Sometimes, I feel like I’m living life in the waiting room of a doctor’s office; I’m either waiting to do something or I’m doing something. And although self-care is something I fully believe in, the vast majority of the somethings I’m doing are for other people. I don’t mind doing things for other people— In fact, I love it. It’s why I wanted to become a teacher and a mother. But spend enough time living in the waiting room and it will catch up with you: Energy runs low, not sure how much further you can go, and the light at the end of the tunnel gets further and further away.
Ultimate truth time: I love my life, my family, my students, my school, my community. I wouldn’t change a single thing about it. Every now and then though, I wish there was a pause button. If I could just push pause for a little bit.... For the all responsibilities to be complete. For everyone’s needs to be met. For the e-mail to stop. To be caught up. To feel as though I have a guilt-free opportunity to relax. To not have anything in the back of my mind, nagging me to get up and stop being lazy. To simply BE.
Even in those rare unicorn moments when I have the house to myself, one would think it easy enough to find that chunk of time. But what ends up really happening is I spend my time catching up on school work, sending e-mail, going to the grocery store, straightening up and cleaning all the things that we needed to set aside while attending to our kids, working ahead on the next big things in the hopes I might find a bigger chunk of time to relax later....all good things to be sure, but somehow I can’t stop myself from using the time to catch up on the adult responsibilities; to help myself feel like I’m not drowning instead of finding the chance to push pause and breathe.
——
It was a Friday morning when I came into school, desperately needing that pause button. I was fried. There was nothing that my soul craved more than the chance to catch my breath. The moment I walked onto the podium first hour, my students could tell I wasn’t myself. Most of them look at me like I’m a bomb getting ready to go off. One even gives me a hug. I can’t keep it together- so I sneak away back into my office to fall apart for a minute.
A distraction. I need to find a distraction. I need to stop thinking about this NOW. I pull out one of my funko pop figurines from my desk collection (Kronk from Emperor’s New Groove) to put on my podium, wipe my tears away with my shirt sleeve and head back out to (quite literally) face the music.
My voice is low. I don’t have the energy to do more than get through this class. We dive right into our unison warm-up with as little verbiage as possible.
“Bb. Breathe with me.”
And off we go. I can do this. I’ll feel the big feelings later, when it is safe. When later will be, I’m not sure- but whatever.
[An aside; it is amazing to me how students respond to their surroundings. My students knew something was wrong. They were on alert. When I pulled myself in to conserve energy, they responded by listening more closely. They were in the moment. The energy in the room was palpable in spite of the fact that I was running on fumes.]
Everything is fine until we get to Perthshire Majesty, a beautiful Scottish ballad composed by Samuel Hazo. It opens with a gorgeous soprano saxophone solo before unfolding like a beautiful flower, blooming into lush, rich harmonies throughout the band. Listening to my students play the piece is giving me goosebumps and before I know it, I can feel the tears building up.
Shit. Not now. But by this point, I know I can’t control this. The truth can’t be pushed back any longer. Holding it back is exhausting. I don’t have the energy to do it. I only have enough to continue conducting or to stop and try to control my emotions. So we continue.
The tears flowed. I kept conducting. I made my visual cues by looking just above their heads so I didn’t look anyone in the eye because the vulnerability was overwhelming. They didn’t have to tell me they cared, and they didn’t know what was troubling me— I never shared— but I heard it. I felt it.
That morning, my students gave me a gift more precious than I had been given from any student at any point in my career. They pushed the pause button for me, and in doing so, gave me the space and time I needed so desperately to feel what needed to be felt.
Ultimate truth time: I love my life, my family, my students, my school, my community. I wouldn’t change a single thing about it. Every now and then though, I wish there was a pause button. If I could just push pause for a little bit.... For the all responsibilities to be complete. For everyone’s needs to be met. For the e-mail to stop. To be caught up. To feel as though I have a guilt-free opportunity to relax. To not have anything in the back of my mind, nagging me to get up and stop being lazy. To simply BE.
Even in those rare unicorn moments when I have the house to myself, one would think it easy enough to find that chunk of time. But what ends up really happening is I spend my time catching up on school work, sending e-mail, going to the grocery store, straightening up and cleaning all the things that we needed to set aside while attending to our kids, working ahead on the next big things in the hopes I might find a bigger chunk of time to relax later....all good things to be sure, but somehow I can’t stop myself from using the time to catch up on the adult responsibilities; to help myself feel like I’m not drowning instead of finding the chance to push pause and breathe.
——
It was a Friday morning when I came into school, desperately needing that pause button. I was fried. There was nothing that my soul craved more than the chance to catch my breath. The moment I walked onto the podium first hour, my students could tell I wasn’t myself. Most of them look at me like I’m a bomb getting ready to go off. One even gives me a hug. I can’t keep it together- so I sneak away back into my office to fall apart for a minute.
A distraction. I need to find a distraction. I need to stop thinking about this NOW. I pull out one of my funko pop figurines from my desk collection (Kronk from Emperor’s New Groove) to put on my podium, wipe my tears away with my shirt sleeve and head back out to (quite literally) face the music.
My voice is low. I don’t have the energy to do more than get through this class. We dive right into our unison warm-up with as little verbiage as possible.
“Bb. Breathe with me.”
And off we go. I can do this. I’ll feel the big feelings later, when it is safe. When later will be, I’m not sure- but whatever.
[An aside; it is amazing to me how students respond to their surroundings. My students knew something was wrong. They were on alert. When I pulled myself in to conserve energy, they responded by listening more closely. They were in the moment. The energy in the room was palpable in spite of the fact that I was running on fumes.]
Everything is fine until we get to Perthshire Majesty, a beautiful Scottish ballad composed by Samuel Hazo. It opens with a gorgeous soprano saxophone solo before unfolding like a beautiful flower, blooming into lush, rich harmonies throughout the band. Listening to my students play the piece is giving me goosebumps and before I know it, I can feel the tears building up.
Shit. Not now. But by this point, I know I can’t control this. The truth can’t be pushed back any longer. Holding it back is exhausting. I don’t have the energy to do it. I only have enough to continue conducting or to stop and try to control my emotions. So we continue.
The tears flowed. I kept conducting. I made my visual cues by looking just above their heads so I didn’t look anyone in the eye because the vulnerability was overwhelming. They didn’t have to tell me they cared, and they didn’t know what was troubling me— I never shared— but I heard it. I felt it.
That morning, my students gave me a gift more precious than I had been given from any student at any point in my career. They pushed the pause button for me, and in doing so, gave me the space and time I needed so desperately to feel what needed to be felt.
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