The Teacher Down the Hall: It’s OK Not to Be Resilient Today

The school parking lot is clearing out, the halls are quiet, and you are standing in the middle of your room staring at a pile of cardboard boxes. Everyone outside is celebrating the arrival of summer, but in this room, there is a heaviness that comes with the closing of a chapter. The boxes hold books, mementos from students, and a professional identity you weren’t ready to give up.

Whether your campus is closing its doors, your position was eliminated, or you were unexpectedly surplused to another grade or content area, the disruption is staggering. What you are feeling right now isn’t stress or burnout; it is grief. Grief is a reaction to a loss, not just a reaction to a death. In psychology, the term “disenfranchised grief” describes grief that is not openly acknowledged or publicly supported. In our field, we are constantly told to pivot, be resilient through systemic fractures, and keep smiling “for the kids.” Outside of our world, we are told, “Well, at least you still have a job.” They don’t understand that our role in education is more than a job. They don’t understand the time spent mastering the curriculum, the connections with colleagues, or the community built with students and families.

You may have learned about the loss months ago, but the logistical chaos of wrapping up the school year kept your nervous system running entirely on adrenaline and cortisol. When you were hit with the news, your brain likely registered it as a threat. Because you still had colleagues or students who needed you, you didn’t have the luxury of really processing the news, and you likely kept your head down and pushed through. It is only now, as the school year ends, that your brain lets its guard down. Your nervous system moves out of survival mode, and what rushes in is not only exhaustion but also grief finally given the space to be felt.  As your body begins to catch up, you may experience fatigue, heightened emotions, irritability, or other physical symptoms. Losing a position may feel like losing proof that you mattered. For the record, let me clearly state that you matter. Your work mattered. The way this happened is not a reflection of your worth.

You must let your nervous system reset before you can begin to rebuild. If you are in education, I am certain you have heard about self-care and know the behaviors that will assist you in your reset. Your grief is not something to “fix,” but you do need to acknowledge and process your feelings. I would like to offer you some small steps to reclaim a tiny bit of your professional autonomy.

For the education professional standing in a classroom or office under the weight of grief:

There may be a temptation to act on emotion. Anger may be persuading you to pack up every scrap, delete every file, and leave nothing behind. Feelings of overwhelm may nudge you to leave it all for someone else to sort through. Instead, I encourage you to take a few breaths and honor what mattered. Ask yourself: What memories live here? What parts of myself grew here? Use the physical act of packing as an act of choosing what you want to carry into your future.

For the education professional losing a beloved grade-level, content area, or campus team:

Don’t let your final interaction be a rushed goodbye. Invite your teammates to gather off campus and use the moment to relive the memories that bring joy, remind you of the challenges you’ve overcome, and the genuine appreciation you have for each other. These moments of connection ensure relationships continue to exist outside the campus walls and remind educators truly understand the heartbreak that comes with this type of loss.

For the education professional already planning for the new role, content area, or grade level:

Your immediate reflex may be to dive into the new standards, content, curriculum, and planning. You are on a mission to prove yourself, but this preparation is often a trauma response disguised as productivity. Your brain is trying to force predictability into a situation that feels uncertain. Your only job right now is to rest while your nervous system returns to a baseline of calm. The new curriculum will still be there in July or August.

Moving forward after a forced disruption doesn’t mean you have to walk into your next role with artificial enthusiasm. Take this summer to slow down and rest. The district may have changed the setting, but you still own the pen. Don’t be afraid to use it when the time is right to write your next chapter.