Tag: life

Changing Pace

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Maybe it’s because I turned 60 a few months ago, maybe it’s the experience of spending 10 days in Europe, or maybe it’s the loss of my mother. Probably it’s a combination of all of those factors among others, but whatever the cause, I have the sensation that I have been lifted into space and then repositioned into my life in such a way that my perspective has shifted.

People often report, in the midst of the upheavals of life, that they feel disoriented — they can’t establish where it is they are situated inside of their own lives. Activities that once seemed rote now feel foreign. Items in their homes that they’ve had for years seem strange and unfamiliar.

I wonder if they were lifted into space, too?

It served a purpose — this momentary travel — it set me back into my life like a dollhouse character who had been facing only one direction and has now been given a brand new vantage point.

Most notably, as I was suspended in space, I must’ve gotten a glimpse of some kind of timeline because I’m now aware of being clearly past some arbitrary half-way point. This clarity has slowed down the way I take life in — it’s as though for years I had been set at a playing speed of 1.25x and now, I’ve been recalibrated to .99x, just a smidge slower than actual time. And I’m not irritated by it! I’m so very curious about how the slowing gives me just enough extra time to see a facial shift, to hear an intonation, to notice a change in posture. It’s surreal. And I’m not used to it.

This phenomenon is most notable in my work life where I have characteristically moved with urgency and intentionality. I walk briskly down hallways. I speak quickly in conversations — often cutting off other speakers. I hurry to meet deadlines. I rush.

Mrs. Rathje, the educator, has definitely, for most of her career been set at a minimum 1.25x speed with the one exception of when autoimmunity appeared. That time was also surreal because I abruptly and involuntarily shifted to .75x which was extremely frustrating. I couldn’t get work done. I couldn’t think clearly. I couldn’t perform how I wanted to perform. I couldn’t keep up.

So, as you may know, if you have been following along, I sat down.

I then took six years to learn a new rhythm, to try to be more intentional, to take breaks, to find balance. And, in many ways I have. I mostly leave work at work and do better at leaving home at home. However, while my home speed has been for the past many years closer to 1.0x — you know, actual real time– my work speed has creeped up as my health has improved. This last year in particular, when my mother’s health was declining, when I was tackling a new role, when I was navigating so much that was outside of my control, my work speed definitely got frantic and I found myself humming along, at times, at 1.25x.

I can do it in bursts, but guys, it’s not sustainable. Not for anyone, and especially not for someone whose body has imposed a speed limit and has cops on duty to shut it down if things get out of hand.

By the grace God, the literal and undeniable grace of God, at the end of the last school year — that frantic and stressful year — my body allowed me to take my mom on a brief trip to see her sister and then to stay and care for her for the last 12 days of her life.

And then I was lifted into space and set back down with a different viewpoint.

The summer was weird — I was mostly disoriented and processing this loss, which is likely obvious from my last many posts. But this past week, after the luxury of a work-from-home summer, I returned to my team. The leaders of our organization gather every year for several days to talk data, strategy, trajectory, and such. We then get a list of deliverables to accomplish in the next two weeks before our teachers report in. Last year, at these meetings, my stepfather had just passed away. I was spending a lot of mental energy caring for my mother while simultaneously adapting to a new supervisor and an expanded role. It was a lot. So, I did what Mrs. Rathje knows how to do, I tucked in and got to work. So began a very stressful and frantic year.

This past week was very different. I was so glad to be back in the midst of my team — the familiar, the confident, the determined. And I was stunned to find myself operating at .99x. I saw myself observing more, listening more. I was not butting in or raising my hand to contribute. I was responding, not reacting. I was not frantic. I was not rushing.

And, more shocking, I was feeling things. I was — dare I say — present to what was happening around me. I was aware of the coworker on his first day back after burying his brother. I was mindful of another — so young — with a new diagnosis of cancer. I was able — much to my surprise — to tolerate a talkative seatmate. I endured — without comment — a subpar presenter.

I engaged. I didn’t phase out. For hours at a stretch. Three days in a row! It was interesting.

Yesterday, we reported to my building early. We were planning an open house for our community — a relationship building event where we would offer resources, allow enrollments, provide sports physicals, and simply gather. The event wasn’t until the afternoon, but we needed to set up so we met first thing and then dispersed to take care of tasks.

Because I still had a long list of deliverables to accomplish back at my desk, I thought I could quickly do my part for the open house — gathering books and other items for our giveaway — and then retreat to my air conditioned office. The day was hot, and our building is old and not air conditioned, and for some reason, I temporarily got bumped up to 1.25x. I rushed to the room where our surplus books are stored. I rifled through and gathered a supply. I tacked on an additional step that no one asked me to do — replenishing our classroom libraries– which took extra time and effort, and finally returned to my office drenched in sweat.

Why did I hurry? No one knows. It was only 10:00am. The open house wouldn’t start until 3. I had plenty of time — still!– to knock out some items on my administrative list. I could’ve easily moved at a slower pace — taken my time — been more intentional — played a little music — enjoyed the morning. But something about being in that space, jarred me back to high speed. It wasn’t terrible — I got a lot done– but the result was that by the time the families and students arrived, I was spent. I had literally no gas left in my tank. I wasn’t running at any speed at all.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I greeted students. I spoke with families. I stayed to the end and helped clean up. I survived.

But here’s the thing. From where I am now standing, survival is no longer good enough. I have to find a way to keep in mind that the days and the moments are numbered — and the number isn’t all that high any more. If I rush through the tasks and the moments and the days, I will arrive at the end sweaty and exhausted.

And, that wouldn’t be terrible. I won’t mind if I am sweaty and exhausted if I am still able to notice the shift in someone’s mood, to see a change in their countenance, to hear the tenderness in a voice.

I won’t get that at 1.25x. I already know.

