Finding the Courage to Just Sit Still
To the educator logging off at midnight with a stack of papers still staring back at you; to the one putting on a brave, smiling face for your students while feeling entirely hollow inside—I see you.
EDUCATORS' BURN OUT
7/11/20262 min read
I’ve been there. In fact, I’ve been so deeply there that the word "burnout" doesn't quite cover it. It felt less like a lack of energy and more like a total disconnection from everything and everyone around me. Externally, I wore a strong, highly functional mask. I did the work, answered the emails, and showed up. But inside? The tank was empty. The water was gone.
When you reach that level of exhaustion, people often give well-meaning advice. "Just pray about it," or "Cry out to God."
But if you are where I was, you know the terrifying secret of true burnout: Sometimes, it is too heavy to even pray. It is too dry to even cry out. The words won't form. The emotion won't come. The spiritual energy required to lift a plea to heaven feels just as impossible as grading another hundred essays.
When I reached the end of myself, I realized I couldn't manufacture strength anymore. I couldn't build a solution out of my own willpower.
So, I stopped trying.
I decided to do the only thing I had the strength left to do: I just sat at Jesus' feet.
Nothing else. No eloquent prayers. No list of demands or requests. No tears, because I didn't even have those left. Just sitting. I would pull up a chair or sit on the floor, bring my exhausted soul into His presence, and exist there.
If you are in that dark, quiet valley right now, I want to encourage you to drop the heavy weight. You don't have to fix yourself before you approach Him. You can bring the silence.
During my quietest, heaviest nights, I found comfort in spaces that didn't demand words from me. If you need a melodic space just to breathe and be still, I encourage you to listen to this track: At Your Feet. Let the music carry the weight you can't express.
I stayed at His feet, day after day, until the noise of my responsibilities started to fade. And in that stillness, I finally began to hear it—His gentle, quiet voice. Not a voice of condemnation or a demand to do more, but a voice of pure grace reminding me that my worth isn't tied to how much I give away to the world.
He isn't in the loud, frantic rush of our school days, the endless noise, or the pressure to perform. He meets us in the quiet. When you are tired and your spirit feels torn apart, you don't have to shout to be heard. You can find refuge in His presence and listen to The Gentle Whisper.
Fellow teacher, you are allowed to be weak. You are allowed to be silent. Try stepping out of the running, take off the mask, and just sit there. That is all you can do—and right now, that is more than enough.