Category: vulnerablity

Capacity

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Did you ever wonder what your capacity is? How much you can truly hold, carry, manage, or deal with? Have you, like me, recently found yourself staring that limit right in the face?

Yesterday, I walked into my principal’s office for a meeting we had scheduled. She was wrapping up a conversation with a student who had lashed out at a classmate because she “just couldn’t do it today” — she couldn’t handle his joking, couldn’t deal with the annoyance.

“Every other day I can just ignore him, but today wasn’t that day.”

“You didn’t have the bandwidth?”

“Nope.”

“I get it. I’m glad you’re talking about it. We all have days when we have reached our limit.”

At the age of nearly 60, I’ve had loads of days where I have reached my limit. When I was a child, I might’ve reached my limit quite quickly — I might have fallen to pieces simply because it was time to leave my grandparents’ house. When I was in high school, like the student above, a classmate’s comments might have pushed me over the edge.

But here’s the thing about life, as you move through it, you build muscle — and capacity — and you are able to manage much more than you ever thought possible. Still, everyone of us can find our limit.

I mean, everyday life can be seemingly at the “this is working” phase — you’ve finally found something that resembles work/life balance. You can meet job demands and also attend to the laundry, meal prep, family needs, and even routine maintenance of the house and the car. In fact, you can also easily manage your role in meeting the ongoing life and healthcare needs of an aging family member. You’re feeling pretty good because you also managed to budget for and schedule your participation at a weekend family vacation/celebration in the first quarter of the school year and you’ve plotted out on the calendar how to keep all systems functioning while you are away.

But then.. just as you are packing your suitcase, a major household system (think HVAC, plumbing, or electrical) has a major issue.

“No problem,” you announce boldly. “We’ve prepared financially and we can deal with it fully when we return.” You’ve been through enough difficult situations in your life that you know this isn’t the end of the world. A frustration? Yes, but meltdown worthy? No.

You merrily leave for the event, and upon your return home just a couple days later, you realize that said major household issue could possibly still be an issue, but it’s late, and you’re tired, so you try to get some sleep.

You wake the next day, to “knock out” a deliverable on a pre-arranged work-from-home day, only to realize it’s not the kind of thing that can indeed be “knocked out” in a day, so you lift up your concern to a supervisor who directs you to “just A, B, and C”, so you spend a few hours doing A, B, and C, and then your supervisor’s supervisor drops into the group chat and says, “No, A, B, and C won’t work. So, I’m just going to complete this deliverable so that you can run with it,” and your face falls flat. You close your laptop and go for a walk.

Did you let your supervisor know that you were annoyed? that it bothered you to spend time on a project that was subsequently dismissed? Did you perhaps have a tone? Did you perhaps register your complaint a bit too strongly and too repeatedly?

Perhaps. But have you hit capacity? Not even close. You can’t even count how many frustrating days you’ve had at work, how many hours you’ve spent on projects, or how many times you’ve had to toss the product of hard work.

However, while you were elbowing your way through your work day, your husband was discovering that the major house issue has actually turned into a much more major house issue involving multiple contractors, several estimates, insurance adjustors, and scheduling.

“Ok,” you say, taking deep breaths, “we are still ok. We’ve gotta keep doing yoga, keep eating right, keep walking, keep writing, but we’re ok.”

Your husband, thankfully, continues to manage most of the house details, while also meeting his own professional responsibilities, and you pinch hit when needed while juggling the demands of yours.

The next weekend arrives and while he stays home to continue project management, you head north to support the aforementioned family member. The weekend is less than demanding, and you catch up on sleep, before returning home in time to eat, rest, and return to work on Monday morning.

The work week starts out typically, but on Tuesday, things start to pile on. The family member needs additional medical tests, you learn the work on the house isn’t scheduled to start until December, and as you leave work, you find yourself driving through a torrential downpour so that you can make an appointment for a routine oil change. After waiting for an hour and managing various pieces of correspondence, you learn from the technician that it’s time to replace the tires and she has prepared you with three separate quotes. You can feel your affect going flat just as you receive a notification on your phone that the storm has caused a power outage at your house.

And that was it.

You hit capacity. You couldn’t talk about it. You couldn’t process it. You had not one shred of bandwidth.

You drove the 20 minutes home in silence, made your way into the house, and plunked into a chair by the window overlooking your husband who was trying to start an uncooperative generator.

You needed food. And sleep. And something to shift.

Somehow, the two of you found your way to a vehicle, drove to a restaurant, ordered food, ate it, and returned home. You had cleaned up and crawled into bed just before the lights came back on and the furnace kicked in.

[Thank God.]

The next day the repair date was moved up to the first week in November.

[Exhale.]

The family member was seen by the doctor and a plan was put in place.

[OK.]

The tire replacement was scheduled.

[We have a plan.]

Just enough shift happened, and somehow, everything seems manageable again.

For now.

Take it from this old head, wherever you are in life, trying times are going to come and test your capacity — you may lose your mind when someone eats a bag of corn chips that were intended for the evening meal, but the experiences of today are building your capacity for the difficulties of tomorrow. And, be assured, tomorrow will certainly have difficulty — maybe just an irritating boy at school, possibly just a flat tire on the way to work, hopefully just a major house system repair that can be done and dusted in the space of a month. We need those light and momentary troubles so that we can manage it when the shit gets particularly real. And that will happen, too, I’m sorry to say. That will happen, too.

And at those times, you may find you have reached capacity — you may find you don’t have words, or reason, or the ability to make a meal. I pray you discover you are not alone or without hope. I pray that something shifts and you find that once again have some capacity.

[Indeed…] in this world you will have trouble, but take heart [I have endless capacity,] and I have overcome the world. John 16:33

It’s complicated

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

The seemingly unintelligle words of hospice — one month, a few days, 48 hours, probably today — all started making sense and then were undeniable. My stepfather took his last breath in the early morning hours last Saturday. In the days that followed, we gathered, made arrangements, gathered again, handled details, cared for our mom, and came to terms with the fact that my stepfather, Roger, is no longer here.

We’re still working on that last part, of course, and for me, the essence of our relationship makes it little complex.

While many found him charming, Roger and I had what was often a prickly relationship. We didn’t agree on hardly anything — politics, the setting on the thermostat, the way to wash dishes, vacuum a floor, wipe off a table, or do just about anything. I found him to be demanding, opinionated, and critical. I often felt great irritation toward him over our 50-year relationship, probably because I always felt that he usurped the position that should’ve been held by my father who I have long-adored and often idolized, likely because he and I haven’t had many opportunities to interact on politics, the thermostat, or dishwashing.

Because of this complicated relationship with Roger, it came as a great surprise to me when I found myself feeling tenderness, compassion, and love for this man as he declined, as he lost his agency, as he forgot where he was, as he was unable to breathe, as he was confined to bed — a man who rarely sat still, who worked and golfed and bowled and rode a motorcycle halfway across the country. I was stunned to watch my heart shift from irritation to caring, advocating for, and comforting this man who has been an annoyance in my life for most of my life.