Teach us to count carefully the days of our short lives.
    Then we will be wise in how we live. Psalm 90:12

My immortal* family

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

I used to brag, “people in our family don’t die!” It was true at the time — kind of. I was 24 years old before I lost a family member, and then it was my 95 year old great grandmother who I’d had the joy of knowing my whole life — her chutzpah, the glimmer in her eye when she said something borderline mischievous, her passion for the Detroit Tigers, her ability to bake the most fantastic cookies, and her palpable love for her family.

In my mind, 95 years old was an appropriate time to exit this life, so my belief in my family’s relative immortality continued.

We didn’t lose another family member until I was 41 — you read that right, forty-one. I had all my children and a developing career when my grandmother and then my grandfather passed away within three months of each other at the ages of 90 and 94 after 71 — yes, seventy-one — years of marriage. I was saddened by the loss of this pair who always made me feel loved, who were always waiting, nose pressed against the glass, for us to arrive at their home. We always had elaborate meals, we always received thoughtful gifts, and we always were welcomed with a warm embrace. I was saddened by their deaths but not devastated. Again, they had lived long rich lives and had reached nonagenarian status.

Certainly, you see my point — our family was blessed with longevity at least, if not immortality, right?

The pattern continued when we lost my dear Uncle Louis in January of 2021. He was just shy of 93, had been married to my Aunt Margaret for over 71 years, and likely only left us when he did because of Covid. The saddest part of losing him, to me, was watching his funeral over a live stream, knowing that I wouldn’t again get one of his enveloping compression hugs, see love well up in his eyes, or hear his soft and deep baritone voice.

Again, I was sad, but my thesis held — people in this family don’t die — at least not until they are in their 90s!

However, my theory was challenged in 2024 when first my mother-in-law and then my step-father were diagnosed within days of each other with cancer. My mother had “survived” leukemia a few years earlier, which had strengthened my claim, but these diagnoses seemed different — they were accompanied by words like stage and surgery, chemotherapy and prognosis, metastasis and hospice.

My theory started to wobble when, in October of 2024, my mother-in-law succumbed to cancer a few months after my stepfather emerged from a four-week hospitalization. By August of 2025, he, too, had left us. She had been just 88; he only 80.

And just like that, my theory got an asterisk. Yes, they had had long lives, but they did die, and they hadn’t made it to 90.

The following January, my Aunt Margaret was five days past her 96th birthday when she took her leave. Her death bolstered my original belief — she had lived and loved for way longer than she had ever imagined and was ready to join Uncle Louis. My heart ached with her passing, but not because I was surprised, more because her love was real and unconditional. She had always been in my life — always — and I couldn’t picture a reality without her. However, she had, like my grandparents and great grandmother lived well into her 90s — this was how I had come to believe life worked.

What I didn’t see coming was that my own mother — just 84 — would leave us just four short months later, that my brother-in-law — still in his 70s! — would pass away within the next thirty days, or that my theory, my bold statement that “people in our family don’t die” was crumbling to the ground — with or without an asterisk!

Of course, I always knew this would eventually be true. My proclamation was really one of amazement and thankfulness — an acknowledgement that while I witnessed loss in the lives of my friends and especially my coworkers and students on a regular basis, our family had seemed immune, protected, exempt, if even for a while.

I remain thankful for this — even in the midst of this summer of grief — because still, what a blessing that the youngest family member we have lost was in his 70s, that so many of us have gathered to celebrate these lives, that so much love continues, that so much opportunity remains.

This season has made me reflective about my life and much more aware of its brevity. I find myself feeling the need to look in folks’ eyes a little longer, to answer questions with more vulnerability, to listen to what my loved ones say — and to what they don’t say, to build stronger connections, to celebrate milestones, to enjoy those who are still in our lives.

I’m realizing that I’ve taken so much for granted over the years. Perhaps because I have rarely lost people in my life, I have come to believe that they will always be there — I don’t have to rush to say how I feel, I can hold a grudge if I like, I can put off a visit until next week or month or year. And for the most part, my life has proven to me that this is true.

Even as we’ve lost folks over the last few years, I’ve had so much opportunity to say what I’ve needed to say — we’ve had information and time to sit at bedsides, to hold hands, to provide care and tenderness, to send our people off with love. We’ve haven’t gotten it all right, but we’ve had chance after chance to try.

This is uncommon.

Two days before my mother passed away, a former student of mine was in a car accident and, at 22 years of age, lost his life. No one was prepared. No one got to say, I love you, I forgive you, We’ve got this, We’re all good. He went out one night for the evening and then he was gone.

That is more common than we’d like to believe.

People in all of our families die — even if they haven’t yet. We can lose them when they are 90 or 22 or — unbelievably — when they are much, much younger. The people we love, or resent, or have beef with will all leave us — there is no other way. We will leave them, too.

And because we don’t know when this will happen…

We must say the thing we are thinking — out loud,

send the note.

forgive the offense.

rebuild the connection.

overlook the slight.

lavish on love and grace.

For much of my mother’s life, she was wracked with guilt over one big choice she made that forever changed the trajectory of our family. She punished herself daily and resided in a place of shame and regret.

For most of my adult life, I have seen her through a lens of frustration. Please, Mom, let this go. Forgive yourself. This shame is destroying you. It’s impacting everyone around you.

Almost the moment she died, I saw her through a different lens. I won’t say it’s awe, but rather recognition that while she was heaping so much shame on herself, she had nothing but acceptance, encouragement, and pride for all of us — her kids and her grandkids and really everyone else in her life.

I must’ve seen it sooner, but I didn’t recognize it until she was gone.

I don’t know how much life I have left — maybe 35 years, maybe 35 days — but I want to live with the knowledge that each interaction, each exchange, each moment is valuable, irreplaceable, fleeting, and miraculous.

I’m still thinking about how this might re-order my days. I mean, I’m still pretty committed to binge-watching shows, completing my New York Times puzzles, and reading novels, but I’m hoping for more moments with those that I love — more chances to share space and air — more opportunities to say I love you, and you matter to me.

Because I’m finally admitting that we are not, in fact, immortal.

Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be.
    Remind me that my days are numbered—
    how fleeting my life is. Psalm 39:4

Giving it Away

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

If you walked into my house right this minute, saw a coffee cup you liked, and asked me where I got it, I might send it home with you. I might do the same with a sweater, a plant, or a book on my shelf. I am the same way at school. If a student or colleague needs something — Motrin, a snack, a notebook, a pair of socks, lotion, or $5 — if I have it, I am likely to insist that they take it.

I wasn’t born this way. I learned this behavior from my mom.

She, of course, made sure that my siblings and I had everything we needed in our childhood — food (even if it was French toast for dinner), clothing (even if it was on clearance or we had to put it on layaway), a house to live in (even if it was an unglamorous two bedroom apartment that one summer), and medical attention (including all the pairs of glasses I abused while growing up). I don’t know how she did it, to be honest, not on her pay from working as a unit clerk at a small community hospital. She did have monthly child support checks from my dad, but those probably covered groceries — there were four of us!

Nevertheless, she was a master of giving — birthday gifts, Christmas presents, and virtually anything she had that she thought you might want or need.

My first memory of this was when I was 18 (although I am sure it wouldn’t take much effort to conjure up earlier examples). It was my high school graduation night and what with senior banquet and prom and such, I hadn’t planned anything to wear under my cap and gown. I didn’t find anything in my closet, so I moved on to my mom’s. This was not an obvious choice because my mom was barely 5’2″ and shall we say a little rounded at the edges. I was a 5’6″ teenager! But, I found a simple dress in her closet, tried it on, and — Bingo!

“Mom, can I wear this dress tonight?”

“Sure! You can just have it!”

She was never possessive of her things — she held them loosely, even when she didn’t have much. Whenever, as adults, we left her house, we took with us storage containers full of food in cloth totes. She was always finding us things that might be useful around our homes – cleaners, decor, tools, or foods we might like to try.

She sent us care packages of socks and candles and candy and gift cards. In fact, she coordinated her church’s initiative to send care packages to college students. Every Christmas she mixed, cut out, and hand decorated dozens of cookies so that everyone she loved could get their own supply. She never missed a birthday, anniversary, or any kind of holiday without at least sending a card. Actually, the night before she died, she signed a sympathy card for her neighbor whose sister had just died. Giving was her joy.

So, last week, as I worked through her house, it wasn’t difficult to imagine people having her things — a granddaughter having a ring, a daughter taking some cherished photos, and her son taking the wooden bench that sat inside the front door. This all seemed right.

One granddaughter agreed to take bedroom furniture that has been handed down now five generations. Another took the Fiestaware that mom had collected piece by piece over the years. One by one, folks spoke up and took knick knacks, dish ware, and other items that Mom had treasured over the years.

I posted some items for free or for a little cash on Facebook Marketplace. One gentleman came for TV trays and left with those plus a shower chair plus a few random tools from the garage.

One young woman passed me some cash for a television and its stand, and I helped her carry it out the door.

My favorite give would’ve delighted mom. A woman reached out on Facebook to claim two free chairs. She was moving in with a parent in the wake of the other parent’s passing and needed them for their new-ish kitchen. I asked if she needed anything else as she and her partner and their young daughter came into the house. We discovered that one of our twin beds would be great for the girl. My brother and I marched the family downstairs to take a look, and when we entered the completely purple room, the little girl gasped! “Purple! My favorite color! Could I have this blanket?”

My reflexive yes is what my mother would’ve said.

The girl’s mother timidly asked about the purple curtains, and I started taking them down.

“What about the sheets?”

We loaded her up, and the girl hugged her squishy new blanket all the way to their truck.

They were thrilled with their chairs, their bed, and all the purple things we could find, and we were thrilled to have them take it. That whole exchange would’ve made mom’s week.

That’s just how she was — our mom who worked her whole life for any hourly wage had no greater joy than giving it all away. How lucky am I that I’ve got the opportunity to carry on that tradition?

Sometimes (ok, often!) in this space, I ask you for things that my students or my colleagues might need — and every time I ask, you all come through. Maybe you, like my mom, hold onto your things loosely. How lucky am I to be the conduit of your generosity — the carrier of your gifts — the witness to so much joy!

…they shared everything they had… Acts 4:32

Good Grief

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

It’s the mundane everyday moments that catch me unaware. I hop into my car at the end of a work day, reach for my phone to call my mom — and it hits me. Mom won’t be receiving phone calls any more.

Source

The obvious moments are emotional, of course, but you can see those coming — the moment she stopped breathing, when the funeral home employees loaded her onto a gurney and gave me a minute to say goodbye, when I wrote a note to her only sister telling her how special she was to mom — each of these moments made me sob, of course, but they were not surprising.

It’s when I’m standing at communion and the pastor touches my am and says something about the “communion of the saints” or when my high school buddy who once ensured that I was voted “moodiest” in my high school class, showed up at the church right before the service just to ask how I was doing — these moments catch me off guard and I am immediately overcome.

And it’s not just the weeping; it’s also unbridled annoyance. I think because the loss of my mother is so fresh, because I’m still spending a lot of emotional and cognitive energy trying to believe that it’s real, I get annoyed at things that normally wouldn’t phase me. This is not a passing irritation, it’s a funk that settles on my face that leaks out of my mouth in the form of tone— the kind of tone you wouldn’t dare take with your mother.

This funk settled on me a week or so ago after a pretty run-of-the-mill series of events. First my supervisor sent me an email outlining my failure to update a document according to her specifications, then I received a delivery of a shirt that was supposed to be 100% cotton that certainly was not, then I proceeded to spend too much time weeding the garden when the day was well over 90 degrees. I came into the house in an overheated body, perseverating over the email and trying to initiate a return of the shirt when my husband cheerily arrived home and asked me a benign question. I unknowingly snarled my response (thank you, funk). A few minutes later, he asked an unrelated benign question and I, again unintentionally, snapped an answer. By this time, he had a valid response, which I didn’t know how to process — not with all the grief encased in irritation. No. At this point, I was on overload.

