Category: Anxiety and self-discovery

I have long believed that the Monday after the Superbowl should be a holiday.  I mean… for everyone.  But maybe especially for teachers.  And MOST especially for Middle School Teachers. 

Think about it for a moment.  Imagine a middle schooler.  Twelve or thirteen or fourteen years old.  The twelve-year-olds are just emerging from elementary school.  They’re gaining awareness and independence and trying with varied levels of success to NOT be little kids anymore. By thirteen, they’re a ball of emotion. They want so badly to be liked… but they don’t LIKE anything.  Or at least that’s how they want to appear. The fourteen-year-olds are beginning to think they know it all.  They’re full of unearned swagger and strong opinions.  All of them are emerging social scientists and researchers; constantly on the watch for what will push them down a path toward social acceptance, and terrified of anything that might ostracize them from their peers.  

Take that storm of hormones and emotions and intensity.  Then add to it a jolt of televised, late-night, emotionally-laden warfare between THEIR team and whomever happens to be on the other side of the ball.  

Feed them crap and caffeine. Let them stay awake, shouting at their screens, full of adrenaline and anticipation and, eventually… disappointment. Hope they sleep a little.  Then send them to school. 

*****

“Mrs. Glennon, I didn’t sleep at all last night.  I was just so sad,” from the tiny twelve year old who had been so eager to celebrate with his family.  

“Drake Maye is dead to me,” declared the teen who proudly sported an ‘I love Drake Maye’ tee shirt three days ago. 

“I can’t learn VOCABULARY today.  I’m in mourning,” from the student who loves big words. 

“Did you SEE that? The ball went RIGHT THROUGH HIS HANDS! How could he miss that catch?” from the kid who confidently believes that he’s more skilled than a professional wide receiver. 

*****

They feel everything so intensely.  This level of passion is what makes middle schoolers so endearing… and so exhausting.  They are both acutely aware and utterly clueless.  

The first half of every class was spent trying to refocus their limited energy and attention.  The second half of the class was spent admitting my failure to achieve that goal.  

By last period, I had nearly given up.  I had scrapped the vocabulary lesson in lieu of a slightly more engaging personal memoir.  The students were only half-working, and I was counting down the minutes to the final bell.  

“Mrs. G, can you help me?” one of them asked, with his back turned to me.  I walked toward him, and as I approached, he turned his face to reveal a sharpied piece of clear scotch tape stuck purposely and securely to his top lip.  His impish smile was irresistible, and I couldn’t help but laugh.  

“That’s quite a moustache,” I giggled, and continued to help the other students. 

“Yeah.  It’s really growing fast,” he agreed.  

A few moments later, I looked up again.  He had attached more scotch tape to form a fu-manchu.  A minute later, he had a goatee.  Then sideburns.  

By the time he was fully bearded, the laughter of a group of overtired, disappointed pre-teens felt like medicine.  I belly-laughed with them, finally accepting defeat.  

The memoirs and the vocab can wait for tomorrow, because they are just kids, after all. And (luckily) the Superbowl only comes once a year.  

This week has been full of big feelings. 

We had to put down our 14 year old black lab, CeCe. So many of you know how awful that is… for me it was a first.  I haven’t ever had to make such an awful, hard, right decision.  And it was the right thing to do.  But that doesn’t make it any easier.  

She was such a gentle giant.  She had a fierce bark, but not a mean bone in her body. She adored us all, and loved nothing more than to slowly, stealthily inch her massive body into the laps of those that she loved.  She was so tall that she didn’t have to jump onto a couch or a bed; she simply stepped up.  When she was younger, she would step up, under the blankets, into our bed at night and army crawl her way right in between Jack and I, as if we may not notice.  

She grew up with my children. Looking back through photos of our beloved pet, I was also reminded of how young they once were.  That smiling little boy showing off his legos with the dog at his feet is now a gentle giant himself, towering over both of his parents and nearly grown into the man he will become.  That dog has been by Kyle’s side through all of his transitions, and watching him care for her with such gentle compassion in her last days made my heart sing with pride.  

