The Email I Never Sent

I'm sitting at my desk long after the students have left, writing the things I'm not supposed to say in staff meetings. I have to be the one who remains strong, who has a plan for every crisis. But right now, I'm trying to hold it all together while I'm falling apart.

Some mornings, I sit in my car in the parking lot trying to find the courage to walk through those front doors. The anxiety starts before I even turn off the engine because I know what's waiting. No subs. Parents who are upset about something again. Crisis after crisis. Technology failures. Staffing emergencies. And I'm supposed to be the one who fixes it all.

And I haven't even opened my email yet. I'm terrified to look because I know what's there. Another state mandate that makes no sense for our kids. Another parent complaint that's going to take hours to unravel. Another problem I don't know how to fix. So it sits there, unopened, while the number climbs and my stomach churns.

I am tired of being the person holding the target while everyone takes shots. I collect arrows from the board, leadership, the community, teachers, students, parents, and from the exhaustion radiating from this building because you're drowning, and I can't save you. I have nowhere to put them. They accumulate in my chest until some nights I can't breathe.

I feel like a hypocrite every time I send an email about self-care. I'm handing you one more initiative while you're already underwater. I see you grading late at night. I see you covering classes during your planning period. I see you buying supplies with your own money. I hate being the messenger for mandates that steal your time. I want to have your back, but most days, my back is just the only thing between you and the next hit.

I once had a dream about this job. I thought I'd be in classrooms every day, helping you with struggling kids, celebrating your wins. Now it feels like a nightmare. I haven't done a classroom walkthrough in three weeks because I've been managing a lawsuit threat, a student in crisis, and a staffing emergency. The math is impossible—47 things on today's list, 6 hours to do them. And something unexpected always happens.

I wish I had money for the interventionist you need, the assistants that would let you actually teach, the counselor for kids carrying trauma we can't address. I wish I had time to write each of you a real letter of appreciation. I see you staying late to tutor the kid everyone else gave up on. I see you handling impossible parents with grace. But I'm rushing past you to the next crisis instead of asking how you're really doing.

I care about you more than you know, and there's this wall between us I never wanted. I remember the lounge before I became principal—the tribe, the venting, the jokes, the belonging. Now, when I walk into the lounge, the conversation stops. I've lost my people. My family is tired of me being physically present but mentally absent.

I'm not perfect. I make mistakes daily. I'm winging it more than you think, making decisions with incomplete information and praying they're right. I lay awake at 3 AM replaying conversations, wondering if I said the wrong thing, if my decision made it worse.

I carry your stress home. When you're overwhelmed, I feel it. When you're thinking about quitting, I spend days wondering what I could have done differently. What support did I fail to provide?

Nobody sees this part. Nobody sees me sitting in my car gathering strength to face another day. Nobody sees the tears after everyone leaves, the panic attacks in the bathroom, the nights working until 2 AM because I can't turn off my brain. Nobody sees me questioning whether I'm cut out for this, whether I'm failing everyone, whether I should quit before I do more damage.

The loneliness is the worst part. Even in a building full of people, I am profoundly alone. I hold confidential information I can't share. I make decisions I can't fully explain. I'm stuck in the middle—too removed to be one of you, too invested to not care about every person here.

I'm not supposed to struggle. I'm the leader. I'm supposed to have answers. So I smile in hallways, project confidence in meetings, and reassure you we'll figure it out, even though I have no idea how. Because if I fall apart, what happens to everyone else?

I'm working 60-plus hours a week trying to be everything for everyone. For students, parents, you, the community, my boss, and the state. But I'm stressed and exhausted, and I'm not responding the way I'd like. I hear myself snap when I should be patient. I'm short when I should be present. I'm disappointed in myself and how I'm leading. Graduate school taught me theories and frameworks, but nobody told me what to do when I have no idea what I'm doing.

I'm barely holding it together most days.

I know I'll never send this. There are good days too. Days when a student finally gets it. Days when a teacher tells me I made a difference. Days when I remember why I wanted this job. But today is hard. And I needed to write what I can't say out loud.

So why do I open the car door?

Because I see you, I see you keeping your cool when students are disrespectful. I see you staying late for kids whom others abandoned. I see you teaching through your own grief because these kids need you. I see you researching lessons that will engage and inspire students to love learning.

If my role is taking shots from the board, leadership, and parents so you don't have to, if my job is carrying the stress so you can focus on kids, if my purpose is being the lightning rod so you don't get hit—then I'll keep doing it because you're doing the most important work in the world.

I'm not a hero. I'm just a person who wakes up tired, drinks too much coffee, forgets to eat lunch, and feels like a failure more often than a success. I'm just a person who cares too much to walk away. I'm just a person proud to be in the trenches with you, even when they're caving in.

This job is ugly, hard, and broken. Some days, I don't know how we survive it. But we keep showing up. We keep investing in kids - the future.

For now, I'll try to get through tomorrow. And then the next day. And then the one after that.

Because that's all I can do.