And what did I do? Did I talk through the situation with maturity? take ownership of my feelings? apologize?

No.

I retreated, withdrew, isolated.

For 36 hours.

And then, because we had a road trip on the calendar, I forced myself, sitting in my co-pilot seat, to open the vault, messily let go of irritation, and find, once again, the tears, the grief, the loss, the reality.

These emotional expressions, I’ll call them that, are not new to me. I have not seen them in a long while, but they feel very familiar. They take me right back to my childhood and adolescence when my parents divorced and my dad was living in another state. That was my first time experiencing deep grief — the practical loss of my dad. He’s still living, at almost 88, but since the time that I was about 8, he’s been removed, at a distance, no longer accessible in the ways that a girl needs and wants her dad to be, so it makes sense to me now — now that I’m an adult experiencing the loss of a parent — that those feelings I felt in my childhood were real, and though valid, outside of my control.

However, at that time, I was the only one of my siblings that I remember emoting in such a way. My two brothers and my sister seemed fine. They were getting on with life, while I was throwing myself on my bed sobbing, lashing out in anger and sarcasm, and generally feeling volatile.

Others apparently thought me volatile, too, because the feedback I remember getting was to quiet down, stop crying, and get a hold of myself.

I, at 8 or 10 or 14, didn’t have the self-awareness or the language to say, “I feel betrayed by my parents, devastated by their divorce, and totally unmoored,” and even if had, in 1976 or 1981, what would those around me have said? “Oh, well, didn’t that happen a while ago? Your parents didn’t die did they?” In other words, get over it.

The people around me didn’t have the awareness or the language for what to do with me, what to say to me, so they did what they knew how to do and tried to shush me.

And, feeling unmoored and ashamed of all the feelings I was having, I tried to shush. I really did, but all that did was push all the hurt down where I buttoned it up and tried not to be so moody. Over time, I learned to be a soldier, to power through, to kick butts and take names.

And, if you’ve been following this blog for any amount of time, you know that that strategy — the butt kicking and name taking — worked for a while, but it took a toll, and eventually that soldier had to put her rucksack down, but even if she hadn’t, even if she was still out in these streets large and in charge, even she might have some genuine and surprising feelings upon losing her mother.

But I am no longer a soldier — I have to remind myself of this when the irritation builds past funk into anger and I try to take out an unsuspecting customer service agent — I am no longer a soldier. I am a woman who has done years of therapy, who has spent the last twelve (12!) years bringing her vulnerability to the pages of this blog, who has learned that the best way to manage emotions is — shockingly! — to feel them, to talk about them, to write about them, to allow myself to have them.

And as I’m having all of these emotions, I am realizing that though my mom was not perfect (none of us are), she always — ALWAYS! — had my back. She flew to me when I needed her, she cheered me when I won and consoled me when I lost. She laughed with me almost every time we talked but she never — not once — cried with me.

She, too, had been shushed into silence too many times. She didn’t feel safe letting her hurt show. Vulnerability was too scary, so she soldiered through emotional and physical pain the likes of which some of us may never see. And she never once allowed herself to shed a tear — not in the 60 years that I knew her.

What a burden to carry. No wonder she was exhausted and made her exit as soon as she felt she had permission.

Let me learn from that. Let me feel each of these emotions. Let me talk about them. Let me write about them. Let me cry.

I think I’ll do a little bit of that now.

There is a time for everything…a time to weep…a time to mourn… Ecclesiastes 3:4

Of Skating and Stumbling and Standing

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

If you choose to listen to this post, just know that one previous post is linked in the text.

You can be skating along nicely, smiling at the others at the rink, crossing your right leg over your left in a feat of bravery, vibing to the beat of the music. All can seem right with the world. You can feel like this is living.

Then, suddenly, you face the first obstacle. A small child tumbles right in front of you. You awkwardly side step and regain your balance. You check to make sure the child is getting back up, and then you resume your previous vibe.

Sure, your smile momentarily left your face, but now you’re back in business– right back with the beat of the music, regaining your groove, getting lost in the moment. But then, when you least expect it, you spot someone from your past as you zoom by the watching crowd. They are glaring at you, holding up photographic evidence of that thing you did back in 2010 or 1983 or 2024 or 1997– that major blunder, that egregious oversight, that huge mistake — or series of mistakes — you made.

The smile drops from your face. You almost run into the wall. You turn to look back, to go over to them, wanting to reconnect, to reconcile, but they are gone. You can no longer hear the music — you can no longer register the people around you — you are transported back in time to a newsreel of all the ways you blew it back then.

What was wrong with you? What was happening? Where were you in your head?

You stumble off the rink and find a bench. You remove your skates and, forgetting to put on shoes or grab a jacket or say goodbye to the people you came with, you wordlessly walk out into the wilderness.

Of course, this is how it happens, isn’t it? We’re living our lives, managing our responsibilities (or even skating), when something — an image, a phone call, a text, a song — triggers us and we feel ourselves disengaging from those around us. If we have the wherewithal, we may try to bat away the images so that we can continue to function, so that we can continue to see the people around us, so we can continue to feel the ground beneath our feet.

Unfortunately, as we’re doing all that swatting, we often find ourselves off balance. We catch ourselves in the mirror, a look of distress crumpling our face, and we realize the heap of guilt and shame from the past that has mysteriously and overwhelmingly appeared on our backs.

One interchange — one glimpse, one image — has shifted reality and we’re no longer skating along.

In the past, such an instance might have sent us spiraling down into the abyss of regret — why didn’t I see? why didn’t I notice? why didn’t I ask? why didn’t I listen? what else was going on? why didn’t I act differently? do more? say more? — we might have spend hours or, frankly, days or weeks, unable to break the free fall, unable to find the ground, unable to take even a baby step forward, let alone try on a pair of skates.

