The Wake-Up Call I Didn’t Schedule

I’m used to being the one checking in.
On students.
On teachers.
On data.
On family.
On friends.
On the house.
The birthday presents.
The dog.
The parent-teacher emails.
The activity schedule of a 6-year-old.
On everybody but myself.

But in the last month, I’ve found myself on the other side of the clipboard. Sitting in those mint green chairs at the doctor’s office, I realized: I haven’t really checked in with me.

I didn’t go because I felt awful. I went because my body had been whispering for months, and I finally stopped long enough to listen. I’m glad I did—because what I learned wasn’t just about blood pressure or vitamin levels. It was about the quiet cost of constantly caring for others while ignoring myself.

The mammogram was overdue. The bloodwork hadn’t been run. Aside from a quick urgent care stop for bronchitis, I hadn’t seen a doctor in two years. Not coincidentally, that’s when I began taking on the role of primary caregiver for my dad as he battled cancer. He passed away the week before state testing began.

I’ve been pouring into everyone and everything around me. That’s what we do in school leadership. We serve. We plan. We show up. We stay late. We carry the invisible load of 500+ little hearts and minds—and 100+ adult ones (not even counting parents)—all while juggling homes, families, and lives of our own.

But here’s the truth I wasn’t ready to admit: I stopped being a priority in my own life.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy. I’m sharing it because I know I’m not alone.

The day after my dad’s funeral, I sat in the doctor’s office with my nurse practitioner, Kaitlyn, who looked at me with deep empathy and said, “You are not taking care of yourself.” Then she asked me to tell her everything. And I did. There were tears and hugging—because that’s what two elder millennial, first-born daughters do.

In the five days between losing my dad and burying him, that moment was only the second time I cried. (The first was when his casket was escorted down the aisle to Midnight Train to Georgia.) It was like someone had to give me permission to be human.

“You have to feel,” Kaitlyn kept repeating. “When it hits, feel it. Be mad. Be sad. But you have to be in it.”

I’ve always been the planner. The organizer. My staff gets color-coded outlines, checklists, reminders. I keep the family calendar. I’m the event planner. The “sure, I can make it work” person. I didn’t know anything different than strength.

But I let myself get to a place—physically and emotionally—that was unsustainable. I waved off red flags, blaming self-diagnosed perimenopause (thanks, 3 a.m. social media ads…I was absolutely wrong by the way). I crossed off appointments from my calendar and added them to the bottom of the imaginary “Take Care of Me” to-do list, knowing full well they wouldn’t get done.

All I thought I needed was coffee, prayer, and a little early 2000s hip-hop.

I was wrong.

It turns out your body needs actual rest, nutrients, movement, and care to keep going. Who knew?

Over the past two months, I’ve started opening up to girlfriends about what I’ve learned. And what I’ve discovered is both comforting and concerning—they’re doing the exact same thing I was. We’ve been so conditioned to carry everything—work, family, emotions, expectations—that we don’t even notice when we’re breaking under the weight of it all.

At one point, I asked AI why elder millennial women are so stressed. It gave me a long, thoughtful list that ended with this line: we are the glue that holds everything together.

But as an educator, I know something important about glue—if you don’t keep it stored in the right conditions, it dries out. It stops working. And eventually, everything it was holding together starts to fall apart.

When did it become okay for us to be martyrs?

Being a school leader is tough. A 2022 RAND Corporation study found that 48% of school principals experience burnout, and 28% report symptoms of depression. That’s nearly 1 in 2 facing burnout, and 1 in 4 struggling with depression. A Gallup poll showed 55% of female teachers report being more prone to burnout, compared to 44% of their male counterparts. Male teachers reported higher overall well-being—physically, psychologically, and socially.

A Forbes survey found that 28% of educators report symptoms of depression, compared to 17% in non-education roles. Another RAND study revealed that teachers are more than twice as likely to experience frequent stress compared to the general adult population.

Devlin Peck calls it out plainly: K-12 teachers are the most burned-out profession in the United States.

We’re doing something wrong.

I’ve seen the reminders from school districts encouraging mental health and work-life balance. I know there are employee assistance programs that offer free counseling. But it’s taken me a long time to truly understand: I am replaceable in my role. If my seat is empty tomorrow, it will be filled.

But I am not replaceable to my daughter. To my husband. To my friends.

And I’m not replaceable to that little girl I used to be—the one who dreamed big, who imagined this life.

I don’t want to let her down.

I’ve realized I can’t wait for someone to implement a new wellness initiative or give me permission to pause. That responsibility is mine. And yours.

So ask yourself:

• When was the last time you prioritized your health?

• Do you schedule your well-being like you schedule everything else?

• Are you listening to your body—or are you waiting until it shuts down?

This isn’t sustainable.

The wake-up call was real. I can’t keep showing up for everyone else if I’m not showing up for me. And neither can you.

So I’m doing something that feels almost radical.
I’m putting my wellness in my planner.
I’m making rest part of the plan.
I’m saying no to guilt and yes to grace.
I’m committing to myself—not just for me, but for all the people who count on me to show up whole.

And I hope you will too.

We need to normalize this. We need to support each other in this. Healthy leadership starts with healthy leaders—and that includes you.

Take care of the caretaker. Don’t wait until your body forces you to stop.
Choose to pause.
Choose to heal.
Choose you.

It’s not selfish. It’s survival.
It’s not weakness. It’s wisdom.
It’s reflection. It’s resolve.

It’s me. I’m the AP. And I’m choosing wellness—so I can lead with purpose, not just presence.