Did I ever tell you guys about the time I was in a school shooting—while I was pregnant?

Probably not because it was honestly pretty traumatizing.

I wrote a whole article about it, but only after I’d gone on a leave of absence—after I was no longer physically going into a classroom every day.

Now, rereading the piece, I’m struck by a certain lack of emotion, an emphasis on the logical calculations of the moment, and an awkward clinging to overly flowery language about pregnancy (gotta find a better word than “swollen”). I only touch on the true emotional heart of the experience briefly, tentatively.

I don’t think I let myself truly feel that fear and vulnerability until a few months ago. I mentioned it during a conversation with grief counselor and former teacher Bernadette Noll, and was surprised when my eyes teared up. It wasn’t just the weight of the incident that I still carried—it was the pain of having had to stuff my feelings, of not being able to attend to my own physical and emotional needs (which were high, I was six months pregnant, ya’ll), because I was expected to be there for the students. Because we literally had a WASC visit the next day.

It wasn’t until then, five years later—when I was fully resigned from the classroom, in the safety of my own home, and in a fully recovered body—that I was able to really let myself feel what a terrifying and demoralizing experience it had been.

While the particulars of my experience may be unique (or not—1 in 4 teachers works at a school that has had a gun-related lockdown), the phenomenon of delayed grief and lingering harm isn’t. In fact, I’ve come to see it as commonplace in the teacher transition world.

While most people now understand that trauma isn’t just reserved for combat veterans, the idea of incurring trauma from one’s job can make some feel silly, weak, or ashamed. But workplace trauma is real and though not unique to teaching, seems pretty damn prevalent.

All over teacher forums and social media groups, people talk about the trauma they carry from teaching. “I didn't realize just how bad until I got out,” one Redditt user commented. Many folks I’ve interviewed have likened teaching to an abusive relationship. Readers have sent me emails sharing how experiences from their time in the classroom still haunt them, and in interviews, former teachers have shared heart-rending struggles with mental illness that have stemmed from their classroom careers.

And many of us don’t feel the full effects until after we’ve left the profession.

Acute Trauma

When we first think of trauma, what typically comes to mind are the Big-T acute traumas that can occur: school shootings, violent students, or abusive admin. While these aren’t the only forms of teacher trauma and perhaps not even the most common, they are far more widespread than they should be.

It’s worth noting that the types of incidents that lead to acute trauma are on the rise. Both gun violence and student aggression against teachers have increased since the pandemic. One recent study showed that student aggression led to higher self-reported trauma among teachers. Another explored the connection between school violence and the intention to leave the profession—which a casual scroll through teacher transition Reddit confirms.

Secondary Trauma

Search “teacher trauma” and most of the articles you’ll find will be centered around secondary trauma. Also known as compassion fatigue, this is essentially the emotional impact of working with traumatized students. Prevalent in so-called helping careers—nursing, social work, emergency response, and teaching—it’s the process by which close contact with other people’s trauma creates similar symptoms in the person supporting them.

This type of trauma can be especially high in high-poverty schools. I watched students navigate death, addiction, incarceration, and violence, and was in most cases powerless to truly help them. But while certainly more intense in those environments, children across all demographics experience trauma, so much so that secondary trauma is viewed as almost an occupational hazard, a “consequence of being a good teacher."

As normalized and real as it is, something doesn’t quite sit right with me about the way secondary trauma seems to dominate the discussions of teacher trauma. The focus remains squarely on the students. There’s no mention of the harm teachers themselves are experiencing as a result of exploitative and sometimes abusive working conditions.

Moral Trauma

Another common form of teacher trauma is moral trauma, or moral injury, which is when “events that are very stressful or traumatic violate deeply held morals or values.” In my experience, this is a leading form of burnout and trauma among social justice educators, who typically hold a deep understanding of the shortcomings and injustices inherent to our education system. They come into the classroom to make a difference and are disheartened—or worse—when conditions prevent them from doing so.

In order to survive in the classroom, most of us have to compromise our values. I regularly did things that violated my own beliefs about education and the dignity of students. It wasn’t egregious, but enough to haunt me. Enough to take a toll.

Maybe we all do. We administer standardized tests that we know are culturally biased and reflect racial and socioeconomic privilege more than actual learning. We teach curriculum we don’t care about and that isn’t culturally relevant, because it’s mandated. We slap on accommodations that don’t truly support the needs of unique and divergent minds. We show movies in class so that we can catch up on grading.

Compounding the moral injury is the fact that we as teachers are often the perpetrators. I remember the first time I kicked a student out of class during my first year teaching. I had a head full of UCLA restorative justice ideas that proved pretty useless when paired with my minimal classroom management skills, and my classes descended into movie-level chaos. The day I finally kicked a student out, I watched as he flicked me off and slammed the door behind him, and remember thinking, Wow, I am actively contributing to the school-to-prison pipeline right now.

We teachers have to do our best with what we have. We pick our battles and make our peace, but the cumulative impact of violating our personal values and beliefs weighs on us.

Institutional Betrayal Trauma

Just the name of this one stopped me in my tracks.