This is not our first rodeo, however. We’ve been here before. We know what to do

We sit down. We recognize what’s going on, and for a while we take off the backpack of grief and peek inside and acknowledge, “yup, that was some messed up shit that happened.” We don’t haul it all out for close examination, not right now, but we acknowledge it — it’s true; it happened; it hurts; real bad.

We know the others involved are still angry/hurting/processing/grieving and sometimes, so are we.

We know our role — our culpability.

That hasn’t changed.

But…because we’ve been here before and know what it is, we choose not to fall into the abyss of grief this time. We choose to look in, to put our hand on the ache, to hope for restoration, and then, to step away.

What happened is true and awful and unchangeable. No amount of spiraling or wallowing or self-flagellation will change that. And, today is in front of us, full of folks who care, who count on us, who see us, who love us. Amazingly, even folks who know the terrible awful then continue to join us in the now. And now is what we have. Lots of opportunity to see, to notice, to ask, and to listen.

And, we resolve to do our best at that and to have grace for when, even now, we blow it. Because certainly, we will blow it again. It is the way of all flesh.

We won’t be skating any more today. No. But we won’t be free-falling either. We’re just gonna stand up, breathe, and take the next step forward.

And one day soon, we’ll be skating again.

the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

You good?

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Every once in a while, a student will go missing from school. I don’t mean in the “she was abducted” sort of way; it’s just that sometimes — there’s really no pattern to it — I will find myself marking a student absent day after day with no clear explanation. I might alert the office, so they can do a wellness check, but often before it has come to that, the student just as mysteriously re-appears.

In the old days, I might’ve interrogated such a student. Where have you been? Did you just decide to take a vacation? Do you know what an extended absence can do to your grades? your progress? your chances of graduating?

That was before I started to understand trauma — before I had seen true poverty — before I knew that sometimes a student has to stay home to care for an ailing parent or younger siblings — before I knew that not all families have vehicles or food in the fridge…. or a fridge… or any place to stay at all.

So now when a student is gone for 2 or 3 or 10 days and then suddenly reappears, you know what I say? Good to see you! I’ve been missing you! If I have a particularly close relationship with a student who has been MIA, I might ask, You good?

You never know what you’re going to hear after that — maybe a quiet Yeah, I’m good, but also maybe my [insert family member here] died, or I was in the hospital, or we moved.

If a student vulnerably shares something like that, I feel honored to be trusted with a slice of their story. And, I hope that my check-in conveys to the student that they are seen, safe, and valued.

All of this is just to say that I, myself, have been a little MIA lately. The last time I posted a blog was February 9 — five weeks ago. Now, I know you are not getting up every Monday morning and taking attendance and saying, huh, I wonder where Kristin is. And you should know that I have not been experiencing any trauma. However, I did want to check in and let you know that this soldier temporary got called back to duty — to a short stint of increased demand where I was tempted to revert to butt-kicking and name-taking and, in fact, gave it a try, only to find out what I already knew — it was not sustainable.

I have mentioned this already, of course, in the first few blog posts of the year. I wrote about the fact that we had a teacher resign over the holiday break and that I was asked to step into two of the classes he left vacant to help prepare our juniors for the coming SAT. I probably already mentioned that I was asked to do this while also filling the role of building test coordinator in charge of making sure all 9-11 grade students take the PSAT and SAT and that all 11 grade students also take the other tests required by the State of Michigan — the MSTEP (social studies and science) and the WIN Learning Assessment which measures students’ work-ready skills.

It doesn’t sound too overwhelming when I put it in a paragraph like that, and my supervisors assured me it wouldn’t be any more work at all since they had lightened my coaching load from eight teachers down to four and had provided me with the support of the person who was the building test coordinator last year.

So, I built out my calendar, as one does, scheduling blocks of time to read test manuals, attend training, observe teachers, meet with supervisors, audit rosters, create training sessions for my staff, and, oh yeah, teach two 50-minute sections of ELA every day making sure to cover curricula I’d never taught before and to develop the skills in these students that my supervisors were confident I could build before testing started on April 15.

Like any good soldier, I got my gear together, rehearsed my strategies, and relied on years and years of training exercises. I put my head down and got to it.

I had moments where I was making it happen. I was checking off boxes and getting shit done. At those times, I had a swagger in my step — the old girl still had it. Passersby might have even heard me say, I got this.

But there were moments that those closest to me saw the set of my jaw, the vacant stare in my eyes, the fatigue coming off me in near-visible rivulets. They heard an errant utterance, they saw the expression on my face belie the words coming out of my mouth, and in one way or another they asked You good, Rathje?

Because clearly, I was not, indeed, good.

And because I trusted them, I took a long look at what was going on, and, instead of soldiering on, I tried something different.

First it looked like a set jaw, a demand for change, a clenched fist decrying an unjust work load, and then, it softened into apology and the admission that soldiering was not a sustainable way of life — not for me and, really, not for anyone.

It felt a little like defeat. Like waving the white flag.

But it wasn’t that. It was truth-telling. It was self-advocacy. It was a victory.

Because when I said (this time, though I had said it before) that I needed an end date — a day to mark on the calendar when I would no longer be teaching, when I said I needed more time to complete the tasks before me, when I said I felt it was too much not just for a middle-aged gal like me but for anyone, they heard me.

I took a chance on asking for what I needed, and I got it.

So, I’m at home this weekend breathing a little more freely, even though I will still spend an hour or two today and tomorrow on managing my work responsibilities. I know that Friday is my last day in the classroom, spring break is coming, and a time of refreshing is near.

So, if I’m gonna be honest, I’ve been MIA because for a couple ticks I was slugging it out — struggling, not coming up for breath — but I’m back.

It’s good to see you. If you don’t already know, this is a space where I feel seen and safe and valued. Thank you for allowing me to trust you with a piece of my story.