We knew it was time, but we were trying to ‘do it right.’  We didn’t want to do it on Jack’s birthday.  We all wanted to be there.  So we decided that we would bring her to the vet together on Saturday, August 9th.  

The morning of August 8th, Jack woke up first and came to get me.  “I don’t know if we can wait until tomorrow,” he whispered.  My rock, this man who personifies strength, had tears in his eyes and we decided to wake the kids. Nobody argued.  Everybody cried.  And one by one, each of these men called in sick to work so they could be by CeCe’s side in her last moments. 

Kyle lovingly made paw prints, and we buried her in the backyard.  

And three hours later, we were all dressed up and headed to the opening night of Footloose to watch Cam shine as Reverend Shaw Moore.  And boy did he shine.  That kid has a presence on stage and a voice that can speak to your soul.  I know I’m biased, because he’s my kid, but watching him on stage gives me goosebumps every time.

And this one gave us a glimpse of some acting chops we haven’t really seen before.  Especially in kids’ plays, there are a lot of one-dimensional characters.  He was Jafar in Aladdin; Tamatoa the crab in Moana; the Dentist in Little Shop of Horrors, and Kristoff in Frozen.  He did a great job with all of them. But this time, he got to be a character who evolved.  He played angry, and vulnerable, and heartbroken, and hopeful.  He literally brought the audience to tears.  It was SO good.  I was SO happy for him.  

But when we walked back into the house, full of pride and joy, our girl wasn’t there to greet us, and the sadness came again.  

I wanted so badly to separate the grief and the joy.  I wanted to take some time to mourn.  I wanted to carve out some time to have my feelings and then move on.  

But that’s not how any of this works.  It’s not how LIFE works.  We can’t compartmentalize everything into neat boxes and label them with joy or grief or pride or heartbreak. We can’t pause the feelings.  They just keep coming in overlapping waves.  We don’t get to decide.  We can’t impose a timeline because there is no way to neaten up the messiness of being human.  

This afternoon, we have family coming over to celebrate Jack’s birthday.  I already know there will be laughter and joy and celebration.  But I also know there will be sadness that comes in waves.  Being human is a crazy knot of tangled up emotions.

Today, I’m not going to try to sort them or shut them down. I’m going to be with my people; and together, we’re going to love each other through it while we feel each and every one of those big feelings.

Today is my fifth day alone.  

So far, I have done a lot of walking, cleaning, and cooking.  There’s a blueberry pie in the oven as I write this, and I’m averaging 12 thousand steps a day.  My sheets and my windows are clean, and the painting begins tomorrow.  My stepdad and I bought the supplies and did the planning, so I can’t back out.  I’ve read three books and finished my first diamond art project.  I’ve gotten together with friends twice; once for a walk and once for lunch… both in the sunshine.  I’m taking an online class about AI and I’ve scheduled the doctor, the dentist, and the dermatologist.  Today I’ll get my nails done and meet with a financial advisor and go to the grocery store again. 

It feels like a pretty good balance.  35 year old me would be insanely jealous. But 25 year old me lived a lot like this, even during the school year. 

*****

When I was 22, I moved to Boston.  All by my lonesome.  I mistakenly thought I was a city girl trapped in the country, and I wanted desperately to build something of my own, far from home. 

At the time, I was undecided.  It would be Boston or San Francisco.  I was young and my optimism was fearless.  When I decided on Boston, I literally took a physical map and drew a circle in a 20 mile radius around the city.  I looked up a bunch of cities and towns and applied to schools, knowing absolutely nothing about the area.  

Through a series of beautiful coincidences… and a healthy dose of divine intervention… I found myself in a one-bedroom first floor apartment about half a mile from the school where I taught.  I had a second job waitressing and a third job teaching English to adults.  

I was certainly busy. I made (terrible) curtains myself using a hand-me down sewing machine.  I hosted parties.  A lot of parties.  I baked and I cooked and I read.  I rode my motorcycle and I made an entire scrapbook of my kitten (my kids are jealous). 

But what I remember most about that time was the feeling of freedom.  I have vivid memories of sitting on the tiny front porch with a book and a cup of coffee, waiting for my freshly painted toenails to dry, trying to decide what to do with my day. 

