The dawn breaks gently as I rise from my bed, the familiar ache of age greeting me like an old friend. Often, they are marked by an overshadowing tiredness that reaches my soul. At 58, my mornings are marked by the quiet rituals of a life long-lived and well-worn. I am a schoolteacher, and each day I travel 32 kilometers to and from a job that, while exhausting, is a part of who I am. The commute is a daily pilgrimage, a testament to my dedication and resilience...
As I prepare for the day, my mind wanders back to the promises of my youth. We were told we could have it all – the career, the family, the corner office, and the immaculate home. Yet here I stand, a Gen X woman, feeling the weight of unmet expectations. Ada Calhoun's words echo in my mind, the shared frustrations of my generation laid bare. We were raised to believe in the myth of having it all, but reality has often been far more complex...
In my mind, 'having it all' would mean getting up in the morning and having time to engage in some gentle yoga followed by 10 minutes of quiet meditation. 'Having it all' would mean having the freedom to sit and enjoy a cappuccino and buttered toast with avocado as I look out over the Strait from my Coffee Nook. But that is not the case. I get up. I shower. I dress myself. And I leave. I need to catch the 6.20 am train.
My journey to work is long and is often filled with anxiety...
I automatically start deep, diaphragmatic breathing followed by fumbling in my bag for AirPods. In a few moments, my trusty podcast of Nature Sounds reduces my heartbeat. The tracks stretch out before the train, a metaphor for the journey of my life. The job market has changed so much since I started my career. What was once a landscape of opportunity now feels like a battlefield, with every gain hard-fought and every loss keenly felt. I've seen colleagues come and go, seen the hopeful glint in the eyes of new teachers slowly fade under the strain of too many demands and too few resources...
Arriving at school, I put on my armor – a brave face for the students who depend on me. Teaching is a joy, a passion that has sustained me through the years, but it is not without its struggles. The expectations placed upon me are heavy. I am not just an educator; I am a counselor, a mentor, a surrogate parent. The emotional labor is immense, and it often goes unrecognized.
The very first lesson of the day, 20 minutes in, and Jody's eyes suddenly sparkle and her mouth drops open. She gets it! She finally gets how to use an adjective in a sentence. I live for times like this, and just for a moment, I forget my yearning to be at home living a quiet life.
As the day unfolds, I juggle lesson plans, grade papers, and attend meetings. Most of the children are a bright spot in my day, their curiosity and energy a balm for my weary spirit. Yet, there's always a small fraction, those few Gen Alphas with their challenging behavior, who can cast a shadow over my efforts. Even as I maintain my smile and encouraging words, there's a lingering sense of dejection and failure. It feeds into the fear that I am not enough, that I am always falling short in some area of my life.
Lunch is a hurried affair, a sandwich eaten at my desk while I catch up on reading and correcting essays. There's a sense of camaraderie among my fellow teachers, but also a shared weariness. Many of us are in the same boat, navigating the turbulent waters of midlife with varying degrees of success. We talk about our families, our dreams, and our fears. There is comfort in these conversations, a reminder that we are not alone in our struggles.
The afternoon brings more classes, more challenges, and finally, the long ride home. I unwind on the train journey home by listening to a podcast or an audiobook. The sun sets as I make my way back, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. It's beautiful, but it also reminds me of the passing of time, of days slipping away one by one.
As the train pulls into my stop, I gather my things and prepare for the short walk to Netto. Crossing the street, I feel the day's fatigue settling in, making my shopping choices less about nutrition and more about convenience. I'm tired and hungry, a combination that often leads to poor food decisions. I long for a fresh, hearty salad every evening, but my energy only stretches so far. What I envision as a vibrant mix of greens usually turns into a simple tomato and a few slices of cucumber on my plate.
Back home, the evening is a blur of showering, cooking, eating dinner, and dishwashing. I sit in the silence of my home. My home: my apartment, a 100-meter square sanctuary in the suburbs, is quiet and comforting. It is the one place I feel safe. It is my space, my refuge.
As the sun disappears below the horizon, I find solace in my solitude. The silence of my home is a stark contrast to the noise and chaos of the day. Living alone, I have learned the art of self-reliance. My children have flown the nest, building their own lives, and I am proud of them. Yet, there are moments when the quiet of my home feels too silent, when the echoes of the past linger in the corners of my mind. I fill the spaces with books, music, and the warmth of memories.
Burnout is a constant shadow, creeping in with every overwhelming day. Eight hours of back-and-forth communication with students, colleagues, and parents; the rambunctiousness of the young; the never-ending tasks that seem to pile higher and higher. The ringing of the school bell, the shuffle of feet in the hallways, and the hum of chatter all blend into a cacophony that weighs on my spirit. Each interaction, whether a heartfelt conversation with a struggling student or a tense meeting with a concerned parent, adds another layer to the exhaustion.
The yearning for a simpler, quieter life tugs at my heart, and the dream of spreading my entrepreneurial wings dances in my mind. I imagine myself in a cozy home office, sunlight streaming in through the window, working on something I’m passionate about. Yet, the insecurity of a career change at 58 is daunting, a fear that often holds me back from taking the leap. The what-ifs and unknowns swirl in my mind, creating a barrier that seems insurmountable...
As I settle into bed, exhaustion washes over me. But there is also a sense of accomplishment. I have made it through another day, navigated the challenges, and found moments of joy amidst the struggle. The quiet of the night is a welcome reprieve, a time to gather my strength for the day to come.
In the darkness, I think of the future. There are still dreams left to chase, goals to achieve. I remind myself of the resilience that has carried me this far, the strength that lies within. I am a Gen X woman, a survivor of shifting sands and broken promises. And despite the challenges, I remain hopeful, ever looking forward to what tomorrow might bring.