I love my profession.

I really do. I like feeling as though my work is important. Today, for example, one of my students, who's typically a little all over the place, brought in this final product for his research project on universal design and accessible playgrounds. I was so proud of him. His research was thorough and innovative, and he seemed pretty pleased with himself as he explained to his classmates how the playground that he'd designed would be a place where anybody could play, regardless of their physical capabilities. How fun to get to watch teens figure out that they can do something to positively change this fucked up world.


But I ended my day sitting at my desk, writing a discipline referral, and sobbing. About another student, one who I really believe is convinced he can't. Just in general, can't. I'm genuinely heartbroken that, at this point, he's probably going to fail the class, and I don't know what else I can do to convince him to do what it takes to pass. Johnny told me yesterday that I should come to terms with the fact that sometimes you have to stop trying. I know I have to. But I don't know how to stop caring.



(By the way, the anti-sentimentality in me is cringing at that last sentence.)