I remember cooking dinner based on nothing but my own personal cravings.  I remember whole days of reading, with only occasional snack breaks. I remember taking myself to the museum, taking myself to the library, taking myself to lunch. 

It’s easy to romanticize it, looking back.  For about three years of my life, I only had myself to take care of. I’m so glad I had that time.  

But in reality, it was lonely.  I eventually got a roommate to help with the rent.  But truth be told, I needed companionship as much as I needed rent money.  Twenty five years later, I am blessed to be able to still count her among my closest friends.  

*****

This summer, I feel a lot of those same freedoms.  I can sip my coffee in the sunshine and decide what to do with my day.  I can take myself out or choose to stay in.  I can read all day, or I can tackle a project.  It’s an incredible freedom.  

But this time, it’s freedom without the loneliness.  At the end of the day, I will again be surrounded by people I love.  I will be able to bask in this beautiful family we’ve created.  And THAT is the biggest blessing of all.  

My family will filter through the front door, one at a time.  They will have stories to share about crazy clients and terrible traffic and they will inevitably ask, “What’s for dinner?”

I haven’t figured that one out for today.  But at least there’s blueberry pie for dessert. 

Mom is recovering.  It’s been two weeks since the surgery, and she’s doing really great.  She’s been really active.  The chemo exhausted her, and now that it’s over, she’s regaining her stamina.  My sister was here and they went out to eat and did some shopping.  The three of us even went for a short walk near the reservoir in town.  Now that school is out for me, we’ve been able to go thrifting and plant flowers and play games; today she’s coming with me to an awards ceremony at Cam’s school. 

But yesterday, I left her home all day; her only company was an antisocial young adult who likely spent most of the day in his basement bedroom.  I’m glad he was here in case she needed help, but I’m sure he didn’t provide her with any company or entertainment.  

The rest of us were at an all-day rugby tournament.  We were anticipating temperatures in the 90s and we knew from experience that we’d be out of the house for 10-12 hours. The tournament was out of state, nearly two hours away, so bringing mom for part of the day wasn’t a feasible option. We decided that it would be best for her to stay home. 

I feel badly because, in hindsight, I think we made the wrong choice.  The tournament was oceanside in Newport, Rhode Island.  The scenery was gorgeous, and a continuous ocean breeze made the temperature just perfect.  We sat in the shade of our canopy, cheering on our team, eating sandwiches, and chatting with other families.  In between games, I walked down to the water and put my feet in the ocean, or strolled down near the pier and watched the sailboats go by.  It was an absolutely beautiful day.  On the way home, we stopped for dinner at a pub we like, and it was great not to have to worry about cooking or cleanup.  

What I did worry about was Mom.  She mostly watched YouTube all day.  She watered the plants and put in a load of laundry (which she isn’t supposed to be doing).  She says she was fine, but it doesn’t help me feel less guilty about having such a lovely day while she was home watching TV. 

That’s actually been one of the hardest parts about having her here.  She doesn’t need much physical care, and she tries hard to be helpful.  She does the dishes and cooks and takes care of the dogs… but we all go off to work and school each morning, so she’s spent most of her days alone with our aging black lab.  They’re best buddies now, but I imagine they’re both a bit bored most of the time. 

When Mom came to stay with us, I was worried about a bunch of potential conflicts.  I was afraid that she’d judge my parenting and offer unsolicited advice.  I was afraid that she’d be too sick or weak to use the stairs and we’d have to set up a hospital bed in the living room.  I was afraid that she’d need more care than I could provide while working full time.  I was afraid I might have to take a leave from my job.  I was afraid she wouldn’t respond to treatment and the cancer would get worse.  

Thank God, all of those worries were unfounded.  I’m so grateful for that.  

What’s been hardest is being her only friend here.  What’s been hardest is balancing a full-time teaching job and full-time parenting and volunteer work against also being Mom’s best source of entertainment.  She hasn’t been driving.  So if she wants to go somewhere, I have to bring her.  If she wants to play a game, it’s usually with me.  If she wants to plant herbs or go for a walk or go out for ice cream, that becomes my agenda.  She tries not to be needy, but I feel guilt every time I tell her I can’t.  