When my mom married Roger, she had four kids aged 8-14. He had two kids aged 8 and 10. Together there were three boys and three girls — just like the Brady Bunch, which was in vogue at the time. For a few years, the eight of us took vacations together and hung out together, but as we turned into teens and then adults, we were rarely together. In fact, my three birth siblings and I have only managed to all be together on a dozen or so occcasions in the last 30 years, and the six of us “kids” hand’t been together in the same room for close to 40 years before we all gathered on a Monday night for pizza a year ago.

Who knows how this happens — people are busy with their own lives, and if one person doesn’t act with intention, folks never come together. But last year we did, and then, miraculously, Roger took his turn for the worst just as we were scheduled to all be in the same state again this past month.

We all worked together — getting him moved in to assisted living, taking phone calls, running errands, and sitting by his bedside. We took shifts. His daughter, who claimed the overnights, fell asleep holdng his hand that last night, saying, “Good night, Dad. I love you” and reading him the 23rd Psalm.

We crammed in a small room at the funeral home — writing an obituary, picking out flowers, deciding on printed materials, then shared a meal with our mom, who kept saying, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

And then, on Wednesday, we all rolled in — the six kids, and our kids, and even some of their kids. Because of the nature of this complex family, some cousins met each other for the first time. Some nieces and nephews met their aunts and uncles for the first time.

Families can be like this, can’t they? Frustrations can lead to fractures and before you know it, you’re meeting your brother’s kids for the first time, marveling at their kids, and watching your own kids (and nieces) interact with their new-found family with curiosity and grace.

I probably won’t ever understand the complexity of Roger — why he was the way he was — but I can celebrate the fact that despite my irritation with him, he remained invested. He cared for my mom to the end (even if that in itself was complicated) and he cared for all of us in his own way, too.

Mom and Roger married when I was 10, and maybe because of “ew — cooties” or that previously mentioned loyalty to my dad, I rarely let Roger touch me — not a hug or a pat on the back, let alone a kiss on the cheek. So imagine my surprise when near the end, I found my hands on his waist steadying him, or when I agreed to scrub his back when he couldn’t shower himself, or when he grasped my hand to say goodbye, or when I kissed his head to reassure him when he was afraid.

We don’t know the love we have inside of us that is sometimes buried under hurt or anger or a little girl’s longing for her actual dad, but it is there, and it surfaces when it matters — when you need to sit beside a hospital bed, empty a urostomy bag, or say “I’m sorry this is what’s happening right now. I know you want it to be different.”

It doesn’t mean I don’t love my dad or that you could ever take his place. It means that I saw you show up and hang in there, even when I found you to be annoying, critical, demanding, and cootie-infested.

It’s complicated, that’s true. Much of life is.

Rest well, Roger, I’m pretty sure it was complicated for you, too.

Love one another. John 13:34

The Buried Difficult

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Dude.

Bruh . [or, Bro,]

That’s what the kids say these days when they just. can’t.

I think we used to say, “Ok, Ok!” And maybe our parents said, “Uncle!”

It’s what we say when we just don’t have a response because we are at the end of our rope.

Recently, one of my seniors, who was supposed to have written a personal narrative about a time that he learned a hard lesson, grew up a little bit, or had a “coming of age moment,” instead submitted a description of a video game he had found online.

I’ve been a writing instructor for a long time, so I can spot these types of things with both of my eyes closed, so I sent my standard Academic Integrity Violation email with a screen shot of his writing and a screen shot of the site where he found it, which was super easy for me to locate. It’s not hard. I mean, we have Google.

Anyway, he was upset that I had caught him and replied that he didn’t like writing about himself. I didn’t have any right to know about his life. Could I give him an alternate assignment?

I didn’t respond right away.

“Alternate assignment please,” he messaged.

Still no response from me.

“Bro.” His last response when he was finally out of gas.

“The assignment is the assignment,” I replied finally. “You can do it. Try.”

He didn’t. He had reached “Bro.” He was done with the conversation.

I was trying to think of what to write today after several weeks of posting nothing, and all I could think was….

Dude.

Been there?

Have you been in those seasons when life is coming at you from all directions and you just. can’t. even?

I mean, this is definitely not the worst season of my life. In fact, the roughest seasons have given me so many tools that I am using to navigate this one — therapy, self-care, boundaries, yoga, music, laughter, and Netflix. [By the way, if you need something to carry you through difficulty, I have often recommended The Great British Baking Show; I now add to that Somebody Feed Phil (Netflix) and The Reluctant Traveler (Apple).]

But guys, there’s a lot going on right now. Some of it is great — my work, my husband’s new role as a private practice therapist, the fact that Spring is now here, our kids are doing great things and really stepping into their adulthood– but much of it is hard — the death of an extended family member, the cancer journeys of two others, and the uncovering of hidden realities that will need to be faced in the very near future.

And all I can say is…

Bruh.

It’s a lot.

It’s nothing uncommon to the human experience to be sure. Anyone reading this has navigated similar — illness, addiction, failure to communicate, and the accumulation of it all that someone eventually has to deal with.

And sometimes the ones who have to deal with it are the adult children of those who kept putting off the difficult.

Here’s the thing, though. The difficult doesn’t go away just because you don’t talk about it.

In fact, if you bury the difficult, keep it in a dark place, and even continue to water it from time to time, the damn thing grows. And often, it devours the beneficial, the beautiful, the healthy, the wonderful.

It just eats the good up and continues to grow until it bursts into the open — often at the most difficult of times — and somebody, finally, has to look it in the face, call it what it is, and give it its reckoning.

Dude.

I have been training for this moment my whole adult life, and still, I don’t wanna do it!

Just like my student didn’t wanna write a simple 300-600 word retelling of a day of his life where he learned a hard truth, I don’t want to look the difficult in the face.

But guys, the difficult thing has already surfaced. It’s sitting in the middle of the room, and everyone is trying to avert their eyes for just a little bit longer.

Fine. Look away if you must, but the difficult is not going anywhere.

It will not get easier to look at in a day or a week or a month.

My student came in the next day. After the “Bro.” message.

“Mrs. Rathje, I’m not gonna write this thing.”

“Ok. Let’s look at the impact of you not writing this thing.”

I opened the grade book, put in a zero for the missing assignment, and recalculated his quarter grade.

“Don’t do it, and you’ll have a C minus for the quarter. Are you willing to live with that?”

“A C minus?”

“Yup.”

“I can live with that.”

“Done.”

He looked it in the face, made a decision, and we both moved on.

It really wasn’t that hard.

However, the difficult thing I’m alluding to here was not merely a writing assignment. It’s a series of bad decisions that have been buried for quite some time. I think the bury-er was hoping the difficult would stay underground.

I have been there.

Thing is, most things surface over time. Some of us learn this the hard way.

I’m not scared to look this thing in the face, but it’s not mine.

If it was mine, I might be throwing extra dirt on it right this minute.

But that would not keep it buried.

Nope.

It’s just a matter of time until all things surface.

So, here’s the thing. I have no judgment for the bury-er. Some anger, yes, but not judgment. I have no idea what led to the development of this difficulty. I don’t know the full story. I don’t even need to or want to. That is not my business.