Be kind and compassionate to one another. Ephesians 4:32

Reflect and Grow

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Hey, 2026,

It’s been a minute since we’ve spoken. I know that first conversation we had might have felt a little off-putting. I’ll admit that I was coming in defensively and demanding a lot. The last few years have been quite difficult, after all. I circled back a week later, and acknowledged the fact that while I can’t control what you bring, I do have control over my responses to you. Now, a month into your tenure, I’m feeling the need for a check-in. I’ve got some feedback on how it’s going — some affirmations, for sure, but also some areas where we’d hope to see some growth moving forward.

We can start with the snow day count — well done! This performance has exceeded my expectations. Although extreme weather could be a sign of irreversible climate change, I did welcome the days to be at home, to rest a little, and to get caught up on some work.

Speaking of work, I’ve been pushing pretty hard, as you know, because I’ve been covering a teacher vacancy, but I’ve got to hand it to you — not only did you allow me to step back into the classroom to support our juniors in the run up to the SAT, you came through with another certified English Language Arts teacher who even has experience in our cultural context. You somehow provided this teacher, who will start with our sophomores on Monday, before the end of January, just as I requested. Hopefully, he will bring some normalcy to our students for the remainder of the year.

Now that I’ve started with some kudos, I must acknowledge that all has not been rosy. You did bring my family another loss — we’ve had one a year for the last three years. Granted, my sweet aunt was 96 and ready to go, but her passing still hurt.

However, that sting was much more bearable than the shock and horror at the deaths of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. It seems unconscionable that regular citizens acting out of care and concern for the foreigner and the stranger would lose their lives at the hands of government agents.

And speaking of unconscionable, I thought we’d seen all the presidential misconduct we’d ever need, but you managed to give us some more — directly from the Oval Office, again! — racist images of former world leaders distributed by the now-more-than-embarrassing leader of the free world. During the opening week of Black History Month, to boot.

Now lest I get busy casting stones without acknowledging my own shortcomings, I will admit that, I, too, have had less than stellar moments in recent days. I have forgotten my training, lost my center, and acted out of character, and not just in the confines of my own home, but in the space where I hope to have the most impact — the classroom. I showed my students a frustrated, tired, unprofessional side of me, and I’m not proud of that. So, I had to put down my shaking fist for a moment — I had to stop blaming you, 2026. I had to stop looking at the failures of ICE, Republican leaders, and even my students, who I briefly tried to blame for my poor behavior.

Look, all of us have good moments and bad moments. We are imperfect humans. I’ve had to remind myself of that this weekend when I’ve found myself bloodied by self-flagellation. None of us meets every moment with grace and maturity. The best we can do — the most we can hope for from others — is best intention, self-reflection, the admission of failure, and a commitment to do better.

What would it look like if those entrusted with making sure that all folks from other countries followed the laws for living in the United States did so with hospitality. What if their intention was to support those who legally entered our country as they navigate their adjustment to the way we do things around here. What if they participated in regular debriefing that honestly evaluated their practices, acknowledged shortcomings, and worked to improve the process in ways that positively benefitted the community?

What would happen if at their worst moments — when, say, a civilian was killed — they would admit their wrongdoing and follow the steps of accountability and restoration? What if those worst moments propelled them to changes that produced some of the best moments?

What might happen if people in positions of power didn’t demonize those who think, look, act differently, but instead worked with intention to find understanding, common ground, ways of living together in unity, despite our differences? What if we had regular community forums to instead celebrate those differences, to find solutions to problems, and to build strong relationships?

What impact might it have if a middle aged white woman went into her classroom on Monday, admitted to a roomful of teenaged students of color that she lost her shit on Friday and that it wasn’t, as she might’ve suggested, their fault, but hers. What if she used her admission of culpability to build a culture of error in that classroom — where students, too, can admit that they have been wrong, and where they can shed their shame through vulnerability, and be brave enough to try again?

What impact might it have if, instead of waving our fists at everyone else, we opened our hands and asked for forgiveness for the things we, ourselves, have done wrong? How might that change what happens this year?

Right now in Italy, young people from all over the globe are coming together in the spirit of sportsmanship to compete in the snow and on the ice. They have worked hard for years to make it to the Olympic Games and we are inspired by not only their athleticism, but their tenacity, their sacrifice, their willingness to set other things aside for this one goal — the highest level of competition with other humans from all around the world. For sixteen days we will watch people of different races, faiths, and backgrounds share space — racing side by side, watching one another’s efforts, and even congratulating those who bested them. It’s a picture of shared struggle, shared victory, shared humanity.

We can learn from them, can’t we, 2026? Can’t we learn to exist side by side with people who are very different from ourselves — can’t we find ways of working together, of inspiring one another, of celebrating together? Can we respect the humanity in front of us, even if we haven’t made it to the Olympics?

Let’s try for more of that, shall we? I know we’ve got it in us.

if it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Romans 12:18

Reply Requested: Singapore and the Archives

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

Dear Reader,

I’m breaking from my recent rhythm of ranting about the new year in hopes that you can answer some questions for me. I’ve been writing this blog for going on twelve (12!) years. In the beginning, most of my readers were folks who knew me and who were following my journey through a recent chronic illness diagnosis and my resulting exit from teacher life. I was writing my way through a major transition and my readers were empathizing and cheering me on. Much has changed since then — while I still write about my journey into a healthier existence, I more often write about my life back in the world of education, about current political issues, or about my inner journey to emotional healing. My readership has changed, too!

WordPress has an app where I track my statistics — how many people view a particular post on a given day, what country each reader is from, and what was the referral source. I will admit to being a bit of a data geek, and recently I have noticed an odd trend. In the past few months, the overall activity on my blog has increased — overall views have more than tripled — and it doesn’t seem to be because my recent content has been more engaging, more inspiring, or more colorful. No. When I look at the stats, it seems the increased viewership is coming (at least partially) from abroad and the engagement is with stuff that was written a year, five years, or even twelve years ago!

Most notably, I’ve seen a surge in views from Singapore! Substantial clicks are also originating in India, Germany, and China! This information has me over here scratching my head.