Sometimes, even her helping adds to my to-do list.  I have a tendency to let the recycling pile up in the corner of the dining room until I have the energy or the motivation or the time to take care of it.  Mom will sort it and bag it up, but she can’t bring it outside to where it belongs. She leaves the bags for me to take care of, so the thing that I’ve purposely been putting off has to be done now, because she’s started it and she needs me to finish it.  

All that to say that having Mom here has been hard in a different way than I anticipated.  The beginning of my summer vacation has definitely helped.  I have more time to give her, and I can focus a little more on fun things instead of the daily grind.  Soon, she’ll move into an AirBnb with her husband and her dogs.  They’ll have their own space while she’s getting daily radiation treatment. I’m looking forward to being able to meet up with her for lunch, or get together for a game of scrabble, or take a drive to Newport for a visit that doesn’t involve 8 hours of rugby.  

Every once in a while, Mom gets teary.  She’ll hug me and say, “Thank you for saving my life.”  It feels extreme, but in the same breath, we brought her here for world-class medical treatment.  And it worked.  She’s got a new lease on life, and she’s thrilled to be on the mend.  She’s so excited to have her hair growing back, and her energy rebounding.  She’s thrilled to be with her husband and her dogs in her own space.  She’s thrilled to explore New England this summer, and I’m looking forward to doing it with her.  

I’m the villain in her story.  God knows I never meant to be.  I wanted so much for her.  Joy.  Peace.  Stability.  Love.  Opportunities.  Connections.  Childhood.  I wanted to give her all of it.  I wanted to be the hero in her story.  

Is that the truth?  It’s what I wanted to believe.  But maybe the truth is that I wanted to be a hero in my own story.  Don’t we all?  Don’t we approach each choice as the protagonist in the narrative of our lives?  Don’t we all see ourselves as the good guy? 

And inevitably, we live our lives and we make choices and we say things and we do things that will make us the villain in someone else’s narrative.  Sometimes we know.  We break relationships.  We argue.  We become estranged.  We pull away.  

But sometimes we don’t.  We don’t know what we’ve done or said or implied; we only know that we’ve been shut out.  We’ve been sidelined or implicated or ghosted.  And it feels pretty awful.  

I held out hope for a while.  Maybe I could fix it.  Maybe she’d reconsider.  Maybe we would be able to reconnect someday.  In reality, that’s unlikely.  Sad, but true.  So how do we move forward?  What is to be learned?  What’s the takeaway?  How do we continue to love and laugh and make ourselves vulnerable, knowing that it could all end in heartbreak? 

I don’t know.  I don’t have answers.  But I have a theory.  I think I need to stop trying to be a hero in someone else’s story, and focus on being a real, evolving, growing, protagonist in my own story.  Good guys and bad guys only exist in Fairy Tales.  In real life, we’re all a little bit of both.  We’re all flawed and fallible and helpful and heroic.  

A hero can only exist in caricatures or fiction.  

But growing is real.  Learning is real.  Kindness and hope and compassion are real.  I can’t aspire to be a hero in someone else’s story.  I can only aspire each day to be a slightly better version of the flawed human I was in yesterday’s narrative.  

I haven’t been able to sit down for four days.  I have this nervous energy buzzing in my veins.  I’ll try to relax and watch TV; within 5 minutes, I’m up again.  Washing some dishes, checking on the kids, cleaning out the junk drawer.  In my mind, I’m planning to sit and crochet.  I pick up my yarn and hook and I can stick with it for about 8 minutes before I’m itching to get out of the house.  

This weekend, Jack and I did SO MANY lovely things.  We went out to dinner.  We did some furniture shopping.  We spent a morning in Coolidge Corner, shopping and walking and chatting and eating.  We visited friends. We went to church and facilitated a really important meeting about a really important mission.  We cooked and cleaned and did the meal planning and paid the bills.  He watched a football game, but I couldn’t make myself sit.  I did some lesson planning.  And even then, as it was getting dark outside, I called him upstairs to chat with me as I was changing the sheets.  “I need to get out of the house.  I have this itchy, spinny feeling, and I just cannot sit right now.”  We went to the grocery store, instead.  At 5pm.  Who are we?  Groceries are for 7am.  About that, I am sure. 