It is truly none of my business to know about a “coming of age” moment that my student may or may not have had, but I always give the opportunity to students to tell their story, because telling about the difficult is where transformation happens.

But that kind of vulnerability is not for everyone. It can be downright terrifying to look the difficult in the eye.

But here’s the thing — once you have stared down the difficult, called it by name, navigated the ugly, grieved the devastating, and realized the freedom that comes with the uncovering, once you have tasted the power of transformation —

Dude.

You won’t wanna bury anything ever again.

I can almost guarantee it.

The Unexpected

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

We never know what’s coming next, do we?

I was sitting in the naivety of January, setting goals for the year when I thought, “I know what I’ll do this year — I’ll post a vintage blog each Thursday and new blog most Mondays. That sounds like a great way to mark ten years of consistent writing.”

It was easy to begin, in the newness of the year, in the freshness of possibility. I was sitting there in early January gazing into a new season with my husband retiring from public ministry and transitioning to a private counseling practice. I was anticipating a slower pace after over thirty years of busy-ness.

And the year did indeed begin with a tone of spaciousness and possibility.

But we never know what’s coming next, do we?

We didn’t know that in the next couple of weeks his mother would be diagnosed with stage four liver cancer, that my stepfather would be diagnosed with stage 2-3 bladder cancer, that one of our kids would have a serious medical episode, that another would be starting a new job, and that another would be in the midst of several major life transitions.

We couldn’t anticipate all of that.

And it’s hard to know the emotions that such realities will bring up — shock, sadness, grief, anger, fear, worry, excitement, anxiety, joy, and even pride. But that whole chorus shows up and begins to take space in one’s body.

As each reality fleshes itself out — the reality of hospice, of surgery, of chemo, of diagnostics and medical leave, of transition and opportunity, of waiting and adjustment, those emotions jostle and elbow at each other, struggling to claim territory.

And one can’t anticipate how all that internal jostling will impact one’s external capacity for resiliency, for patience, for empathy, for tenacity.

So this past week, now that I am sitting with all these emotions and still struggling to accept all of these realities, after two weeks of testing students and selecting two new cohorts of reading students, after transitioning them to my class, and after working intentionally and diligently to gain their buy-in, I got an email directing me to test more students. Although I had selected enough students to meet the 10-student capacity of both sections of this course and two alternates, two of those students had unexpectedly elected to move to virtual instruction making it impossible for them to join my class and another two, along with their parents, had opted not to join the class. Consequently, my classes were both at 9 students — each one short of capacity.

As I read the email, I became annoyed. My classes were already in progress. I was already building community and establishing expectations. Couldn’t we just proceed with 9 students in each class?

Couldn’t my administrators see that although my classes weren’t at capacity, I was certainly at capacity?

I, ever the dutiful employee, uncharacteristically ignored the directive for a beat. Then, I replied to my principal somewhat pointedly that if he wanted to identify a few more students for me to test, he could be my guest, but I didn’t think any others would qualify.

Yup. I had a tone. It was a warning flag, to be sure — I was past my limit.

I had too many emotions crammed inside of me, they could no longer jostle for space, so they started seeping out in irritability, in pettiness, in sarcasm.

I was in a funk, and I couldn’t see a way out.

Nevertheless, at the end of my school day, I decided to call my son to check in. I hadn’t spoken to him for a while, and after he gave me a quick update, he asked, “How are you doing, Mom?”

I signed out a deep breath and said, “I. am. weary.”

And he replied, “I bet you are.”

And that little sentence, that acknowledgement of all that is going on, that validation that I am in fact at capacity, created an opening.

He allowed me to share just a little bit, some of those emotions found a passageway, and others were allowed more space to dwell.

That small offload allowed me to move through the next day with civility, however, I still had no intention of adding students to my course. The issue wasn’t resolved, though. As I left the building on Thursday, I got a text from my principal that a directive had come again to add more two more students.

I shot off a text, trying to veil my annoyance with professionalism, “Please let me know if you want me to look at the data again. I am moving forward with planning instruction for these classes, but if you think I need to go back I will.,”

I really wanted him to respond with, “No, no. You’re right. Move forward,” but instead he said, “If you can; I am too. Maybe there are kids right on the cusp that would opt in. Thank you so much.”

Argh. My defiance had gone on too long. The responsible core of my self rose up.

I grudgingly sorted and resorted the data and found a group of kids that hadn’t yet been tested and that met our criteria for the class. I sent him the list, reluctantly offering to test the ones he thought I should

By the next morning, he had chosen his top three, but after a search of the building, it appeared none were present. It was Friday morning, typically our lowest attendance day of the week.

I met up with the principal in the hallway and he invited me into his office. He said he wanted to touch base — how was I really doing with the directive to test more?

“It’s fine,” I said. “I get it. I am just at capacity with stuff going on in my personal life, and it is leaving me less capacity for stuff here at school. Every little thing is annoying me — the chaos in the hallways, the broken up parking lot, my unswept classroom floors, and this directive to test more when I thought I was already done. Normally this stuff doesn’t get to me, but so much in my family is outside of my control, I think I am looking for ways to find control here.”

He already knew about some of the stuff going on in our family, and he said, “I get it. I’m sorry you are dealing with all of this in your family. Also, these work things are annoying. How can I be a support to you?”

There it was again, the acknowledgement that my feelings were valid, and really that was all I needed.

“I’m good for now. Thanks for hearing me. I’ll find a way to test these kids, and I won’t be a jerk to anyone.”

“Thank you,” he smiled.

I did find a way to test one of the students later that day. I had no way of knowing that she could barely answer comprehension questions at the first grade level. I couldn’t have known that she was more than willing to join my class. I couldn’t have known what a gentle spirit she was.

We never know what’s coming next. Sometimes when we take the next step, we get a pleasant surprise.

No matter what is coming next — no matter if our parents have cancer, if our kids are going through transitions, no matter how little control we feel that we have — we can trust that we are always being prepared for it — that is my experience — I’m always being prepared for what is next.

A few years ago, when my husband and I were in the midst of one of the most challenging seasons of our lives, we reached out to a dear friend in the early hours of the morning. We shared with him our current reality, he heard us, he paused, and then he said, “None of this is a surprise to God,” and that was a comfort to me. Even though I hadn’t known what was coming next, surely God had known, and He had been at work in our lives to provide in advance everything we would need for that season. Even though on that morning all seemed hopeless, God did carry us through that season and provided miraculously for us along the way, just as he had through every other difficulty in our lives.

And so, as we face this uncertainty — of caring for our parents in ways that we never imagined, of encouraging our adult children in their own uncertainties — we can trust that we are ready — everything that we’ve experienced up until this point has prepared us.

And we are not alone. We have people around us who will hear us, and we have a God who is going before us, making a way, andproviding everything we need. He who will be with us in everything that is coming next.

Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you.

