After last week’s post about me going to work on a pretty awful day, I worried a little. I thought a reader might think I was perpetuating "Hero Syndrome"—reinforcing the feeling that we have to go to work no matter what. While that wasn’t the point at all—it was actually the opposite!—I know there is a thin thread between telling a story like that and sounding like a martyr.
I went to work because doing so was what I needed in that moment— to be surrounded by my community of friends and colleagues.
It depends, though, doesn’t it—? On who you are and what has happened.
I think about my colleague, Britt, an extraordinary school librarian. Britt loves her job beyond measure and literally defines herself by the work she does. She would put her life on the line to save our right to read books.
Her father passed away at 3 a.m. after a week of hospice care for a long-undiagnosed heart problem.
She came to work that day.
“Go home!” I protested to her. “Your father just died.”
“I want to be here,” she said.
“But—” I sputtered.
“Stop,” she said, her voice firm. “This is how I keep my footing. Please don’t judge my method of caring for myself.”
Well, then.
I hugged her and walked away, letting her be.
And then I think about another friend of mine, Aly, a curriculum coach who lives in Pittsburgh, whose close friend took her own life last April. The death, shocking and so deeply unnecessary, created a true crisis for Aly, and she went to her HR department and asked for six months’ leave to manage the mental health residuals of losing an irreplaceable lifelong friend to suicide.
In one of my books, The Teacher’s Principal, I wrote about how we can support our teachers (and ourselves) by remembering this truth: A career in education is long— spanning four decades, sometimes.
That’s a long time. Things happen. Birth, death, divorce, marriage, buying houses, selling houses, sick kids, busy kids, cancer, debt, caregiving, celebrations, mourning. There are many wins and losses over a career.
As we lead, it helps to remember that we are all different. Sometimes we need footing and sometimes we need space.
No one can tell someone else how, when, where, or how to take care in any given situation.
It turns out, there’s no universal manual for getting through the hard stuff. Some of us need the busy-ness of the world to keep from sinking, while others need the stillness to catch their breath.
Both are brave.
Courage means following your own needs.
On days you’re recovering from a loss, maybe you need your desk, your school, immersion in your community. Or maybe you need your couch. Regardless, I hope you’re finding exactly what you need.
Have a great week, everyone!
Jen
P.S. Thank the stars for a school community in which we all go though hard times and we all have our celebrations, right? There is comfort in having this shared understanding.
P.P.S. Thank you for continuing to share this newsletter with your friends and colleagues. I truly appreciate it.
P.P.P.S. For those of you who read last week’s newsletter, the pup is awesome. Currently sleeping at my feet—likely dreaming of all the things he can chew when he wakes up.