It has been a roller coaster of a week.

While I transitioned roles and institutions almost 3 months ago, this was a week of first as a program chair — first program meeting, first time finding out that an adjunct faculty member was not able to teach the week before classes started with full sections & students needing to enroll, first major policy blow-up, all while doing the faculty work of preparing for my first week of classes with the equivalent of three new course preps and taking on a fourth (temporary) prep on Friday, as we hustled to find adjunct faculty to fill gaps for a Monday start, and co-presenting a professional learning session.

It’s all handled. I’m ready for my classes. I have tomorrow to prep for the additional course. I even entered in the PTSA memberships waiting in my inbox from Thursday.

But, when I breathe, it’s a lot.

It’s a lot, in the midst of a world that is holding a lot. So much loss and violence this week alone. So many things that are so hard. So hard not to compare this load to the load of so many others. So many questions about how I could dare to center my own struggle in a moment of collective struggle much greater than me.

When I breathe, it’s a lot.

It’s a lot, so much so that I am sitting awake on a Saturday night with a million things to do, but only one thing that is really necessary, which is to write. Well, and listen to music. And drink tea. And breathe. The one thing to do is perhaps only to be.

When I breathe, it’s a lot.

It’s a lot, and writing forces me to acknowledge that it’s a lot.

In this moment of so much collective grief and struggle and so much personal and professional grief and struggle, every single thing is a lot.

But I am here, and I am writing, and I am working right now at putting one foot in front of the other, of taking one breath at a time, at moving moment by moment.

It is so much. It is all so much.

But if I can breathe in a bit of grace for myself and for this world around me, I find it a bit easier to continue breathing and to continue being.

If I can hold on to the love and community around me, I find it a bit easier to continue breathing and to continue being.

If I can share these words, I find it a bit easier to continue breathing and to continue being.

I hope you find your refuge, dear ones. I hope you find your grace. I am holding space for you as you hold space for me.

It is so much. It is all so much.