In full transparency, I can locate Germany, India, and China quite easily on a map, but while I’ve heard of Singapore, I definitely needed to go to Google to learn that it’s an island nation off the south of the Malay peninsula (home to Thailand., Cambodia, and Vietnam). While its inhabitants are Chinese, Malay, and Indian, one of its official languages is indeed English, so some folks there can easily read this blog, but why, reader, why would you want to?

Where is Singapore?

What does this middle aged white woman from the United States have to say to you? And, frankly, to those of you from India, Germany, the United Kingdom, and other places around the world? What is resonating? I’m dying to know!

The statistics tell me you are reading those early posts about chronic illness but also posts from the Covid era; about racism but also about minimalism. It looks like you’re interested in my teaching but also my exploration of emotions. Even my readers from the US right now seem less interested in what I’m currently writing and more in the archives.

I’d like to open this up for discussion. Would you be willing to engage with me?

I met with a long-time friend over the weekend for coffee. We’ve known each other most of our lives, but we’ve recently been reconnecting. We talked and talked for a while, as you do when you are catching up. I gave her my “latest” then said, “I think that’s all I have. What’s going on with you?” And, being asked, that dear friend trusted me with part of her story. And, in her sharing, in my sharing, we found areas of connection, of commonality, of shared experience.

So, I’m asking you — where are you from? what’s going on with you? where do you find connection with me? Maybe your responses will lead to a further conversation. I hope so! I know I have something to learn from you!

To share, you could use the comment feature on Word Press, or you could follow this blog on Facebook and comment there. Let’s see what happens, shall we? Maybe someday I’ll even travel to Singapore!

Whether or not you decide to share, thank you for taking the time to engage with my writing.

Life These Days

Featured ~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

The question of the moment around folks my age — and for the record, I’m just shy of 60– is “how much longer do you think you’re gonna work?”

My most frequent response is often something like, “I’m not in a hurry to be done. I love what I do. I hope I can stay at it a while!”

This is, of course, not how everyone feels. Many my age have put in a long, hard 40 or more years of work in jobs and careers that have taken a toll — physically, mentally, relationally, or in other ways that might make a person want to walk away.

Let’s be honest, if you’ve spent 30-40 years on an assembly line — you might be ready for a change of scenery. If you’ve led a corporation and had the weight of the bottom line, personnel challenges, and inventory management on your back, you might be ready to sit by a pool, sipping a cool drink. If you’ve been in a classroom for 40 years — attending to the needs of children, designing instruction, managing behavior, and adapting to continuously changing policies, cultural norms, and learning challenges, you might be ready to just have a day that doesn’t involve managing anything but yourself.

And while I have certainly had my challenges and seasons of disillusionment and burnout, none of those scenarios truly describe me. After working in many different settings over the years, I find myself in a role that feels like a culmination — the place I was intended to arrive at, so I don’t find myself asking how much longer I want to work, but rather: When I look back at all I have learned, what do I have to offer these days?

In the early years — the first 3-5 of my career — bravado carried me past insecurity so that I could survive in situations that were way outside my experience. A middle school special ed classroom in Detroit? No problem for this secondary English major from small town Michigan! A self-contained classroom inside a residential facility teaching not only ELA but also social studies, math, science — I got this! I faked my way through and while I can’t say that my students (or I) won any awards, everyone learned something — including me. I learned about being overwhelmed and about working with limited resources. I learned to lean into the uncomfortable and to try just about anything. Did I occasionally lose my shit and come undone in front of a classroom full of typically behaving students? Sure. Did I also take a van load of Detroit teenagers on a day-long adventure to Ann Arbor? Yes, I did! Did we overfill our day with activities? Absolutely! Did we arrive back to school late after dismissal? We sure did! Did those kids and I have a ball touring a college campus, going to a hands-on museum, and eating at Pizza Hut? Yes! Rookie me swung for the fences, folks.

The bravado only carried me so far into my years at home with my own children. In fact, I think it was day one home from the hospital when I called a friend emergency-style to come save me because nursing wasn’t working out according to plan. I wish I would’ve admitted right there and then that I was clueless about mothering, but faking it until I made it was my theme song, and I just kept singing. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the living room floor with three children of my own, reading stories, learning letters, and playing games. Those days were exhausting and precious to me! We had a lot of fun, but I was making it up as I went along, so I certainly made plenty of mistakes. I pushed myself and the kids way too hard, and I expected way too much, but in continuing to give it everything I had, I learned how to schedule out a day that included learning, adventure, rest, and play; how to turn a few hot dogs and some popcorn into a baseball watching party; and how to get through a puke-filled night with little to no sleep. I learned that I could manage much more than I imagined, that I had a lot of people who were willing to help, and that it wasn’t a weakness to ask them.

When I returned to the classroom the first time, it was to a position that was far bigger than my experience — the English Department Chair and Dual-Enrollment ELA teacher at a small private high school. Not only would I, once again, be faking it ‘til I made it, I would be doing so all day long in a new environment while I was also still —at home — learning how to parent my own children who were in the process of transitioning from childhood to adolescence in a new home in a new city in a new state.The lift in both arenas was immense, but I was gonna make it happen. I learned a curriculum, read dozens of books, short stories, poems, and essays and adapted to a modified block schedule and the world of Apple computers while I also navigated the needs and ever-changing emotions of a family that was struggling to find its footing. For nine years, it seems, I was in constant motion — either preparing to teach, teaching, or grading in one space or cooking, cleaning, driving, scheduling, or otherwise parenting in another. Those years seem like a blur as I look back, probably because I never stopped running.

And then, all the motion came to a halt. Readers of this blog know that those years ended in an autoimmune diagnosis and an exit from the classroom followed by convalescence and a [next chapter] of re-learning how to live which landed me where I am now.

