Embracing Enough-ness Part 3

Realizing I am Doing Enough

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Imagine a woman in a small, sunlit classroom halfway across the world from the place she once called home, standing in front of 23 seven-year-olds, her voice steady but her heart heavy. The children, with their curious eyes and boundless energy, hung on her every word. They didn’t know that their teacher wasn’t just explaining the intricacies of culture or the magic of storytelling. She was trying, desperately, to mold them into something more - global citizens who would grow up to face an often cruel and fractured world with compassion, empathy, and strength.

She had always felt the weight of responsibility. It was as if she’d been born with the belief that she was supposed to change the world. It was why she became a teacher in the first place. But this wasn’t the life she had imagined. She had pictured herself standing in a university lecture hall. Instead, she had packed her life into two suitcases and flown to a country where the everything was foreign. She had told herself it was only for a year, but now, a decade later, her adventure had become her mission.

Every morning, she arrived at the little international school an hour before everyone else. She walked into her classroom, took a deep breath, and reminded herself of her purpose. She wasn’t just teaching English, science, and social studies; she was shaping the next generation of leaders, artists, writers, and thinkers. She wanted her students to be more than successful. She wanted them to be kind. She wanted them to care about the world, about each other, about the things that truly mattered. And so, every day, she poured every ounce of herself into her lessons. She read books with them that taught empathy, guided discussions about fairness and justice, and celebrated every small act of kindness she saw.

But at night, when the classroom emptied and the laughter of her students faded into silence, the weight of her mission left her hollow. She would go home to the small apartment she shared with her husband who only lived there part time, her body aching and her mind racing. She worried constantly. Was she doing enough? Were her students really growing into the people the world needed them to be? And then there were the more personal fears - how long could she keep this up? Could she provide for her family? How would she and her husband build a marriage when she could barely scrape together enough emotional energy to be present?

Her evenings weren’t her own. After school, she would grab a quick snack, often just a rice cake with some cheese, and prepare for her second job. For the past seven years, she had been tutoring a boy named Dada. She had started working with him when he was just a quiet first-grader, shy and struggling with English. Now he was heading into eighth grade. Dada’s mother, a single parent, relied on this woman in ways that went far beyond academics. She wasn’t just Dada’s teacher; she was his mentor, his role model, his bridge to a world his mother couldn’t always navigate.

Quitting wasn’t an option. Every time she thought about scaling back, she pictured Dada. If she stopped now, would he still succeed? Would he still believe in himself? The questions haunted her, so she kept going. On Saturdays, when most people were resting, she was at Dada’s house, guiding him through homework and taking him out into the world for a couple of hours when they were finished.

By the time she returned home each night, the exhaustion was bone-deep. She often skipped dinner, too tired to cook, too drained to sit at the table. Instead, she would collapse onto the bed, her mind still spinning with worries about her students, her finances, her future. Her husband tried to help, but even he didn’t fully understand the burden she carried. How could anyone?

Most nights, she took sleeping pills just to shut off her brain so she could sleep and prepare to do it all over again. Because no matter how heavy the weight became, she couldn’t put it down. The world needed her - or at least that’s what she told herself. And deep down, she believed it.

One day, as she was leaving the classroom, a little girl named Claudia tugged on her sleeve. “Ms Lori,” she said, her voice small but sincere, “I like how you always smile at everyone. It makes me want to smile at people, too.”

Lori felt a lump rise in her throat. In that moment, she realized that maybe, just maybe, her efforts weren’t in vain. She wasn’t changing the world in sweeping, dramatic ways. But she was planting seeds - in Claudia, in Dada, in every child who passed through her classroom.

And maybe that was enough.

I am this Ms. Lori.

Me, after Parent-Teacher conferences

It is the end of the year, and we are all a bunch of walking zombies. Yesterday I learned that I will not be following my class to the next grade level. I don’t know how I feel about that. I, along with my co-teacher, have invested some much energy, love, compassion, discipline, and empathy into our students this year. I’m sorta sad to give them up. To be clear, she gets to go with them, and I get a whole batch of fresh kids. Right, I didn’t say…I teach first grade. New students on a new part of their academic journey in a new school, one that happens to be damn near as academically rigorous as Yale, with new teachers and classmates.

This is a HUGE responsibility and one I take very seriously.

I find myself pondering - Have I done enough?

