The Year That Almost Broke Me—And the One That Rebuilt Me

Tomorrow is the last day of school, and I can honestly say I’ve never been more ready for summer break.

This was the hardest year I’ve ever had as a teacher. No contest. The behaviors were intense. The needs were massive. And the class? 22 wildly different, wildly emotional, wildly energetic second graders. Every day felt like a mental and emotional triathlon. One minute I was teaching phonics, the next I was mediating a meltdown, and somewhere in between I was managing all the shifting needs and personalities, constantly recalibrating.

The range of needs in my classroom this year was like nothing I’ve ever seen. I had students who barely spoke and students who were so academically advanced they were correcting my errors. Every single day required me to stretch and adapt and meet each kid where they were—and some days, I barely managed. A lot of days, actually.

We didn’t really hit a groove this year. Not a real one. We had pockets of progress, sure, but it never felt easy. And now, at the end of the year when you expect a little calm, a little coasting… nope. Full-blown chaos. Square-one behaviors. End-of-year energy on steroids.

But through all of it—through every fire I had to put out and every “Why is this happening again?” moment—I had people. My coworkers. My lifeline. The group texts, the hallway check-ins, the “Oh my God, SAME” glances in the copy room… they got me through this year.

We went through a lot together. More than just challenging classes and tough days. We experienced real grief this year. We lost a student. Something no teacher is ever prepared for—something no one should ever have to go through. And yet, we did. And the only reason I didn’t completely fall apart is because I wasn’t doing it alone.

There’s a different kind of bond that forms when you survive something like that with your people. The depth of connection, the honesty, the shared resilience—it’s something I’ll carry with me forever. I’m walking out of this school year closer to some of my coworkers than I’ve ever been, and I’m so grateful for that.

And now that I’ve *almost* come out on the other side of this chaos, I can feel it—I’m different. Not broken. Not bitter. Just… more grounded. More in tune.

That shift is thanks in large part to something I kept turning back to during the hardest moments: Amy Johnson’s book Just a Thought. Her writing, based on the Three Principles—Mind, Thought, and Consciousness—reminded me again and again that my experience was coming from my thinking, not the situation itself.

That the stress, overwhelm, and frustration I felt weren’t built into the kids, the system, or the schedule. They were built into my thoughts about those things. And those thoughts? They weren’t facts. They were just passing energy, just weather systems moving through— but behind the weather was always the calm blue sky that is truly always there. I just had a lot of storms this year.

This simple but powerful understanding gave me so much peace. It didn’t erase the hard stuff, but it helped me stop resisting it. I didn’t have to believe every frantic story my mind created. I didn’t have to attach to every feeling like it meant something deep or permanent. I could just… notice it. Let it pass. Return to the moment. Remember the blue sky would reappear soon.

And in that space, I found something really beautiful: calm. Clarity. Strength I didn’t know I had.

There were absolutely days when I wanted to quit. I googled “remote jobs with zero human interaction” weekly. I fantasized about silence, about working in a forest ranger tower or becoming a professional houseplant.

But I stayed. I showed up. Even when it felt like I had nothing left to give, I somehow found one more story to read, one more hug, one more patient response when I really wanted to scream into a pillow.

And now I’m walking into summer not just exhausted—but proud. And light. Lighter than I’ve felt in a long time. Because I let go of needing everything to feel easy. I stopped trying to fix things I couldn’t fix. And I slowly learned to lean into the mess instead of fighting it.

This year almost broke me. But it didn’t.

It brought me to my knees—but also back to myself. I’m stronger now, more grounded, and somehow more at peace, even if I can’t fully explain why. There’s so much uncertainty ahead, and yet—for the first time in a while—I’m okay with not having all the answers. The hard years rarely feel good in the moment, but they’re the ones that shape me the most. And as uncomfortable as that can be, I never want to stop evolving. So I am grateful, despite the chaos, the heartbreak, and the exhaustion—because somehow, all of it brought me to a better version of myself.

To every teacher out there who barely crawled to the finish line: I see you. You’re not alone. You did an amazing job. You are someone strong.

And to the parents who might be reading: Please know, even on the hardest days, your kids were loved. Even when we were overwhelmed, we never stopped showing up.

Here’s to the teachers, the teammates, and the truth that sometimes the hardest years are the ones that teach us the most—not just about education, but about ourselves.

Here’s to the summer we all deserve.

Let’s not lose our minds together,

Tori