I’ve been a special education teacher for eight years. People often tell me I’m patient, strong, and dedicated. They see the smiles I give my students, the way I stay late to prepare lessons, the gentle words I use when a child feels lost. But what they don’t see are the nights when I sit alone in my apartment, staring at the ceiling, asking myself if anyone will ever love me the way I love my work.
The truth is, my job drains me. I carry every story home—the child who cries because their parents don’t show up, the teenager who can’t read a single sentence, the endless paperwork that reminds me how broken the system is. I pour out everything I have during the day, and when I come home, there’s nothing left. Nothing, except the silence.
Sometimes, I catch myself daydreaming during class. Not about vacations, or winning the lottery—but about someone who’d look at me and see more than “the teacher.” Someone who’d ask me how my day went, and really care about the answer. A husband, maybe. Or maybe just someone who’d hold me for one night and remind me I’m human, not just a machine built to give.
I know how to teach children patience, hope, and resilience. But I’ve never been able to teach myself how to be loved. And now, more than anything, that’s what I want. Not another lesson plan. Not another degree. Just love—raw, messy, imperfect love.
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