Have I taught them enough kindness? Have I taught them to read questions carefully? Have I taught them that their experiences and words matter? Have I taught them to love learning and keep wondering about the world? Have I taught them to ask questions, find answers, and discern what needs discerning? Have I taught them to live with love in their heart?

Have I taught them how to fail?

Have I taught them they can do hard things?

Have I…done enough?

The decision for me to stay behind comes from on high - those who realized I am a foundation builder. Some days I doubt that. Some days, like over this last month, when my students have suddenly forgotten how to be human students in a real world school (everybody is a maniac these days!), those days…I feel like a failure.

But then the student teacher who will join our staff next year told me just today that my class is SO good compared to the other first grade class…ah-hum, the class SHE will be taking in September. We discussed the different classroom management strategies employed in each classroom, and I shared my perspectives on a few things. She tells me she will try some of the things I shared with her. My heart felt warm.

But is it enough?

This question haunts me.

Why I seem to take on the weight of the world with my teaching is something I need to work out with my therapist. Perhaps I am trying to make up for all my parenting mistakes when I was younger with my own child. Perhaps I am trying to leave a legacy. Perhaps I am just a workaholic looking for eternal validation and a sense of superiority over all those *other* teachers who just come abroad for the money. Truth is…I don’t know. All I know is that I am exhausted.

At the end of the day, I have to rest in the fact that I have given my all, and that is enough. I have tried my best. I have seen the fruits of my effort first-hand, and the fruits of my effort have been noticed by others in my school. But then, how do you turn it off? How do you give a little less, care a little less, and learn to be a little more selfish? Dear Reader, I don’t know the answer to these questions. What I do know is that something has to change before I break, and it starts with me changing the narrative and telling myself that I’ve done enough.

---

She stood at the front of her classroom. Her first graders, now almost second graders, were scattered around the room, their laughter and chatter filling the air as they signed one another’s Grade One memory books. She watched them with a bittersweet smile. They were so small, yet somehow they had grown so much in just one year.

She had spent the last nine months pouring herself into these children. She had taught them about English and science, social studies and music. But more than that, she had taught them how to be kind, how to listen, how to believe in themselves and in each other. She had wiped tears, tied shoes, mediated squabbles, and celebrated victories both big and small.

And now, in a few short hours, she would have to let them go.

Her chest tightened at the thought. She knew she’d still see them in the hallways next year, their faces lighting up when they spotted her. But they wouldn’t be hers anymore. They would belong to someone else, and she would become just another small piece of their story. The realization left a hollow ache in her heart.

She moved between the desks, pausing to admire the colorful collages of memories her students made. Emma beamed up at her as she held up her paper. “Look! This is when we did the butterfly project!”

“You did such a beautiful job, Emma!” She tousled the girl’s hair gently, her heart swelling with pride and sadness.

As the day wore on, the classroom emptied, little by little. Parents arrived to collect their children, and ms. Lori found herself kneeling down to hug each child as they left.

“Thank you for being the best teacher ever,” said Hugo, his small arms wrapping tightly around her neck.

“You’re going to do amazing things in second grade,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m so proud of you.”

When the last child was gone, the teacher sank into one of the tiny chairs, the quiet of the empty classroom pressing in on her. She stared at the bulletin board she had decorated with the students’ artwork, the sight of it overwhelming her with both pride and doubt.

Had she done enough for them? Had she given them everything they needed? What if they forgot what she had taught them? What if they needed her and she wasn’t there?

But then, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a soft, golden light across the room, a thought bubbled up in her mind. She remembered how shy Jaiden had been on the first day of school, barely speaking above a whisper, and how now he raised his hand to answer questions with confidence. She remembered how Ryan used to get frustrated and give up when he couldn’t figure something out, and how now he took deep breaths and tried again. She remembered how they had all worked together to raise money for the children with heart defects, their little hearts brimming with compassion and generosity.

Ms. Lori realized then that it wasn’t about being everything to them forever. She had been what they needed this year, and that was enough. She had planted seeds of kindness, courage, and curiosity in each of them. Those seeds would grow, nurtured by future teachers, parents, and life itself. She had been a part of their journey, and that was what mattered.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. It was the school janitor, here to clean the room. Ms. Lori gave him a small smile and began gathering her things. Tomorrow, she would start preparing for a new group of children. They would need her just as much as these ones had, and she would give them everything she could.

As she turned off the lights and stepped out of the room, she whispered a quiet promise to herself: “I am enough. What I’ve given is enough.”

And in the echo of her footsteps down the silent hallway, she felt the truth of it settle in her heart.