Deuteronomy 31:8

Finding Space for Breath

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

When I wrote The Battle is On in August of 2014, I shared what I understood about autoimmune disease. I was new to the game (just a year or so in), and I was relying mostly on what doctors were telling me and what I was reading online. I wouldn’t say that I was wrong, but I would say that my understanding of autoimmune disease, from my perspective, based on my experience, has shifted greatly since that time. The longer I live in this body, the more I learn. In fact, my thoughts on the subject shifted again just yesterday.

Let me see if I can give you a picture of what I mean

I am confident that somewhere in the pages of this blog I have at least suggested that the current state of my body is a function not only of heredity and disease but also of the ways I have lived my life in these past fifty-seven years. Whether it came from my paternal grandmother, who had rheumatoid arthritis or from my mother, who has suffered with myriad maladies including persistent issues with her right hip (as do several other members of the family), I somehow inherited (and then passed on) the hla b27 genetic marker that is associated with spondyloarthritis which includes psoriatic arthritis, Sacroiliitis, and other autoimmune disorders.

Ok, so I had the genetic marker, but I also began a pattern of persistent emotional distress in my childhood and adolescence; such a pattern can heighten the likelihood that one develops autoimmune disease. Now, I wouldn’t say that I had a terrible childhood or that my parents subjected me to any kind of trauma. However, their divorce and the subsequent separation from my father was, to me, devastating. I did not know how to process the emotions I was feeling, and my adolescence was characterized by what I would now describe as raw, untended to emotion that was trying to find comfort or at least an outlet.

Over the years, I developed many strategies for dealing with that distress — lashing out, academic achievement, an eating disorder, and finally, a survival strategy emerged — my butt-kicking, name-taking persona. This girl set her jaw, clenched her fists, and got shit done. If emotional pain surfaced, she processed it through anger and aggression — at herself, at her family, at anyone who happened to get into her path. If things were moving smoothly, she was fine — reliable, productive, and focused — but toss in the unexpected — a change of plans, an alternate view, a noncompliant child or student — and she resorted to her soldier stance, bracing her body, lashing out with her words, and forcing everyone back in line.

It was a strategy that carried me through many years, but it led me to resist compassion, perspective, empathy — not only was I unlikely to give those things to others, I was less likely to receive them for myself. Now, let me say here that every soldier lets her guard down from time to time, and moments of vulnerability crept in — times when I held my children as they cried, when I recognized defeat in a student, when I allowed myself to share my pain with others — but those moments were the exception, I am afraid, and not as much the rule.

And while this soldiering lifestyle was an “effective” strategy, every choice has unintended consequences. I wish I was scientific enough to explain how my butt-kicking, name-taking persona required my body to produce adrenaline and cortisol and how, over time, the abuse of these hormones increased the likelihood that I would experience autoimmune disease, but I have an education degree, not a medical degree.

Suffice it to say, that what I have learned over the past 10 years, is that, at least in my body, the most effective strategies for reducing my experience of autoimmune symptoms are not medical, but they are a re-learning of how to manage my emotions, of how to live my life in a way that reduces or mitigates the adrenaline and cortisol in my body.

If you have followed my blog, you already know that pharmaceuticals were not the answer for me, although I tried many over the course of 3-5 years at great expense and with significant side effects. In fact, the only pharmaceutical I take now is one that I must take to prevent a flare of the ocular herpes I acquired while on a course of steroids. Sigh.

Because I was non-responsive to pharmaceutical interventions, all doctors except my ophthalmologist dismissed me as “not having autoimmune disease”. [For the record, my ophthalmologist shakes his head at this when he sees the evidence of autoimmunity in my eyes.] This dismissal, though, was a blessing, because it led me to explore other options for improving my health — options like submersing myself in a 95 degree salt-water therapy pool (which I highly recommend for those of you who are in the midst of a flare), practices like yoga and walking that allow my body to de-stress, habits like eating unprocessed foods that are free from gluten and dairy which often trigger symptoms in my body, and routines like seeing a therapist to learn how to more effectively deal with emotions.

And while I didn’t start this blog for the purpose of improving my health, it has had the unintended consequence of giving me a space to process so many of those emotions that little-girl-me felt, that soldier-me suppressed, that mom-me didn’t feel safe exploring. And, in the unearthing of these emotions, in the vulnerability of exposing them not only to whoever wants to read them, but more importantly to myself, I have created the space within my body to breathe.

And you’d be surprised the difference a little breath can make.

I’ve been learning about breathing since I started practicing yoga several years ago. At first I was like, what? we’re gonna just sit here and breathe? I was a former distance runner, if you remember, and I was used to pounding out 4-6 miles on a regular Tuesday, so this sitting still and breathing thing was very foreign. But, I was in a room full of people who were sitting there breathing, so … I breathed. Sitting still. For long periods of time. And, though I was unsure it was doing any good, I had to admit I felt better after yoga. And, I continue to practice yoga almost every morning for that reason.

But yesterday I took this breathing thing to the next level. A friend of mine, Lynnette Rasmussen, an experienced occupational therapist and PIlates instructor, was offering a virtual breathwork class and a handful of friends and I decided we would attend. I expected more relaxation but not much else.

I was surprised by the difference a little breath could make.

Lynnette guided us through an “ancient pranayama practice that uses an active 3 part breath that continues for 25-30 minutes, followed by a 10 minute relaxation” intended to “relax the mind and reach buried emotional or physical blocks and bring them to the surface.”

I was certainly unprepared for what I experienced — at first it was awkward, this weird breathing strategy, but then, once I found the rhythm, it was calming, and more natural, but then when we entered the relaxation — man, it takes great vulnerability to tell you this – I felt healing electricity coming through my hands as they rested on my body. I felt a deep understanding that God alone — not my practices, not pharmaceuticals, not pain clinics, not anything else — has the power to heal me. I rested on a yoga mat on the floor receiving any kind of healing that He had to offer me.

And that is what I have really wanted all my life — to receive the healing that only God can provide — and to accept that He will provide it in His time and in His way — not as I demand and not in a sense that I have to “believe to receive” but just in a way that He will surprise me with.

And over these last years, He has continuously surprised me — by closing medical doors, by tossing me in a warm salt water therapy pool, by showing me that my strength is not in a set jaw and a clenched fist but in vulnerability, by reminding me through a zoom room that He can, He is, and He will heal me day by day by day, sometimes with the simple power of breath.

I am overwhelmed by His grace.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, 21 to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen

Ephesians 3:20

Assignment 2024

~ Kristin ~ 4 Comments

It’s been 10 years since I wrote that first post, and since then I’ve written 652 more (653, if you count this one). In the beginning, I wrote almost every day. Having been instructed to be still after years of routine — first teaching, then parenting young children, then graduate school, then teaching and parenting combined — I needed something that would bring order to my day. So in those first months in the little house by the river, I woke every morning, made my tea, and wrote a post before I did anything else.

I think I began blogging because I needed a purpose, something that I could accomplish each day, something that I could produce — a physical representation that I could still do something. I didn’t really know what I was going to write each day, but an instinct — perhaps after years of journaling and teaching others the value of daily writing — pushed me to the keyboard every morning, and this writing became a lifeline.