So now it is nearly 7am, and I don’t have any groceries to buy.  I have already sent three emails organizing a fundraiser.  I have put in a load of laundry and made the bed and fed the dogs and had my first cup of coffee. I have removed Facebook from my phone because I think scrolling might be chipping away at my sanity. 

And the itchy feeling won’t go away.  It feels like my soul knows that something NEEDS TO BE DONE and nobody has informed my poor, sweet soul that no amount of folding laundry is going to fix this. 

*********

Several years ago, I first mentioned the idea of a drop in center for LGBTQIA+ teens to my then-pastor.  She thought it was a great idea.  Then COVID hit.  

I mentioned it again when our new pastor started.  She loved the idea.  And then she got sick. 

I brought it up again at a church meeting in the Spring.  People seemed open to the idea and suggested I explore it further. 

I did.  I connected with a local agency.  We met.  We chatted.  We formed a partnership.  We talked to other community members.  There was a lot of enthusiasm.  

And yesterday, we had a church meeting.  The support was overwhelming.  And the pushback was frustrating.

To be honest, nobody has outright said they don’t support the idea.  We are, after all, an Open and Affirming church.  Obviously.

But I feel sad that we’re getting bogged down in details.  Permission slips.  Insurance.  Waivers.  If I dig deep enough, I can appreciate that there are people who are looking out for our congregation.  But inside, my heart is wailing, “Who is looking out for these KIDS?”  

*****

A family with a trans teen in Florida travels to Massachusetts every six months to see a doctor who can legally prescribe puberty blockers and hormones.  

A trans adult has a dream college in a deeply red state.  He won’t go there for fear of violence.  

A young adult just gleefully changed the gender marker on their birth certificate to ‘x.’ The family lawyer sadly advised them to change it back because it makes them a target if laws change.  

Trans people across the country are stockpiling their hormone medication, because there is a very real chance that it will become unavailable or unaffordable with legislative changes.  

Surveys tell us that 41% of LGBTQ+ young people seriously considered attempting suicide in the past year, including roughly half of transgender and nonbinary youth.

******

Is it something about the human condition that draws us to hatefulness?  Do we need to have a target or a common enemy in order to feel like we’re part of something?  Does there have to be an other for us to be in community?  The group keeps changing.  Black and brown people.  Jewish people. Gay and Lesbian people.  Refugees.

And as it becomes socially unacceptable to be hateful toward one group, do we just arbitrarily choose another?  We look around at who seems most different, and we put a target on their backs? 

My deepest condolences go out to the trans community.  You are officially the new target. Well… you and refugees.   

*****

Jack voted for Trump the first time.  Some of our worst fights were about that election.  I was focused on abortion.  He rolled his eyes at me.  “They’re never going to reverse Roe v. Wade,” he confidently proclaimed.  

His world shook when it happened.  He kept apologizing.  “I really never imagined that we would vote to go backwards.” 

He won’t vote again for someone who doesn’t support a woman’s right to choose. I’m so glad to be married to a man who can change his mind. 

*****

I woke my son up with tears in my eyes on November 6th.  “I kinda figured,” he replied, with sadness and resolve. 

*****

“Our country is cooked,” mumbled a quiet, shy, hardworking 8th grader, as he walked into homeroom.  He only had the nerve to say it because our vocal Trump supporter was absent. 

*****

“It was a hard day, mom.”  His technical high school is full of Trump supporters.  He’s been hesitant to go against the crowd. “In History Class, I said I was rooting for Kamala.  I kept getting side-eye from the football team, until the teacher said, ‘Me, too.’ That helped a little, but I don’t know if those guys are still my friends.” 

*****

My tears were ridiculous to my husband.  He thought I was overreacting.  “It’s just politics. It’s not going to affect our day to day life.  The only place politics have ever hurt me is in my wallet.”  

