The kind of quiet that doesn’t bring peace — but the reminder of what’s truly at stake.

Hello sweetheart. Come swing with me. There’s something heavy on my heart today.

The internal thoughts of a teacher are endless. The fields of concern are many, the rows of tasks are long, the weight of expectation is heavy. Where is the threshold when enough becomes too much? The concerns outnumber the ability? The tasks overwhelm the doer? The weight drowns?

While there are so many avenues we could explore, I would like to tell you the weight of security. From a former teacher, who chose to stay at home because of a new bundle of joy, I have many perspectives. I chose the profession of teaching. I chose to care for children. I chose to explore horizons of intellect, passion, goals. When I signed up for this profession, the hardships of school security, gunmen, and shootings were just starting to rise. This is also something I chose, but unknowingly. 

As a former teacher, to maintain my retirement eligibility, I choose to substitute teach from time to time. Today, I had the pleasure of substituting — on a drill day. Unfortunately for me, it was the scariest drill type available. Earthquake, flash flood, tornado, fire, they’re all scary. But lockdown or active shooter, overwhelmingly terrifying. 

The class did well, exceptionally well. Disheartening.

The class was silent, exceptionally silent. Heartbreaking.

The class moved to the designated spot. The class followed directions.

The class crouched, covered heads and necks. Unnerving.

We teachers did our part. We doublechecked doors.

Pulled window blinds. Stacked desks, chairs. Haunting.

Then we sat. Next to the students. Giving them thumbs up, reminding them of silence, showing the shh sign at our lips. Gut-wrenching.

Then we listened. Nothing.

2 minutes pass. It’s hard to stay in this position for so long.

5 minutes pass. Legs falling asleep.

7 minutes, banging on the adjacent classroom door. We can hear it. It’s not our door. They look at us. Shh.

10 minutes in, banging on our door.

“Open up!” Banging.

“Police, open up!” Banging.

The looks, the head shakes, shh.

“It’s ___, the principal! Open up!” The kids know the rules. They know how to tell when it’s safe.

As the police officers open our door and tell the class how well they did, the silence, the shelter, we all breathed a sigh. It was, as previously stated, only a drill. 

They acted like the drill it was. No tears. No overwhelm. No anxiety. Looking at what the teachers were doing was confirmation that they were doing what they were supposed to. 

Inside my mind it was chaos. My memory flooded.

Just a few years prior we had an incident. In this very school. It was a false alarm in the end, but the 40 minutes of lockdown preceding that was very real. The look on my students’ faces, as we made in-the-moment decisions, huddled, quiet, sobs. Very different than what I experienced today. 

Just days before my terrifying incident, a real one had shaken the nation. In Texas, an elementary school not unlike mine. An active shooter. That community lost nineteen students and two adults.

I sat there with my students encouraging quiet, comforting, hugging, breathing. I watched the fear wash over some faces, the sobs, one saying under his breath with tears soaking his shirt “this is just like Texas.” He obviously knew what happened just days prior. Some were confused. Some stepped into the roles they have played for years, the comforter. The police were fast, our building was secured quickly. The threat wasn’t within. We didn’t know that. 

My memory brought back the sobs in my ears, the boy with a tear-stained face, “…Texas.” 

Then my eyes scanned these children, in front of me, sheltering silently. These were someone’s babies. These children have adults who love them dearly. These children are their adult’s whole world. The realization of my responsibility hit me. I am completely responsible for these children. 

I had already known this. It’s an intriguing feeling when you know, and then you experience and actually-know.

I now have a son. Any of these children could be MY son; the tiny human who has been put in my care, for my upbringing, my safety, my concern. 

As a mom, I now consider the weight of security on teachers. I am willing to lay down my life to protect your tiny-human (maybe they aren’t tiny anymore). I am willing to go the extra mile to secure, comfort, shield and save your child from the attacks. We all are. There is not one school personnel who is not willing. If they were not willing, they have moved on from this profession. I did not sign up for this knowingly, but I accept the call. 

I must beg to ask though, why?

I am not the brave firefighter to run into a fire. I am not the brave police officer ready to storm through a door. I am not the nurse who continues CPR on a patient to keep them alive while other nurses heal wounds. I am not who would be first named a “hero.” I did not choose those professions. It’s not my style, or my passion.