Some of you began to read perhaps out of curiosity — why would someone daily post about their life? why would a teacher at the height of her career walk away? why were we moving to Michigan after years in Missouri? Some of you have told me that you resonated with the chronicling of my autoimmune disease. You, too, suffered with chronic health issues and my willingness to write about being stuck on the couch or lying on the bathroom floor writhing in pain let you know that you were not alone. Some of you read because you knew me as a child and wondered what I was up to. Some of you are my family and friends (or my husband) and you read out of care, concern, and solidarity.

Whatever the reason you read, the fact that someone — anyone — was reading gave me the encouragement I needed to keep going.

And when I kept going, kept writing, day after day after day, I dug deeper into my interior and discovered things about myself that had long been buried or that simply needed articulation — precious memories from my childhood that revolved around my grandparents and godparents, deep sadness over losses that had never been processed, my ongoing journey with autoimmune disease, my strong feelings about political issues, and probably more than anything my passion for educational equity.

I often tell my students (and my friends and anyone else who will listen) that I (and perhaps you) don’t know what I am thinking or feeling until I see what I have written on the page. Perhaps it is because I have spent a life in motion, constantly doing, producing, going, and moving, that I have pushed my thoughts and, even more so, my feelings deep down inside without taking the time to process them.

Having a health crisis and being forced to stop and be still provided the space in which I could — finally — pull up all those thoughts and feelings and begin to examine them, evaluate them, feel them, grieve them, and in some cases, move on from them.

So I’m sitting here, in my little home with the garden, ten years later, candle burning on my desk, still in my pajamas, reflecting on how far I (we) have come. In over 600 blog posts I’ve moved from debilitating pain and fatigue to manageable symptoms that remind me to move slowly and to routinely pause to take stock. I’ve transitioned from taking daily anti-inflammatory medication and monthly injectable biologics to mostly just daily vitamins and supplements with occasional Motrin added in. I’ve been growing in my ability to write and subsequently speak about my deepest hurts, greatest losses, daily struggles, and strongest passions. And, most tangibly, I’ve gone from my insecure 2014 self that felt like an invalid to my confident 2024 self, which my instructional coach recently described as “effortlessly dope”. (I think that’s the most treasured compliment I’ve ever been given.)

Do I owe it all to the writing? No, I wouldn’t say all, but I would say I wouldn’t be where I am today without the discipline of this blog. My commitment to write regularly and truthfully — sometimes painfully truthfully — has been not only the evidence of the miraculous growth and healing I have experienced in this next chapter, but also a primary instrument in that healing.

I don’t think I can unpack what I mean by that in one blog post, so the assignment I’m giving myself this year is to share a “vintage” post each Thursday and a new post most Mondays. The objective is to deeply reflect on the power of writing, of routine, of discipline, of transparency, of community, and of vulnerability. I can’t predict where this assignment will take me — I won’t know what happens until I see it on the page, but I invite you to come along with me.

If you dare, I challenge you to write along — you might just open a blank page and write for 5 minutes each morning to start. You might find that’s not enough. You might find it’s too much. But if you’ve read my blog for any amount of time, I hope you will see the possibility for transformation that might happen if you are willing to take a chance.

I’d love to hear from you — what you are finding out about yourself, what are you unearthing, what is happening for you as you write. It doesn’t have to be for the public eye as I am allowing here. Writing can be magical even if it is for your eyes only.

Whatever you choose — reading along on my journey, writing along with me, or doing something altogether different, I pray God’s blessing upon you — may 2024 be a year of growth, of healing, of transformation. May it be filled with love, with joy, and with a renewed sense of hope.

If you don’t believe that God can restore what is all but lost, let my blog be a testament that nothing is beyond His ability.

Behold, I am going to do something new,
Now it will spring up;
Will you not be aware of it?
I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
Rivers in the desert.

Isaiah 43:19

Of Power and Vulnerability

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

We’re seven weeks into this school year, and I’m not sure who is learning more — me or my students.

This is always the case, of course, but I continue to be amazed. You would think that since I am fifty-seven years old, and my students are mere teenagers, that my maturity, at least, would exceed theirs. In some ways it does, for sure, but they are teaching me to receive feedback and to alter my approach.

Now, they don’t necessarily know they are doing this — they aren’t setting goals, writing lesson plans, or assessing my progress. No. They are just navigating their lives in the best ways that they know how, but when our paths cross, they are not afraid to give me the feedback that I need.

And I am not too stubborn to receive it. Not any more.

Recently, I was trying to get started with my fourth hour class — they come to me straight from lunch, and my expectation is that they would just walk in, grab their materials, sit down, and be ready to engage with learning. Yes, I do see, as I type those words that my expectations border on lunacy. For one, any teenager coming straight from lunch might be transitioning from a fun conversation with peers, from an attempt to engage with a person of romantic interest, or from a mild or moderate altercation with a staff member. To expect them to instantly shed those interactions and be fully engaged in English Language Arts is, although an appropriate academic posture, probably not entirely sensitive to adolescent development.

And I know that, and I prepare for it. Each period, I plan a “gathering” — some short activity to pull us all together. For example, I might display a slide showing that October 23 is National TV Talk Show Host Day and then ask my students, “if you could be interviewed by any TV Talk Show Host, who would it be, and what would you want to talk about?”

We might take a few minutes to discuss and laugh in an attempt to build a classroom culture and foster engagement before I try to deftly transition into the goals for the day.

On this recent day, the one I was starting to tell you about, I could tell that the majority of my students were not with me. I was having a hard time getting everyone to find their seats, to put their phones away, and to engage with our gathering. So, in the “kick butts and take names” fashion that I learned somewhere along the way, I started moving around the classroom in my ‘large and in charge’ type of way in an attempt to get them settled in.

I narrowed my proximity. I bantered with students, interjecting myself into their conversations, and trying to overpower them into submission. This strategy might have worked once upon a time, but my current students are not having it. The power play does not work with them. I know this, but on this particular day, I was frustrated enough with their lack of attention that I reverted to the muscle memory of raising my voice, getting an attitude, and using language that is not typically mine.

My students’ response? They kept doing what they were doing — they were unbothered — until the language that came out of my mouth elicited a “Whoa, Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that,” and then the room went quiet. And I knew the student was right. My language had crossed a boundary. I had gotten their attention, for sure, but not in the way that I wanted.

I backpedaled.

“You’re right. That was inappropriate. I think I am feeling frustrated because we don’t seem ready to get started. But that is no excuse. I apologize. Can we start over?”

The room quieted, but some of the respect that I had spent weeks building inside of this space, had crumbled beneath my feet, and I instantly knew I would have to do some rebuilding. Nevertheless, my duty to instruction prevailed, and I began with our lesson. Just as we were finding our rhythm, one of my students jumped up and said, “Mrs. Rathje, I gotta take this call,” as she speedily went to the hallway.

Well, that irritated me, but I kept moving with the students whose minimal attention I was holding and then met her at the door when she returned.


“You can’t just walk out of class, ” I said, my attitude re-engaged, “You haven’t been here all week, and now that you’re back, you just jump up and take a phone call?”

