Since starting my teaching career, I’ve grown spiritually and emotionally. As a result, my presence at work has shrunk in neediness, but has become more powerful in calm, steady energy. When I stopped expecting my job to validate me, my work finally became sustainable.
I remember the first time I stayed until dark at school to complete lesson plans for the next day. It was freshly October. I walked out to the parking lot to find my car the only one in the lot. It was the first time I realized that the hallways in the school had their own lighting. Since my first classroom had no windows, the stark contrast between the fluorescent lights within my hollow cave and the obscure darkness outside gave me an initial shock —“is it that late?” I thought. It was nearly 10pm.
I walked some paces to the staff lot, got into my car, and turned the key to hear a “click, tick, tick, tick”. As I attempted to start my car repeatedly, the panic set it and I began to wonder if I would need to head back into my classroom to find a way to sleep there (I wasn’t even sure how to dial an outside number on the phones). “Could I call an Uber? But the gates are all locked. I don’t have anyone to pick me up. Can I call a coworker?” I was panicked. I felt sad, defeated and lonely. I also felt dumb, like who stays at school this late and how did I mess up my car to the point where it doesn’t turn on?
When I think about that Brenda, who was in full-on survival mode in 2014– first year teacher, first-gen college grad who moved away from family to work in a town where she knew no one, with little social skills for making friends, despite much effort, little experience in doing anything outside of academics… I think of her and I wish I could have told her to take a deep breath, and trust it’s going to be okay.
I would also take the chance to give her some practical advice for that moment: car batteries go bad after a few years. The car I had at the time was the first car I’d ever owned and this was the night I learned that car batteries needs to be replaced every few years. I was able to call the AAA my mom purchased for me and get a tow truck to replace my battery without a need for a tow.
This experience demonstrates a few characteristics of my modus operandi, or my default settings.
I overworked to feel safe.
I considered myself solely responsible.
Anything unexpected meant disaster.
Mistakes mean I’m not good enough.
My survival depends on my achievements.
These thought patterns didn’t just show up at work but impacted every other aspect of my life— my relationships, my mental health, my physical health, and my spiritual well-being. Essentially, I made my performance directly tied to my self-worth. If I was doing a good job at work, then I’d be happy… or rather: I’m miserable because I’m not doing a good job at work. Because I was miserable. And at the time, the only way I made sense of it was to point towards the idea that I wasn’t “succeeding” at work.
What did ”success” mean to me then?
It meant having 100% of students love physics and loving me as their teacher. Now, realistically, I did have many positive relationships with students during that time. Many who I still remain in touch with today. My sense of self relied so heavily on my students validating me as a teacher. I didn’t understand at the time how my dysregulated sense of self was impacted by how much value I put on the temperaments of my students. If my students weren’t happy with the lesson, if they weren’t engaged, if they weren’t making positive comments about me or the class… I was devastated. My body would feel so activated by the stress of needing to perform well. I had trouble concentrating on anything that wasn’t work-related. I didn’t see the point in going home, or in engaging in any activity that wasn’t lesson planning or grading. I was sold on the idea that if I was a better teacher then I would feel better.
This belief system was so unhealthy for a multitude of reasons. First off, it didn’t matter how great my lessons were, or how engaging I was as a teacher, some students simply have off-days/weeks/years. Through my recovery work, I learned that it’s actually quite cruel to place the responsibility of my self-esteem in the hands of children. They have enough on their plates, have their own sense of self to work out, and are on their own personal journey’s of self-discovery. I was acting from an extremely selfish place to assign them the role of validating me as a teacher (and honestly, as a person).
Second, I mistook intensity for dedication. This is something I am still working on today and is taking longer for me to let go of. Similar to using my students and coworkers to validate my performance as a teacher, I set unreasonably high standards for myself when it comes to lesson preparation. I tied my sense of safety to how complete my work was. Relaxing felt impossible because in my mind if I didn’t try to think of everything then my work could easily fall apart… and then I’d be exposed as incompetent. My ultimate fear was being seen as not good enough, which was extremely scary because becoming a science teacher was all I wanted since I was in 3rd grade. I was overwhelmed with anxiety and hyper-vigilance (honestly, something I still wrestle with today) that it felt safer to continue working than to stop.
So, when does it stop?
What’s helped me manage my perfectionism today is being diligent about writing lists and prioritizing what needs to get done that day or week. I narrow my list to 2-3 items in a given block of time, and consider the reality that if something doesn’t get done to the extent that I would wish, it’s more important that I maintain a sense of calm about it. My energy is more powerful than I realize. I’ve experienced enough lessons that have fallen short of my own expectations but what changed the game completely was being able to stay calm, positive, light-hearted, humble, and playful throughout it. As it’s been said before, people don’t always remember what you did, but they remember how you made them feel. I have found this to be truer the more I have lessons “fall apart” so to speak. Calm, positive energy always wins, regardless of the lesson plan.
Much less frequently I obsess over details in the lesson plan. Yes, there always seems like there’s “one more thing” to do, to plan, to write, to edit, to print, to set up. But I’m learning to re-wire my brain from thinking that “perfection means safety” and embrace “perfection doesn’t matter, my energy does”. I used to feel imprisoned by my own standards. I still feel the pull, i just don’t obey it automatically. I can notice the fear without reorganizing my life around it. i build trust and confidence in everything working out because i am not in control (and it’s better that way <3).
I am no longer in the dark lot with a dead battery. I’m looking on the brighter side of things and recharging when I need it. I’m thankful for the older version of myself that felt stuck, alone, and helpless. She survived. She learned. And she’s not alone anymore. She matured to learn that peace comes from releasing what was never meant for her to hold—validation and perfection.
Today I find my work joyful and energizing. After seeking recovery for many years, the darkness doesn’t come as quickly, nor does the battery die out. How do I measure success now? Do I love myself? Do I feel at peace? I’ve learned that energy and presence matter far more than flawless execution and that peace arrives when I surrender what is outside my control.