There’s tired — and then there’s teacher tired. That's me, but it's so worth it

thither ar many kinds of tired. 

thither’s mon morn tired.

There’s stayed-up-too-late-watching-Netflix tired. 

There’s travel-with-children tired.

And then there’s teacher tired, which feels like an entirely different physiological state — one medical researchers have not yet fully documented but probably should.

For me, teacher tired begins sometime around the third week of September — right when the job starts asking more than fits neatly into a school day.

In early September, I’m still optimistic. My Grade 5/6 split classroom is clean. Pencils are sharp. I’ve arranged the students in a way that makes perfect sense on paper.

By October, at least three things have happened in my class:

Half the pencils have vanished.

My seating plan no longer makes sense as friendships shift and students become increasingly social.

And someone has asked me if ketchup counts as a vegetable.

By then, I’m already aware that some of my students will need far more than a well-organized seating plan to get through the day.

It’s easy to point to marking or planning as the reason teachers are so tired. But that’s not actually the main cause — at least not for me. Both quietly follow me home on weekends, alongside report cards, unfinished emails to parents and the sense that there’s never quite enough time to do any of it as well as I’d like.

The real cause, for me, is talking.

I talk all day.

Not normal talking — the kind where you say something once and people listen and understand.

My version of talking involves saying the same instruction approximately 16 times while answering unrelated questions at the same time.

For example:

“Please take out your math notebooks.”

A hand immediately goes up.

“Do we need our math notebooks?”

“Yes.”

Another hand goes up.

“I can’t find mine.”

“Then you’ll need paper.”

Another hand.

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

At this point, I begin quietly reconsidering several life choices.

What classroom complexity looks like for one Alberta teacher

While it sounds a bit ridiculous written out like that, this is the work — all while keeping an eye on the students who need extra support, the one who’s having a hard day and the lesson I’m trying to hold together in the middle of it all. 

Because the talking is never just talking.

It’s managing needs. It’s redirecting behaviour. It’s trying to reach everyone — even when there are not enough versions of me to go around.

Another major contributor to teacher tired is the volume level of my classroom.

My students are not loud on purpose. They are simply loud as a natural state of existence.

Even during “silent work,” my classroom produces a complex soundscape: pencils tapping, chairs scraping, whispers louder than normal talking and the mysterious thud of something falling off a desk.

I’ve developed the ability to hear 25 sounds at once and immediately determine which one signals a problem. It’s essentially the same skill used by air traffic controllers — except instead of airplanes, it’s glue sticks.

And then there are the questions.

My students ask incredible questions. Some are thoughtful. Some are philosophical. Some arrive completely out of nowhere and derail the entire lesson.

For example, at about 9:17 a.m. On a Tuesday, I might be halfway through explaining fractions when someone raises their hand and asks:

“How much money does Connor McDavid make?”

This has absolutely nothing to do with fractions. But now it’s too late.

Within 30 seconds, my class is debating hockey salaries with the seriousness of a TSN panel and my lesson plan quietly slips off the rails and rolls into the distance.

Meanwhile, I keep talking. All day.

By the time the final bell rings, I’ve used approximately the same number of words as a mid-sized podcast series.

I go home, sit down and someone in my household asks the very reasonable question:

“How was your day?”

I respond with the only thing my brain can produce at that moment:

“Good.”

Followed by silence.

Not because nothing happened. But because explaining the day would require another 8,000 words — and I’ve already reached the daily speaking limit set by the human body.

And yet, something strange happens.

The next morning, I come back.

Because in between the noise, the questions, the constant decisions, supporting students with complex needs, managing behaviour that can escalate in a flash and doing my best in a system that doesn’t always provide enough support — there are also moments that stay with me:

A student’s face lighting up when something finally clicks after days of trying. A room full of kids laughing together during a self-organized indoor recess game I didn’t have to plan, manage or fix. A quiet moment when I overhear a student encouraging a classmate the same way I’ve been encouraging them all year — and realize they’ve been listening. An email from a parent thanking me for making a difference in their child’s life.

And those moments make teacher tired feel like the best kind of tired.

Because even on the hardest days, it’s never just exhaustion I’m taking home — it’s those moments, too.

And that’s enough to bring me back the next morning. Although the coffee still helps. A lot.

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Freelance contributor

Cassandra Blain is a teacher in Ontario. She lives in Ottawa with her husband and three children, who ensure the noise level at home closely mirrors her classroom.

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