How Are You, Really?
Checking in with our community
This morning, my son accidentally slammed the screen door on me as I was stepping outside, sending coffee cascading down the front of my shirt. Normally, I’d stay calm—eight years working in elementary schools will strengthen your patience muscles—but this morning, I yelled. The fury surged before I could catch it, and for a moment, I wanted to scream into a pillow.
It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t the door. It was everything smoldering beneath the surface.
After I calmed down, I apologized. I told my son I knew it was an accident, that I was feeling overwhelmed and it bubbled over. We hugged. I took him to school. But I left the drop-off line feeling off—like something in me had cracked open.
The truth is, I’ve been on edge for months. I’ve been doing my best to navigate the fear, anxiety, and helplessness of what’s happening in the U.S., but it’s starting to leak out sideways. I’m snapping more often. I’m grumpier. I’m hard on myself because I know what it’s like to …