If I’m being honest, tonight’s been a hard night.
My parents, who currently live a mile from us, are moving back to Sweden on Sunday, possibly forever.
Sunday is also my son’s sixth birthday.
I’ve known this was a possibility for years and have hence fluctuated in my emotions for a long time. Grief comes in waves, as they say.
The wave was strong tonight.
I think about how much I loved my grandparents, how jealous I was of my friends who lived on the same continent as their relatives. I wanted that so badly for my kid.
And for me, too. I wanted my parents close forever.
(Mind you, all my in-laws live in the continental United States and are all a treasure and incredible gift to the three of us here in Oklahoma.)
That’s really all.
I’m sad tonight. I will be ok. But it’s also ok to be sad.
Tonight, I think it’s more important for me to name my emotions and to be honest.
And, I hope, that gives you the freedom to do the same.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—there’s never been a harder time to be an educator. What is expected of us right now is overwhelming, at best. I get messages every week from people just not sure that they can stay.
And on top of the difficult educational climate, we are all dealing with our own personal hurdles, maybe even tragedies.
What calculus teaches us is that things move slowest at peaks and valleys.
The valleys are slow, friends. That’s just how it works. I can mathematically prove that for you, if you want.
But we have to lean in. That’s all I know. We can’t run. We have to lean. We have to feel it. That’s how the light gets in. That’s how we soften.
That’s how we enter into the next season.
Winter may be here.
But spring will come.
“The nights of crying your eyes out give way to days of laughter.” -Psalm 30:5
Teachers, I’m holding you close. I know you’re treading deep waters. I know.
Feel it all.
That’s how we become the best version we can be for our kids.
Praying for spring…