And there it is.  That’s the whole damned explanation, right there.  I looked at him with sadness.  “You understand why that is, don’t you?”  He paused, but didn’t offer a response.  “It’s because you are a middle class white man.  Nobody has ever passed legislation about your body.  About your medical care.  About your marriage.  Don’t you understand?  That’s the WHOLE POINT.  You have nothing to worry about. Must be nice.” 

I am guilty of it, too.  The word ‘privilege’ is so overused.  But that’s what it is.  It is a privilege to be able to focus on the economy as your highest concern.  You can do that if you’re not worried about someone taking away your basic rights.  For a long time, I wasn’t worried about that.  

I worry all the time now. 

*****

Yesterday, as we left the grocery store, I sighed.  “I probably just need to write.  I need to take all of these buzzy, frenetic thoughts and get them out of my head and onto a page.” 

 He held my hand and smiled.  “Probably not a bad idea.” 

*****

So here I am. Finally sitting. Buzzing just a little less. But maybe some buzzing is a good thing. Maybe we all need to be buzzing just a bit, so that we’re motivated to go out there and do something that makes the world just a little bit better today. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.

As I parked my car in the school parking lot, a police cruiser pulled in behind me.  We parked and walked in together, making small talk, but avoiding the discussion of why he was in our building today. 

 I walked up to the door, using my keycard to buzz us both in.  I walked him to the office (as protocol dictates), and found the principal and assistant principal there, making small talk with a second officer.  Everyone was smiling and pleasant, trying to pretend it was just another day. 

This morning, I had an email from the Superintendent.  And another from our director of Social Emotional Learning.  But, sadly, the contents were familiar, because we’ve been here before. 

*****

Here’s what we need to do today.  

Reassure students that schools are safe places.  (Are they?)

Talk to students in a developmentally appropriate way.  (When does mass murder become a developmentally appropriate topic?)

Be mindful of your own feelings about school violence.  (Translated as: Don’t cry.  Don’t panic.  Don’t let them know you’re scared, too.)

Empower students to take action. See something, Say something.  (Why can’t the adults take action, so the students don’t have to?)

*****

It’s not just another day, but we all go on as if it is.  Truthfully, most of our students are blissfully unaware.  They spent their evenings playing Fortnite, not watching CNN.  But there are a few who are reeling.  Who are scared.  Who feel vulnerable. 

And when you make eye contact with another adult in the hallway, there is a brief flicker.  We’re not okay.  We’re pretending, and maybe we can convince the kids, but we can’t convince each other.  

*****

We speculate on our lunch breaks.  And we imagine.  What if it were us?  How would it have looked here?  Are our protocols enough?  What would we have done? 

Would we recognize a kid as not being a student?  Would we stop him? Could we stop him?  What would we use to break the window and climb out? 

*****

The kids thought we would do an active shooter drill today.  I promised them we wouldn’t.  It would be too traumatic.  Too insensitive.  Too close to reality.  

But what if I’m wrong?  Or what if something does happen?  Have I told them too much? Am I being too reassuring? 

What’s the balance?  Is there a balance?  Damn it.  

*****

More silent speculation on my prep period.  Have we had students capable of this?  Did we see it?  Did we help them enough?  Did we make it worse? Who might have fallen through the cracks?  Who might be a target?  It’s so much easier to see red flags in hindsight. 

I flip through social media on my break.  Already the posts have become polarized.  Gun control.  More mental health supports.  Police in schools.  

And I can’t argue about it because I feel like screaming.  SOMETHING.  TRY SOMETHING.  And then if it doesn’t work, TRY SOMETHING ELSE.  But stop talking.  Stop posting.  Stop bickering and DO SOMETHING.  

The teachers have done all we can.  We have ID badges and keys and checkpoints and cameras and intercoms to ensure that we know who is in the building.  We have social emotional curriculum and bullying protocols and zero tolerance policies.  We have close connections with community resources so we can refer families for help.  We run active shooter drills.  We practice barricading our doors, hiding, running away, throwing things at an intruder.  

Many of us would literally sacrifice our SELVES for the safety of your children.  

And our elected officials just keep sending thoughts and prayers.