A letter to teachers who love

The Tug of Teaching: Loving and Letting Go, Over and Over Again

An empty classroom, full of wooden desks, chairs, and trim on the walls. Sunlight shining through 2 large windows.

Every August, I meet a new room full of faces. Some wide-eyed and nervous, others loud and bold, all of them bringing their own stories, quirks, and pieces of their world into mine. I also meet new coworkers, teammates, and sometimes even mentors—new relationships forming in the quiet chaos of the back-to-school buzz. And every May or June, I say goodbye.

Teaching is an emotional tide—one that pulls at the heart in ways most people don’t see. We often talk about the challenges of teaching in terms of testing, behavior, or policy. But what we rarely acknowledge is the grief that comes with being a teacher. The psychological weight of building something beautiful—community, trust, growth—only to dismantle it at the end of each school year.

We are relationship-builders by trade. We work tirelessly to create safe spaces, listen with intention, and connect deeply. We learn students’ favorite colors, fears, reading levels, and pet names. We notice when their spark dims and fight to reignite it. We spend months investing in a child's soul, and just when they really start to trust us, the calendar flips to May.

Then comes the goodbye.

Calendar book open to a mostly blank page with dates and lines.

There are students you will never forget—the ones who cracked open your heart in a way you didn’t expect. And some students will forget your name by the fall. Both hurt, in different ways. You pour out your energy, your creativity, your care… and then it’s over. You don’t get closure. You don’t always get to see what becomes of them. Sometimes you hope your voice will echo in the right moments later on.

And it’s not just the students. Fellow educators become your lifeline. You share supply drawers, tears during lunch duty, and moments of shared laughter that feel like survival. Then they leave, transfer, retire, or move away, and you start over again.

“The psychological weight of building something beautiful”

Teaching is an act of hope—a belief that what we do today matters, even if we never get to see the full bloom. It is a rhythm of loving and letting go. While it can be triggering to say goodbye year after year, it’s also what makes this work sacred. The depth of the connection is the cost and the gift.

So if you're a teacher, feeling that quiet ache as another year comes to a close, know this: your grief is real, and it is valid. You’re not “too sensitive.” You’re human. You gave your heart to something impermanent, and that’s the bravest thing anyone can do.

And when August comes again, you’ll do it all over because that’s what we do. We love hard, we let go, and we keep coming back.