When the Power Goes Out (Literally and Figuratively)

Yesterday, the lights went out.
Literally and figuratively.
(Although let’s be real—my figurative light has been flickering for months.)

It was Friday. April. Peak 8th-grade chaos.
Testing season is upon us (insert eye roll here), and student apathy was louder than anything I said. Honestly, I’m not even sure most of them ever checked in, but they’ve definitely checked out now. We’re expecting kids with brains still being developed and whose neurons are misfiring and emotions are spiraling to sit still, focus, recall 250 years of U.S. history, and pick the best answer out of four. It's... not great.

But it’s not just them. It’s me too. I’m stretched thin in every direction—personally, professionally, existentially. I’m in transition, dealing with grief and unexpected bullshit, trying to move out, let go, and not lose my mind in front of 30 kids who need me to hold it together. Some days I win. Some days the spiral wins.

And still, I show up.
Even when the thought of grouping them and asking them to collaborate makes me want to lie down in the grass and let the earth absorb me, I show up. I walk around. I adapt. I try. Even if they don’t.

Then the power went out. No storm. No warning. Just—dark. I’ve been on this campus for thirteen years, and while we have plenty of issues, electrical isn’t one of them. And although I was almost positive that’s all it was, anything that’s out of the ordinary without warning when you have 25 children who have parents waiting for them at home, we always err on the side of caution.

My co-teacher and I went into lockdown mode immediately. No announcement yet, but we’ve been trained. Lock the door. Cover the window. Move the kids. Just in case. Because when you’ve seen real fear in real time, you don’t wait.

Some kids crouched. Some went silent.Their faces said what they couldn’t: Is this it? And it broke me. Because this is their world. It’s all they’ve ever known. A flicker of light might mean panic, and a classroom doesn’t always mean safety.

Eventually we got the all clear. The lights stayed off, but we kept going.

Because that’s what we do.

And now it’s Saturday. I’m back at school, volunteering at a cheer and dance invitational. And look—I can name about 300 things I’d rather be doing. But I’m here.

Because that’s what tired, overworked educators do.

We show up for each other. For kids. For the weird little school families we’ve built over years and decades.

I’ve seen students I haven’t seen in years. Kids who are now grown. Former colleagues who know me better than most of my family.

And it hits me—this community, this shared past, this strange and beautiful school universe—it matters.
Even when it’s exhausting.
Even when everything feels like too much.

I’m grateful. For the paras and teachers and coaches who go unnoticed but never give up. For the kids who try, and even for the ones who don’t—because I know what they’re carrying. For this wild, emotional, soul-sucking-but-soul-filling job that isn’t just about teaching.

Because this isn’t a transaction. It’s human work and we’re trying to raise good ones. And many of us didn’t get the cleanest start either, so we are learning/healing/growing while helping kids do the same.

And we’re tired. So damn tired. But we’re here...Even when the power’s out. And for today, that’s enough.