I think I expected her to say, “You’re right. I’m sorry,” but instead, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I am feeling a certain kind of way because of how you are talking to me. The reason I have been missing school is because I was at a party last weekend where my cousin was killed.”

I put my hands up in quiet surrender and took a step back.

“Wow. I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me. You are right. I didn’t need to give you any attitude. I apologize. I am glad you are here. Will you let me know if there is anything I can do?”

“I will. Thank you.”

Sheesh! Twice inside of twenty minutes, I had had to apologize for defaulting to a power play and my students were the ones who gave me the feedback that allowed me to check myself and try a different way. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be doing that for them.

Each day, I have to remind myself that I am not the center of the universe; the behavior of my students is not directed at me. They are dealing with all kinds of things. For example, not one, not two, but three of my students reported “my aunt just died” this week! I have got students who are homeless, some who work over twenty hours a week, and some who are earning money to help their families pay the bills. I’ve got students who have family in jail or who are on probation themselves. I’ve got students whose families do not have a vehicle and can’t come to get them in the middle of the day if they are suddenly sick or injured or overwhelmed by the amount of loss in their lives.

And these are the things I know about. Many of the struggles my students face are too private to share.

So, instead of being annoyed when my students don’t walk in on time and enthusiastic for learning, I need to be curious.

What is going on that has everyone distracted today? I noticed you weren’t at school for several days, is everything ok? I can see that you are preoccupied with your phone — are you just caught up in scrolling? or is it deeper than that?

I don’t need to have an attitude. Asking a simple question can provide my students with the feedback that might allow them to a) provide me with information that explains what’s going on or b) check themselves and try a different way.

Life is complex and English Language Arts aren’t the top priority for a student who is reeling from crisis. However, it is my job to share the value of learning ELA for the purpose of having strong communication skills, succeeding in postsecondary learning, and for being prepared for future employment. I need to be compassionate in regard to my students’ reality while also engaging them in learning and holding them accountable to meet the learning standards that will give them access to spaces beyond my classroom.

It’s a big job. And sometimes I get tired, and I blow it.

However, I am noticing that the class of 2024 doesn’t have any trouble holding me accountable. They are not afraid to say, “Mrs. Rathje, you can’t say that.” or “I don’t like the way you are coming at me.” or “Mrs. Rathje, are you doing ok?” They are modeling for me the ways that might be appropriate to hold them accountable!

And, if I’m not too consumed with being in control, if I’m brave enough, I might just model for them the ways that they can respond to my feedback.

You’re right, that was harsh. Did that sound sarcastic? I apologize. Guys, can I be honest — I’m not feeling the best today. Can I just take a minute to gather myself? Can you all cut me some slack?

I love these kids so much, and I am so impressed by their ability to notice that something doesn’t feel right and, in that moment, to say something. In this way, they are worlds ahead of me. They are brave, and I want to honor their bravery in a way that seems counterintuitive — I want to be vulnerable.

Brene Brown in Atlas of the Heart says: ” In a world where perfectionism, pleasing, and proving are used as armor to protect our egos and our feelings, it takes a lot of courage to show up and be all in when we can’t control the outcome. It also takes discipline and self-awareness to understand what to share and with whom. Vulnerability is not oversharing, it’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our stories and our experiences” (14).

If what I’m trying to do is build transformative relationships with my students, what better way do I have than modeling vulnerability — welcoming feedback, admitting I was wrong, saying I’m sorry, and moving forward in a way that honors the humanity of the people in front of me.

Back in the early days of my teaching, the old pros used to advise us to “not smile before Thanksgiving.” Their philosophy was that teachers had to be hard asses for the first quarter if they wanted to maintain control of their classrooms. For many it worked.

But I’m not interested in control.

I’m in education because I have an insufferable belief in transformation, and in my experience, I have to let go of my need to control in order to create the space in which change is possible.

I can’t create that space through force. I need to be willing to step back — to be the one to create an opening.

If my students are brave enough to hold me accountable, I’m going to be brave enough to try a different way..

Do not conform to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

Romans 12:2

A body in motion….A body at rest

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

It must be some law of physics that when an object in motion that is staying in motion finally has an opportunity to stop.freaking.being.in.motion it takes some time to transition.

I’m no scientist — obviously — but I observed myself over the past week attempting to move from the fast-paced, repetitive, intentional, and hectic rhythm of the school year into a more relaxed, spontaneous, restfulness of summer, and I must report that the shift has not been sudden.

If you are familiar with this blog (or if you know me at all), you know that movement, action, doing, soldiering have been a comfort to me, and slowing down, being still, and resting often come only when I am plunked down unwillingly due to health concerns.

I have been trying to find a different way for going on ten years now, and my intention leading up to the last day of school was to slow down, be silent, and allow myself the time and space I needed to thoroughly and actually unpack and tend to the recent re-opening of an old wound I’ve been covering up for the past several weeks. Certainly, I thought, when school is done, I will have the time and capacity to let this thing air out, to let new flesh form, to find a new way forward.

But, motion staying in motion as it does, and me being the habitual soldier that I am, it took me about six days to find myself plunked down, packed in ice, and submissive to my need for rest.

I’ll pause to let you shake your head and roll your eyes.

Between last Friday and this Thursday, I deep cleaned a bathroom (it really needed it!), purged a bedroom (the closet and drawers were crammed full!), and organized an office (I hadn’t seen the top of my desk in weeks!). I also visited two thrift stores — more to let go than to pick up– washed who knows how many loads of laundry, drove back to school for one in-person interview, and bought shoes for my daughter’s wedding.

I was still going pretty strong when I arrived at my therapy session Wednesday night, peeled back the bandages a bit, and began to verbalize the newly forming diagnosis. Despite my busy-ness, I had been able, over the past several days, to, through writing and processing time, identify the present issues that were connected to more life-long issues. It was liberating for me — I was putting words to some of the suppressed thoughts I have for decades. I was able to recognize how I had internalized beliefs about myself based on my perceptions of the actions of others. I was able to identify that my strategies for protecting myself — my busy-ness, kicking butts and taking names, being defensive — have not served me and have in fact kept me from being honest with those most dear to me. As these realizations flew out of my mouth, I saw them hit the other family member in the room, and I noticed the pain of their realization.

I felt lighter having released the burden into the air, but I had to acknowledge that the burden found another place to land, at least for a while.

After some dinner, I slept deeply, and awoke with the intention of working in the garden, taking a walk, and making a meal. I was going to keep on going!

I got up, put a little writing on the page, and moved to my yoga practice. About fifteen minutes in, I felt a twinge inside my right hip (my personal Achille’s heel) and thought, Huh, I was just moving out of child’s pose. What happened? Maybe it’ll adjust as I keep moving.

I cautiously finished my flow, ate a little breakfast, and headed to the garden. By this point, my hip was stiffening, my movements were slowing, and my right arm, which has been lately screaming “tendonitis, tendonitis” increased its pitch and volume. Nevertheless, I slowly moved through the front half of the garden, pulling weeds and reseeding carrots and beets. I harvested some rhubarb and then said to myself, Ok, that’s enough.

I put away my tools and switched into my walking shoes, resolved to get in my steps with a two mile walk.