Institutional Betrayal Trauma describes “the ways that institutions (e.g., universities, workplaces) fail to take appropriate steps to prevent and/or respond appropriately to interpersonal trauma.” Dr. Jennifer Freyd introduced the term in 2008 and has since applied it to governments’ pandemic responses, which caused both pragmatic harm in the form of illness and death, and psychological harm, in lost trust and emotional distress.

Sound familiar?

Even with the best and most supportive admin, no single school can shield teachers from the inherent exploitation of teaching. Even the best districts can’t. Our school system is not designed to support teachers—or students, for that matter—as whole people with physical and emotional needs that are unique and varied.

Looking back, one of the most harmful parts of my school shooting experience wasn’t the incident itself; it was how betrayed and unseen I felt afterward. I realized I was just a body whose sole purpose was to supervise and administer to the kids, rather than a full human with my own set of feelings, reactions, and needs. This isn’t to rag on the admin; they were doing their best too. It was just an incredibly fucked situation and one of those potent moments when I realized that there was no real institutional care for me. I was an employee number and, luckily, a pulse.

I felt, in short, betrayed.

Empty Cup Syndrome

Dr. Laura McGuire, a trauma specialist, identifies a primary source of teacher trauma as the Empty Cup Syndrome: you’re expected to give and give, even when there’s nothing left inside you.

“We are emotionally dry but expected to have a wellspring to draw from,” Dr. McGuire writes. “Worse yet, sometimes our burnout is punished, creating a cycle of shame and reprimand.”

Tips abound for how to “refill our cups.” They include the typical suggestions of exercise, sleep, dedicated time for relaxation, even buying pretty candles. (Yes, really.) And some of these indeed may be helpful. The most successful veteran teachers I know maintain strong boundaries around how much of their own time, money, and self they give to the job. They make sure their own cups are full—or at least not totally drained.

But boundaries and self-care alone won’t remedy Empty Cup Syndrome or any of the forms of teacher trauma. Importantly, Dr. McGuire notes that to truly address teacher trauma, systemic change is needed.

Why Teacher Trauma Can Show Up After We Leave

Researchers and psychologists are just starting to study and write about workplace trauma. So while there aren’t yet definitive answers for why these feelings come raging out of the sidelines of our consciousness after we leave a job, I have some ideas.

One has to do with compartmentalization, which is essentially the defense mechanism that allows us to separate conflicting ideas and feelings in order to function. Compartmentalization is not always a bad thing—it allows us to still perform at work while going through a breakup, for example. The trouble comes when we over-rely on it and use it to avoid and suppress emotions.

The role of compartmentalization plays in trauma has been written about more extensively in relation to childhood abuse and sexual trauma. In discussing why survivors often “fall apart” years later, therapist Lisa Nosal wrote:

This resonated deeply with me. Because really, how are we going to face and address all those difficult feelings when we still have to go in to work every day? How could I let myself truly feel the depth of fear, vulnerability, and betrayal that came after that shooting incident, and still show up each day? I was still pregnant. Really looking at all that would have made me want to quit—and I still needed health insurance.

It makes sense that the feelings would arise when we were finally removed from the harmful situation and felt safe. For some, that would mean leaving your family of origin or divorcing an abusive spouse. In the case of teacher trauma, it would happen when we finally leave the profession.

Nosal continues:

I know what you may be thinking: Thanks, feelings. But for me, knowing that the experiencing these emotions was a sign of safety was reassuring.

But it still didn’t answer the question:

Ok, So What The F*ck Do We Do About It?

Dismantle the system! Burn it all down and from the ashes create an educational system that truly works for students, teachers, families, and society!

Kidding! Kinda.

So the obvious answer is therapy. And a lot of people in the teacher groups and threads talk about this being really helpful for processing and working through any trauma they might have from teaching.

Of course, there is the argument that therapy in late-stage capitalism is an elaborate form of gaslighting, that it does “the custodial work of capitalism.” Ouch. But also maybe true?

I found only one blog post that touched on what I see as the real root of and solution for teacher trauma. Psychologist Maya Borgueta states:

Amen.

But while we wait to overthrow the system, we can still use the resources, tools, and therapists available to help us recover. (And for what it’s worth, a lot of therapists are overworked and exploited too—so they can relate!)

Outside of therapy, we can try to be present for these feelings of grief, anger, and sadness as they arise. Which is easier said than done. I have a whole post about how difficult it is for teachers (ahem, me) to rest.

But the only way out is through. As uncomfortable as it is, we have to give space for those feelings to come up. To honor them and know that they are real and valid and true. “Pause and listen to what [those feelings] have to tell you,” Bernadette shares in her interview. “Because they've got messages for you.”

By far the most helpful thing in my own healing process has been talking with other teachers. Of course, right? That’s always the most helpful thing.

I have big ideas about starting a former teacher support group with Bernadette (in my negative-1000 hours of free time). I’ve come to believe that processing the emotional side of teaching is just as important a part of the teacher transition process as job applications and resumes.

Until then, share with me. Share with the other teachers. Leave a comment here or post anonymously on a teacher forum.

As always, it will be each other that gets us through.