My Face Is Splotchy but My Integrity Is Intact

Musings from Active Monitoring

"Testing season is underway..."

...is one of those public education phrases that makes me cringe, but it’s true. We are in the thick of standardized testing. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been actively monitoring the STAAR test. Which means I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time walking slow circles quietly in a room full of teenagers for 5 hours trying not to succumb to my current existential crisis. Good times!

I’m going to say this: 8th grade is the worst/best/hardest/most pivotal year of your entire life. You’re not a kid anymore, but you’re not quite a person yet either. You’re awkward and hormonal and inexplicably resentful of everyone. You’re trying to figure out who you are, where you belong, and what it even means to be you. It’s brutal. And I know, because I remember.

I remember being that age and just wanting someone—anyone—to see me. To talk to me like I mattered. I was young, I was damaged, and I needed it. And now? I get to be that person for someone else.
I’m so lucky. And it’s so hard. Two things can be true.

I don’t care what anyone says—8th grade is the most emotionally charged, confusing, high-stakes year of your entire damn life.You’re figuring out who you are. You’re building habits that might follow you for the next decade. You’re awkward. You’re tired. You’re probably angry and don’t even know why. It’s horrible and formative and kind of beautiful all at once. And for me? It was the year everything changed.

The week before 8th grade started, my mom’s parents (my grandparents—my safe place) were killed in a car wreck. Just gone. And I had no one to walk me through that. Not because I wasn’t worth it, but because no one noticed. Or they didn’t know how to help. Or maybe they just… didn’t.

I was young, I was hurting, and I was alone. And I would’ve given anything for someone (like, literally…any adult) to look me in the eye and really see me. To talk to me like I mattered. To say, “You’re not okay, and that’s okay.”

So now, I try to be that person.

What I See When I Walk in Circles

I woke up a single student 33 separate times during the test (seriously). I watched a kid ate an entire bag of Takis with the same reverence as someone taking communion. I cried twice listening to every thought in this super neurodivergent brain whilst processing a really hard year (it’s an actual nightmare to have to sit quietly with my thooughts in a room full of teenagers for 5 hours). And, most importantly, I saw my kids. I saw how some of them barely made it to school. How some of them sat down and tried their best even though they clearly hadn’t slept. How some of them stared at the screen like it was written in another language…and for many of them, it might as well be.

We expect so much from kids. Too much, sometimes. We expect them to sit still, stay focused, read complicated passages written in 400 years ago, write thoughtful essays, do math under pressure—all while dealing with puberty, trauma, social dynamics, and who knows what else outside of this building.

Most adults in Texas probably wouldn’t pass this test. And yet, we act like these kids should just get it. Meanwhile, many of them are growing up in chaos. They have zero work-life control. They didn’t choose their circumstances. They didn’t ask for this pressure. The least I can do is show up for them in the way I always wished someone had shown up for me.

I’m Not at My Best—and That’s Okay, Too

This year has been hard. Personally. Professionally. Emotionally. My co-teacher is going through it, too. We are both economy-class passengers aboard the struggle bus this year, but we still show up. We show up because we believe in what we’re doing. We show up because someone has to. We show up because these kids deserve to feel seen.

Struggling or not, I try to bring the ol’ razzle dazzle to Loftinland every single day. Some days, all I bring the puffy red eyes and that cried-in-the-car face. But I always bring my integrity. I’m going to show up and do my job, and I’m going to do the best I can. A phone on 20% kicks into battery saving mode to preserve life, but a decently functional phone beats a dead phone all day long, and I guess it’s like that.

They don’t know what I’m dealing with outside of this room, nor will they ever. Boundaries are one of the most important things I can model for them. have to. But they do know I get it when life is hard. I let them know that if something's going on outside that makes it hard to be their best inside, I see them. I’ll work with them. As long as they communicate and try to get through it—we’re good.

Because that’s what I needed. And I’m determined to give what I never got.

They're iPad Kids, But It’s Not Their Fault

I struggle every single day with the same thing every public educator does, and disenchantment and disillusion are my late April besties. Yes, there’s a lack of respect that puts rage in my heart on some days. Yes, the enthusiasm is deeply missing most every day. Yes, the attention spans are… not ideal.

But they’re kids. They are literal children (no matter how grown they seem [or try to seem] sometimes) whose brains are developing. And they’re grow up in a digital dopamine hellscape. Sometimes I have to pause and remind myself: they’re still learning how to be people. And I get to help with that. Which means I also model what it looks like to do hard things with grace, even when I’m falling apart.

If They Learn That, It’s Enough

If they leave my class knowing how to write a constructed response about a historical event? Great. But if they leave knowing that big feelings are okay—that showing up with your whole, messy, real self is okay—and that you can be struggling and still be kind? Still be committed? Still do the damn thing? That’s a life skill. That’s what I care about. I might be a little emotionally crunchy, but my integrity’s intact. And if my kids see that and learn to hold onto their integrity through hard things, too? Then I’ve done my job.

xoarl