Stop looking at me like that!

I slowly walked the two miles, listening to a podcast and enjoying the sun, and when I returned home, I crawled into an epsom salt bath.

And that is when I realized that I was depleted. From the bath, I crawled to my bed and read for a while, then I found the energy to slowly and methodically prepare the foods I had pictured for dinner — potato salad, rhubarb crisp, a garden salad, and some wings.

By the time my husband had grilled the wings and we had sat down at our patio table, I was ready to admit that my body was in distress. I was completely exhausted, all my joints hurt, and I was having difficulty finding words to sustain a conversation. We didn’t finish the wings, and I wasn’t even interested in the rhubarb crisp.

Having been here before, it didn’t take us long to realize I needed tot be packed in ice. So while he cleaned up from dinner, I grabbed the packs and moved to the couch. I pulled on a sweatshirt, covered myself in a blanket, and placed packs at my back, my hip, my neck, and my arm, and slowly I started to feel relief.

That was Thursday. Since then, I haven’t done much but sit, take another epsom salt bath, ice again, eat as cleanly and freshly as possible, and forget about my need to meet a step goal. It’s just not gonna happen for a couple of days.

This body is at rest, and apparently, it wants to stay here.

It’s what I’ve been needing, and I’ve known it.

It just took this body, which was in motion, a little while to stop being in motion. We’ll see how long it is comfortable with staying at rest.

In repentance and rest is your salvation. In quietness and trust is your strength.

Isaiah 30:15

Staggering

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

The human capacity for emotion is staggering. How do I know this? I’m staggering.

In the last seventy-two hours I have felt contentment, fatigue, joy, satisfaction, frustration, annoyance, responsibility, discontent, dissatisfaction, love, pride, calm, irritability, anger, happiness, anticipation, gratitude, betrayal, shame, hurt, connectedness, emptiness, gratitude, concern, apathy, hopelessness, and deep sadness. And those are just the ones that come to mind right now.

How did I feel so much in just three days time? Did I go to a wedding? a funeral? a spiritual retreat? Nope. I went to work, came home, went to a graduation party, and came home again.

We can have all kinds of feelings in the midst of our everyday life.

I have known this my whole life. I was, if you remember, labelled “moodiest” in my high school yearbook. That label had all kinds of judgment and shame attached to it, and I felt it. The people who labelled me didn’t know my experience and why I had so much emotion. And I didn’t know yet that my bandwidth for emotional expression was my superpower.

It doesn’t always feel like a superpower, though. It sure didn’t on Friday when I went from the pleasure of watching three LGBTQ+ students participate in an online conference — sitting in my room with one of their advisors, listening to presenters, coloring, and finding a small pocket of safety away from their usual volatile surroundings — to the stress of navigating a chaotic high school hallway back to the quiet contentment of sitting at my desk, planning the details for next week’s instruction, to the frustration of failing to capture the combined attention of nine erratic and impulsive freshmen.

Then, I was faced with the challenge of metabolizing the adrenaline from feeling disrespected in my own space so that I could traverse the once-again chaotic hallways and become an “effective” supervisor of a hundred or so young adolescents on the Friday of a full moon as they remained “contained” in the unimpressive space of an out-of-date gym eating a subpar lunch. I made my way there, as I always do, continuously processing the inequities of my students’ realities — the very ones that contribute to their impulsivity and disrespectful behavior. A coworker and I stood together, quietly venting while intermittently addressing the most egregious behaviors such as vaping — which is prohibited — and running — which the students really need, but which is not tenable in such a small space.

From there, annoyed, I walked — again — through the chaotic hallway, calling out, “head to class, everyone!” I grabbed some supplies from my room and gathered two ninth graders (have I mentioned it was a full moon) from their assigned classes so that we could do a reading intervention where I fluctuated between pride (“nice job!”) and irritability (“put your phone down and look at this page”). I then had to shake off that tension and shift my mind and emotions to the impartial business of grading and then make “non-emotional” phone calls to the parents of the feral freshmen who had disrespected me earlier, saying “please remind your students that we have just six weeks to finish strong.”

I packed up my things for the weekend, and felt less irritated than I imagined as I made an additional phone call to book five hotel rooms for family members who are attending my daughter’s wedding this summer. In fact, I felt a little pleased with myself for finally checking it off my list, and I chatted playfully with my colleague as we shared our ride home. Then I got a little miffed when I discovered that my husband and father-in-law were sitting in our living room, simultaneously wanting me to sit and chat and expecting that at some point we would eat dinner, which I had yet to prepare.

The visit was expected, and I had a plan, but I am always tired on Fridays, and I really wanted to pour a glass of wine, curl up in a blanket, and watch something ridiculously pointless on TV, but I conjured up a meal, did my best to chat for a bit, and then retreated to my puzzle table in the basement where I sat non-communicatively listening to the men chat upstairs.

Of course I couldn’t sleep because I was still mentally processing my ineffectiveness during the one class I had to teach, so I got back up and watched mindless television until I could barely keep myself conscious.

The next morning, I manufactured cheer for my father-in-law as I presented him and my husband with breakfast before running to the store for a few groceries, a gift, and a fistful of Mother’s Day cards then returning home to shower and dress in preparation for my friend’s graduation party. I was feeling satisfied in managing all of these details until I was suddenly and unexpectedly blindsided by a revelation of broken trust and personal betrayal that spiraled me into a dark anger (shielding hurt) that had to somehow be processed or parked so that I could show up for the friend who had overcome multiple obstacles to earn a master’s degree while working full time.

As I drove to her place, I mentally chose to set the new information on the shelf so that I could show up in a room where I knew no one and lend my hands to decorate tables, set out food, and mingle [even more chatting] with strangers. I posed for a photo, ate [and raved] over excellent food, and then [two hours later] repeated my congratulations and headed back home.

Alone, at last, I changed into work clothes, went to my garden, and kneeled in the dirt, determinedly pressing dried seeds from last year’s harvest into the soil, hoping against all probability that God can once again bring life from death, healing from brokenness, trust from betrayal.

How many times can He perform a resurrection?

How many times can the broken be made whole?

I have an insufferable belief in restoration, but I am staggering, friends, and I am very, very tired.

I made my way back to the puzzle, and sat, feeling my hurt and fatigue, and then, one of ours who has been through so much devastation of her own sent a photo — her left hand with a diamond on the ring finger. And I had to admit that God never grows weary of making all things new.

May it ever be so.

[Inhale] I have been restored and upheld, and I will praise you.

Gem of the Week: Kia*

~ Kristin ~ 2 Comments

This is the second in a sporadic series.

I met Kia last September. She had done poorly on last year’s NWEA MAP testing and had been identified, along with seven others from among our incoming freshman class, as being most in need of the Adolescent Accelerated Reading Intervention, the program I had been trained in last summer. (I described what our classroom’s version of AARI looks like in this post.)

