My name is Mo Kim, I'm a teacher, and I'm not okay.
Dear colleague: My name is Mo Kim, I'm a high school teacher, and I'm not okay. I have held onto this letter for months now. I've turned it over in my head like a worksheet I can't solve. I've clenched it between my gums as if that would stop the bleeding. But even when I hold this in, it seeps out of me one word at a time. A cranky comment slips out of my mouth towards my Block 3. A "how are you?" from a colleague turns into an impromptu 20-minute vent session. I repeat all the classic teacher mantras to myself: Focus on the positives. Take it one day at a time. Think about solutions, not problems. And still, four months into the year, I feel as if I'm slowly shattering. Last Wednesday, as I make my way across the room during staff meeting, I stumble. My half-finished lunch spills across the floor and I spill with it. Tears filling my eyes, I rush to grab napkins, kneel on the carpet, watch as people help me pick up peas and carrots and grains