.
But recently, even the best moments of my job have not been refueling me to full. I have found myself depleted and devoid of inspiration. I have felt hope turn to hopelessness, and energy fade to fatigue. I have felt sad and overwhelmed by all that I am coming to realize will never change; daunted by all that’s out of my control, I have begun to question my own abilities and contributions to my work in an environment which seems to always ask for more. It’s an environment which, by design, reflects back to us our many insufficiencies as individuals and as a society. Stress has begun to wear into my face, lines creased on my forehead and seeped into my body. I hear it in my tone when I address my students with a little less patience and more frustration. And I carry it home with me, a sense of guilt that keeps me up at night teary eyed thinking about the ways I am contributing to a system that causes harm and perpetuates inequality.
I feel like I'm running. I can't catch my breath. I can’t slow my mind. There is always more to accomplish, and never enough time nor resources to do so. I am left feeling exhausted and full of doubt, trying to list out the qualities I do and do not possess like a baker recipe testing with an eye for flaws. What ingredients do I lack and which do I have a surplus in which are pushing me to the brink of burnout?
It seems that lasting in this career requires a level of indifference I don’t inherently possess. Some of my colleagues say nonchalantly “this is just a job”, and while I hear them, I can’t get myself to agree. There is an obvious impact to the work we do. We see it in our students every day, in their progress over the course of a year, and in some cases, over the course of their lives. Students who stay in touch to let us know that their lives have been changed by the lessons we taught them. So while measuring impact is different in every field, of course, everything about this job is personal. And the relationships that are so foundational to our students’ success are built and maintained over time. It’s why I struggle to leave work at work, and instead dedicate hours at home towards writing feedback on students’ papers. I want them to improve, and I need them to know I care, even when they are not directly in front of me. I’m aware that some of these busy teens won’t ever read my comments, but I also have heard enough times from a small minority that these comments are the reason they come to love English and work to improve their communication. I can see the impact of my efforts in the twenty plus students who choose to spend their lunch with me every day, editing work and asking questions. Indifference isn’t life changing but empathy, consistency and care can be.
But, like most other roles that exist within our society, “success” in teaching is measured more by a compliance to the demands of the systems, than by one’s impact and innovation. So we teachers bear the burden of new policies and standardized curriculums that we are expected to learn and implement without rhyme or reason, policies which inadvertently strip educators and students of their humanity and self-determination. It’s easier to comply, to check off the boxes, than to put up a fight. And so, for the sake of ease, we do, wasting time in meetings checking off the next to-do passed down from the district. Recently, I was sitting in a professional development workshop with several of my coworkers, when one colleague appropriately noted in response to the workshop’s goal: “the definition of insanity is doing the same over and over again and expecting different results.” This Einstein quote should really be the tagline of this career. Our public education system is the paragon of insanity and, in its efforts to maintain tradition and invest in theory instead of adapt to experience, schools will continue to lose incredible teachers who refuse to surrender to these cycles.
As I reconcile with these realities, I am coming to understand what people mean when they say good teachers don’t last. Because, one way or another, all good teachers succumb to the burn out I myself am starting to feel. There are two options for teachers who burn out: stay or leave. Both come with consequences. Like most people, teachers who stay in the profession after burnout end up taking down others with them, afflicted by the type of misery that’s contagious. Innocent students get caught in the crossfire between those of us who resent the systems, and the systems which hold us hostage. But the teachers who leave are often left unfulfilled and jaded by the stagnance that they will abort despite their best efforts. I see examples of this in my coworkers and the TikToks of teachers crying in their cars, videos I used to scroll past with a sense of judgement, believing that would never be me. So, in recognizing that I am unfortunately a recipe for burnout – passion, empathy, vision, creativity and an unwavering commitment to educational equity that I would argue make me good at my job, I must consider the cost of staying in an environment I am beginning to resent.
I’m only a fourth year teacher. And, despite the insanity of it all, I love my job. I am grateful to be surrounded by young minds every day who remind me of innocence and hope and creativity and joy. As I sit at a crossroads of my career, looking down a long road of growing frustration, I am trying to consider what pathways exist for those of us who don’t want to give up on a career in public education. I don’t see a future in which teaching is no longer part of my life, because, although it has made up only a sliver of my life so far, these past four years have given me a part of my identity I cannot imagine living without.
So, I continue to hold onto hope and dive into research, seeking community and relying on the insights of educators I admire. I am trying to find ways to make this career sustainable. And, although I can empathize with those teachers who leave the profession because of their shared disillusionment and understandable disappointment, I believe there are ways to step back and step back in re-energized. I will hold strong to the mantra that has provided the foundation to my success so far: control the controllables. Focus my energy on the decisions that I have the power to change and remove guilt from the choices I make going forward.
In the preface to Audre Lorde’s book Your Silence Will Not Protect You, journalist
writes, “Self care is now zeitgeist. We recognise that a sustainable fight requires a full tank, and that we all need to look after each other.” With these words in mind, I will begin to refill my tank and look after myself the same way I look after my students by taking strides to protect my sanity from systems that will push us to breaking.
So good Lizey! Thank you for sharing 💕