My passion is to lead invigorating conversations that cause mental opinions to shift and consider that maybe, just maybe, there actually is another side in the debate. My passion is to dive deeply into the processes of human nature to see the signs of detrimental or fruitful habits of societies and encourage that we think about the choices we make and what contributions we are making in our society. My passion is to define a mathematical hurdle and show applicable strategies that define personal success. My passion is children learning, growing, thriving. Yet, I meet my passionless calling to defend, protect, and save students, with confidence because it’s what’s required of me. 

Teachers may not be automatically defined as heroes based on their everyday contributions to society. We don’t run into fires to save people, but we do take a line of students safety out of fires reach. We don’t force entry in the case of an emergency, but we do block entry in the case of internal threats. We don’t manage IVs, but we do apply band aids to scraped knees, and yes, we administer Epi-Pens when we have to. We don’t roll out the red carpet for a tornado, but we lead students to the safest part of the building. We account for every child, every day, multiple times a day for safety. It’s the backbone of our actions. 

Why?

Because we love our students. 

But loving them shouldn’t mean we carry this weight alone. 

We are educators. Not law enforcement. Not emergency responders. Not military personnel. And yet, we are expected to respond to every crisis with the calm, the courage, and the tactical awareness of all three, while still teaching fractions by 10:30. And don’t get me started on the academic restraints and unrealistic expectations piled on top.

It shouldn’t be this way.

Why are we required to live in this reality day in and day out? Why is it acceptable to place one adult in a classroom, alone, with twenty or more lives depending on them? What if the substitute doesn’t know the drill? What if they panic? What if they freeze? What if I freeze?

Why isn’t every building equipped with more than just hope?

Where is the funding for safety personnel in every school building? For multiple adults in every room? For locks that work, blinds that close, hallways that are actually safe?

The answer it seems we’re given is always the same: money.

But if money is the reason, that’s a pretty shameful one.

Because our children are worth far more.

Parents, we need you.

Not just to pack the lunches and check the folders. We need your voices. Your reason. Your support.

When your child comes home upset, or confused, or frustrated — please listen. But also pause. Ask questions. Be slow to point blame.

Most of us aren’t just doing our jobs. We’re living them.

We are not your enemy. We are your first line of defense, emotionally and physically, in ways that you may never see.

We love your children. Fiercely.

Please remember we are on the same team.

Community, 

We keep asking for help.

Engagement. Involvement. Volunteers. Funding. Support. Supplies.

But does the community know what we’re actually facing? Do you know what your school buildings need? Do you know if they have the right tech, the right locks, the right people in the right places? Have you noticed whether the main entry is truly secure, or just a door with a sign taped to it, “check in at office”?  Because if you don’t, maybe it’s time to ask. Not out of guilt, but out of love.

These are your schools.

These are your neighbors.

These are your children.

And they need more than just drills. They need a community willing to carry the weight with us.

I did not sign up for this.

I became a teacher to spark minds, not shield bodies. To guide questions, not suppress panic. To build thinkers — not emergency plans.

And yet, we’ve all adapted.

We stack desks. We blackout windows. We whisper “shhh” with steady hands and trembling hearts. We run drills like soldiers. We carry trauma like armor.

But here’s the question: Why is this normal?

What kind of culture asks its teachers to be heroes in bulletproof silence – and then pays them with doubt, scrutiny, and broken systems?

I don’t know all the answers. I’m just a mom now, holding both memories and a baby in the same arms. But I know what fear feels like. And I know what love will do when fear comes knocking. I see it every time a teacher locks a door, calms a class, and holds silence like it’s sacred.

As I sit with it all — the drills, the memories, the fear, the responsibility — I feel the discord. The misalignment between what’s being asked and what’s being provided. Between what teachers carry and how little support they’re given. Between the stakes and the silence surrounding them.

I don’t show up in the classroom every day anymore. I’m home now, raising my son. Holding space for a different kind of growth.

But I remember. And I carry it still.

Because what happened in those classrooms never fully leaves you.

Because the love I had for those students doesn’t disappear when the school bell stops ringing.

Because even from the outside, I can still see — teachers and children deserve better.

And love should never have to prove its worth through sacrifice alone.

Take some flowers for your table. Maybe wild ones — strong, rooted, and still in bloom.