I started pulling these eight into my classroom, one by one, to evaluate them by way of the QRI — The Qualitative Reading Inventory. This assessment requires students to first read lists of words sorted by grade level to determine their basic skills of decoding and identifying sight words — the ability to get words off the page. Some of my students read these lists fairly independently up to 6th, 7th, and 8th grade level; a few could barely make it through a second grade list. Once I got a glimpse at their ability to read, I had them read grade-level passages and answer comprehension questions — some that were easy to identify from the text, others that required inference. The majority of the eight freshmen I tested demonstrated the ability to read and comprehend at levels between the third and fifth grade; three were frustrated at first grade level or below.

How do students get to their freshmen year reading only at the first through fifth grade level? I suspect two reasons.

First, my students have grown up in Detroit Public Schools (and the charter schools, like mine, within that district) where they have received inconsistent instruction for a variety of reasons such as low attendance of both students and staff, insufficient funding and resources, and multiple out-of-school factors that impact learning such as housing and food insecurity, domestic disruption, trauma, and other realities that have grown out of centuries of systemic racism.

Second, even in the best of schools in the wealthiest of communities, the data shows COVID’s impact on learning over the last two years. Even students who had mostly face-to-face instruction over the two years of the pandemic have scored lower on standardized tests than expected. Students like mine, who had little to no schooling in the Spring of 2020 due to lack of technology and Internet connectivity, followed by one year of virtual instruction where they had to attempt to log in and focus despite many barriers including poor Internet, other siblings in the home (maybe even in the same room), family responsibilities, and the like, followed by another year of continuous transition between in-person and virtual instruction due to insufficient staffing, high COVID rates, and building issues, have been impacted much more dramatically. And, in addition to not being in school, most of my students report that they read very little or not at all between March 2020 and September 2022. That’s thirty months away from reading

It’s no wonder that when it was Kia’s turn to come into my room, she was a little nervous. She giggled a lot and apologized for missing words but did her best. I found her to be comfortable reading at the third grade level; the fourth grade passage was frustrating.

She has been in my room since September. I should say, she has sometimes been in my room since September. She’s been absent thirty-three times. And, on about a half-dozen occasions when she’s been in my class, she has fallen asleep to the degree that I have been unable to wake her. When she is present and awake, she is either fully engaged and a star participant or is having an emotional meltdown in response to a teasing comment from one of the boys in the class. She has demonstrated very little consistency, staying power, or resiliency.

So, when I pulled her out of class to retest her this past Tuesday, the first day back in the building after a two-week break, I did not have high expectations. I had already tested most of the others who had improved their reading scores by 1-3 grade levels in just one semester! I was hopeful, despite her poor attendance, that she would demonstrate the same growth.

We found a quiet corner of the building, and I asked, “Are you ready for this?”

“I’m nervous,” she replied.

“You’re going to do fine,” I said. “In fact, you’ve been telling me all semester that you don’t need this class. Here is your chance to prove it to me!”

I started her with a fifth grade passage, assuming two years’ worth of growth, and she aced it. We moved to the sixth grade passage. She missed a couple comprehension questions, but still fell in the ‘instructional’ range, so we moved on to the next passage which is labelled “upper middle school”. Again, she missed only a couple questions on a dense passage about the life cycle of stars, so we moved to a high school level passage. The text was two single-spaced pages with illustrations describing the functions of DNA and RNA. It took her a while to respond to the questions, as she had permission, according to QRI instructions, to go back to the text and find the answers, but she found them — enough to fall in the “instructional” range once again.

As I watched her read and then search for answers — her determination to prove that she could do this — I was getting choked up. The others had tried hard, too, but she was clearly on a different level.

When she finished, I said, “Kia, how do you feel?”

“I feel good!”

“Do you know what level you started at in September?”

“No.”

“You were comfortable at third grade level. Fourth grade level was frustrating.”

“Oh my God!” she said, covering her face in embarrassment.

“Be kind to yourself!” I explained. “We were just coming back after COVID! It was a very difficult time! How much did you read during COVID?”

“Nothing,” she said with a sheepish grin on her face.

“Right! Do you know you just read a complex biology text at the high school level?” I could barely get the words out because my throat was tightening.

“I did?”

“You understood all that stuff about cells and DNA and replication! Everybody can’t do that!”

She looked at me, locking eyes.

“Kia, you could be a nurse!”

“That’s what I want to be!” she smiled broadly.

“You can! You are very bright!”

She started crying, too. We hugged. I passed her a tissue, then I pulled myself together.

“Listen, Kia, I’m gonna be real with you. You have the stuff it takes to be a nurse, but you aren’t going to get there unless something changes. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“I gotta come to school.”

“Yes, you’ve got to come to school. If you want to get into a nursing program, you need As and Bs from now on, and you have the ability to do that.”

We talked a little bit longer about how I was going to be after her, checking in on her, even after she has left my class when the semester ends in two weeks. Then we walked through the halls telling administrators and teachers about what she had accomplished — we needed to celebrate.

Everyone applauded her, hugged her, congratulated her — she was beaming.

The next day Kia showed up in my room before school asking to borrow a laptop. She’d lost her charger and hers was dead — had been dead for weeks. I loaned her my laptop, and said, “Here’s a charger. You can keep it.”

“Thank you! Now I can get caught up at home!”

She came to my class later that day, sat up straight, answered questions, and smiled broadly.

She dropped by my room the next day to say, “I’m making up all my missing work, Mrs. Rathje, and I’m staying awake in all my classes.”

“Amazing, Kia! Keep going!”

Do I think that Kia’s ability to read improved nine — 9! — grade levels in one semester? No. However, I think that some basic skills that had gone dormant during COVID were re-engaged. I believe Kia’s brain, like many others I see every day, had learned to “sleep” during the trauma and disruption of COVID, and needed to be woken up.

AARI for an hour a day five days a week, despite her absences, was enough to wake her up, and realizing her potential was the cup of coffee that put her in motion.

I tested Kia on Tuesday, and she was still going strong on Friday. I suspect her momentum will fluctuate. She’ll have hard days, she’ll get discouraged, and she’ll be tempted to go back to sleep, if just to get some relief.

She’s gonna need all kinds of encouragement to build the stamina she’ll need to make it all the way to a nursing degree, because all of the obstacles didn’t magically go away. She’s still going to have to get herself up every morning. She’s still going to have to show up. She’s going to have to learn to tune out the voices of adolescent boys who like to get a reaction out of her. She’s going to have to overcome a lot more than what I see on the surface — whatever is going on at home that allowed her to miss thirty-three days of school, whatever reason there is for the fact that she needs glasses and hasn’t had then for the entire first semester, whatever has happened in her life that makes her so tender to break down so easily from everyday jabs of a few adolescent boys.

She’ll leave my class at the end of this semester, but our school is small, and I will make an effort to see her most days — to engage with her and to wave the cup of coffee under her nose, to remind her of the future that is possible for her.

But mostly it’s going to be up to her to do the next hard thing day after day after day. It’s gonna get tiring. And lonely. And the odds are against her.

But with some determination and a few miracles, she just might make it.

May God make her path straight and may He raise up a great cloud of witnesses to cheer her on her way.

I’m happy to be one among the crowd shouting “Keep going! You’re almost there!”

*Name changed for confidentiality.