I came into this season humbled by the knowledge that I did I have a limit, and that I did not indeed know everything. When I was offered the position to teach ELA at a small charter high school in Detroit, I was grateful to be in any classroom at all. The fact that it was familiar territory — teaching seniors about college and the skills they would need to be successful — meant that I would NOT have to fake it til I made it. I could just be the authentic me, sharing what I know and loving the students who were in front of me. Granted, I still had much to learn — our school has an instructional model that was new to me, and I would, for the the first time in my career, have a coach, but none of that was overwhelming. In fact, it was comforting to know that I had support and that I wouldn’t have to find all the answers on my own.

That was over five years ago, and now I’m no longer teaching but coaching other teachers who may be in their very first year or nearing their 10th or 20th year. Some of them are faking it until they make it, some are disillusioned, and some are managing a lot in other areas of their lives.

I have a front row seat to their experience and that’s why I’m asking myself this question: What have I learned and what do I have to offer these folks?

I’ve learned that showing up and doing your best goes a long way — even if your best isn’t amazing, it’s likely good enough.

I’ve learned that being brave can lead to remarkable opportunities that change you forever.

I’ve learned that others are willing to support you if you are willing to ask.

I’ve learned that family is much more important than work and that your health needs to take priority over any perceived deadline.

I’ve learned that who I authentically am is much more valuable to my students and the people I love than getting every decision right or accomplishing every task.

I learned these things the hard way over the last many years, and maybe these folks — the people I rub elbows with every day and those that I coach — will have to learn them the hard way, too.

I think what I have to offer right now is the empathy and compassion gained from my own journey. I have a rare opportunity to offer support and encouragement, and the wisdom that comes with each of these gray hairs.

I’ve got perspective — each day is important but no day is definitive.

I’ve got plenty of gas left in the tank to come alongside the members of my team, to see their passion, their frustration, their hope, and their fatigue. If they are willing to keep showing up, I will, too.

Maybe I’ll get a chance to share what I’ve learned. More likely, I, too, will learn something new.

Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

Of (not politics, but) Bullying

Featured ~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Some people don’t like it when I talk about politics….I get it. If, as Wikipedia* states, politics is “the set of activities that are associated with making decisions in groups, or other forms of power relations among individuals, such as the distribution of status or resources,” I can see why the topic might make some people feel uncomfortable.

I mean, why would you want to examine the reality of which folks hold the power, which groups benefit from the decisions of those folks, and which groups are historically and perpetually disenfranchised by those decisions. That examination could lead to unsavory images, to be sure, and we wouldn’t want anyone to have to see that, so, let’s not talk about politics.

Instead, class, today let’s talk about bullies.

Every single school I have been a part of has had its bullies.

They don’t have to be the stereotypical intimidatingly oversized thugs that might be populating on your brain screen. In fact the bully of my first class was quite undersized. Physicality is not essential to the bully. Rather what characterizes the bully is the behavior that seeks to dehumanize, belittle, embarrass, or otherwise harm others and the presence of, at first, a yes man, then a crew, and ultimately the compliance of the larger group in allowing the bully to continue harming others.

It often starts with the bully targeting someone who is demonstrably “weak”. The bully might make fun of the disabled, denigrate immigrants, or even make jokes about someone’s weight. He (or she) looks around for a target then slings a grenade with the intent to do harm. But the harm is not where the power lies.

No. The power lies in the reaction to the harm. He gets a laugh at the expense of the disabled, a snicker at the expense of the immigrant, a guffaw at the expense of the overweight. And those responses are the fuel for the next attack.

Still high from the reaction of the yes men, the bully begins to scope out his next target — maybe someone with a little more clout — maybe a classmate or a peer. First he spreads rumors to harm his target’s reputation, he engages in name-calling to dehumanize his foe, he might even accuse others of wrong-doing, whether or not there is credence to his claims.

Throughout all of this, those around him, seeing the power he is building, have to make a choice — do they want to land in the bully’s sites or take a position at his side?

That’s a tough call, especially if you are in middle school or still have the insecurities that you had when you were in middle school. You might not think you can handle humiliation. You might not think you could weather the name-calling. You might not think you could bear up under the rumors. So, you chuckle at his antics, you move to his side of the room, you excuse his behavior as harmless, and you turn your eyes away from the victim.

And you continue to live with that decision because it still feels safer than having him turn the attention on you.

But then the assaults escalate. The blows become physical. And he’s going after someone who is or who used to be your friend. He might even attack a member of your family. Then you have to face a crisis of identity — who do you want to be? Do you want to stand behind this guy, smiling for the camera in your suit, waving your flag of allegiance, as he takes shots at not only the least of these but also at your neighbor, your brother, your friend, or your mom?

This moment happens in every bullying movie you’ve ever watched — The Karate Kid, when Danny LaRusso takes the blows of Johnny Lawrence almost to his peril in the final match, Mean Girls when Cady, who was once part of Regina George’s crew, finds herself a target when the burn book is circulated — the individual who had chosen to capitulate or even join a bully has to decide if they are going to stand up.

The rare ones who, despite their inner terror, find the courage to say “Not here, not today,” rise up from their devastation and face the bully. In the movies, this usually results in the bully walking away in shame or, in the most ideal of scenarios, having a change of heart and determining to be a different kind of person.

This sometimes happens in real life, too, although not inside the space of 90 minutes, and certainly not when the bully has been allowed to gain control beyond the schoolyard and into the community. No, in those cases, one person standing up will not be enough. To stop a bully who has, through all the text-book tactics of instilling fear through intimidation, established a culture of systemic compliance to the most ludicrous of actions, the community must come together and take a collective stand. They must, united, shout “Not here, not today!”

One person might not stop a bully, but a lot of single people, together, can do almost anything.

The bully can’t continue unless the community lets him.

Certainly the community will wake up and put a stop to it — it’s not politics, after all, it’s just refusing to let one person dehumanize another.

Defend the weak and fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed. Psalm 82:3

A couple of notes:

*If you were a student of mine in the early 2000s and cannot believe that I actually cited Wikipedia, see also lecture #497 entitled “Anybody Can Change”**.

**And when I say “anybody can change”, I do mean even bullies.

Also, if you listened to this post, you might be interested to know that the text version has several embedded links.