Reflections on a Difficult Week: Processing, Self-Preservation, and Radical Self-Care
This past week has been deeply challenging. On a personal level, I've been navigating some significant life events. Professionally, as a Black woman in America—one who bears the weight of being both a citizen in an alleged "post-racial" society and a school leader—I am also processing the recent election and the emotions it has stirred. There's a heaviness and a familiar discomfort many of us know all too well, and it's taken a toll on my spirit.
I'm still actively processing it all, and in many ways, I’ve entered a state of self-preservation, carefully choosing what I consume and where I engage. This has been especially true amid the deluge of misinformation I’ve seen online—a force that distorts how people feel, think, and react, often in deeply divisive ways. It's heartbreaking to see people at odds over ideas that, too often, stem from limited or misleading information. The only contribution I’ve felt moved to make so far in our Disrupt Forward and broader community is a reminder of the real harm misinformation brings.
If this is your first time encountering us, Disrupt Forward is a social impact consulting firm that partners with K-12 schools to lead meaningful conversations on race, power, and privilege. We’re passionate about fostering environments that support the well-being and resilience of educators, because we understand how critical these elements are—not only for individual educators but for entire school communities.
This week, I’m especially mindful of educators who feel tired, unseen, unheard, and undervalued. By “educators,” I mean an expansive community: teachers, paraprofessionals, coaches, school leaders, social workers, counselors—anyone who steps into a school building each day to work with young people. What I’ve heard this week is that many of us are struggling. We’re showing up physically while feeling emotionally distant, and we’re being asked to hold space for students when we ourselves need someone to hold space for us. It’s been hard to let our guard down, and many of us feel numb. We’re still expected to perform, to keep going, yet the weight of frustration, fear, and exhaustion is overwhelming. It’s as if we’re at the wheel, eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel, but our own fatigue and stress blur everything around us as we drive on autopilot. Our minds are elsewhere, lost in the noise of worry and fatigue. Though the “work” moves forward, the journey feels detached and distant. Many of us are present in body but absent in spirit, going through the motions while struggling to stay grounded amid the mental fog.
Our message to you this week is simple but urgent: put your mask on first. Just as we’re instructed on airplanes to secure our oxygen masks before helping others, this directive applies here. Before you can fully show up for students, families, or colleagues, you must prioritize your own well-being. This will look different for each of us—maybe taking a break from the news or social media, maybe saying "no" to requests that would drain your energy. Whatever it is, honor that need.
For far too long, there has been an unspoken expectation—rooted in white supremacy—that we, as educators, put ourselves last. There’s a societal presumption that we should always give without question, endure more, care more, and be “superhuman.” But this expectation denies our humanity, treating us as though we are here to serve and give endlessly without needing care ourselves. This week, I encourage you to disrupt that notion.
As a Black woman, I am also reminded of Ruby Bridges. Her story is often celebrated as one of bravery and resilience in the face of intense opposition. At only six years old, Ruby—a Black girl—walked past crowds of screaming adults, some wielding hateful signs, others holding tiny caskets symbolizing threats to her life, to integrate the all-white William Frantz Elementary School in the 1960s. She endured a torrent of hatred and racism, her quiet demeanor intact as she walked each day through a literal mob. Historian Rachel Devlin argues that Black girls like Ruby Bridges were often viewed as “self-possessed, poised, and diplomatic”—qualities shaped by a world that demanded they endure mistreatment without visible resistance. Ruby’s story, while celebrated for bravery, also foreshadows society's double standards: it normalizes superhuman expectations for many who look like me, while allowing others the freedom to simply be.
As was true then, but also now, white girls were generally seen as innocent, vulnerable, and in need of protection, that encouraged emotional expression. Black girls, however, were denied this same freedom to experience and express vulnerability. Instead, they were expected to maintain poise and resilience in the face of hostility—qualities later romanticized as inherent strengths but which, in reality, masked the denial of their humanity and the absence of protection they deserved.
This contrast in expectations reveals a troubling norm that endures today. Black educators are often expected to embody strength and fortitude, conditioned to “show up” without complaint, while others are allowed the space to be. This systemic pressure has made Black educators especially invisible to systems of care, even as we navigate the same complexities and emotional challenges as anyone else. Reflecting on Ruby Bridges reminds me that celebrating strength is not enough; we must also understand the weight it carries. To our Black educators: if the system would not protect a young Black girl, and instead used her pain as a tool, why would it protect or prioritize you?
We know all too well that white supremacy operates not just as an ideology but as a system that defines and enforces standards of worthiness, humanity, and identity. For generations, this system has imposed narrow standards on what is considered valuable and human, forcing us to navigate our roles as educators through dehumanizing lenses. These expectations frequently suppress the full expression of our identities, reducing us to symbols rather than allowing us to be seen as complex individuals.
One of the most insidious effects of white supremacy is its pressure to deny our full humanity, obscuring our need for rest, vulnerability, and self-compassion. As we approach the weekend, educator, consider what you need to protect your emotional and physical health. Ask yourself: How am I caring for myself in a way that ensures I am not just surviving? This question is crucial, guiding us toward the often unfamiliar path of radical self-care. It’s essential to prioritize your own well-being, even if it challenges what you’ve been conditioned to accept.
For me, this commitment to self-care has meant a deliberate step back. I happen to be on leave for a few days, and I’ve chosen to spend this time in quiet reflection—limited TV, limited social media, just the presence of my thoughts and feelings. I’m paying close attention to my body, my emotions, and what I allow myself to focus on, taking charge of my own healing process. There is immense power in disconnecting, tuning out the noise, and reconnecting with oneself. I encourage you to find what feels restorative to you, whatever form that may take.
As we move forward, give yourself permission to be radically committed to putting on your own mask first. In whatever skin you're in, make self-care a priority, even if it goes against what the world might expect of you. This commitment to yourself is essential for sustaining the work we do.
Know that we at Disrupt Forward see you, we understand the weight you carry, and we honor the complexities of your identities and experiences. Most importantly, remember that you don't have to give up your humanity.
Sharon Michaels, Ed.D, the Founder of Disrupt Forward, is also a forever educator in the Washington, D.C., area. Learn more about Disrupt Forward online at www.disruptforward.org and on all social media channels: @disruptforwrd.
