My colleagues, friends, and family often praise my relentless pursuit of excellence, especially in my teaching career. But what they don't always see is the weight behind that drive: the pressure I feel to prove myself and the deep sense of responsibility I feel to create systemic change for my students. Even after surpassing many of my career goals, a nagging feeling remains: a nagging voice telling me it's still not enough. I carry that burden silently and often alone.
My journey into teaching was born from a deep-seated curiosity about the transformative power of education and the drive for social justice. To create the change I envisioned, I focused on becoming the best teacher I could be. From the beginning, I was never satisfied with meeting expectations: I was determined to exceed them. I earned two master's degrees, received a Fulbright scholarship, and participated in several prestigious educational fellowships. However, these achievements, while significant, never seem to silence the inner voice that insists on driving the next big thing.
I have realized that this concern and the pressures I put on myself are not just personal quirks, but are deeply intertwined with my identity as a former undocumented student and now first-generation Latina professional. My identity, linked to the always present shadow of negative stereotypes about Latino families who do not value education, has driven me to constantly demonstrate, to others and to myself, that I am worthy of being a teacher and capable of helping my students thrive. This feeling has become all-consuming and has contributed to increased anxiety and the early stages of burnout. However, this push has been a double-edged sword. It has also led me to feel empowered and proud, knowing that I can make a significant difference in the lives of my students. Teaching brings me immense joy and a deep sense of purpose, and reminds me why I chose this path in the first place.
This realization has left me wondering how I, as an educator of color, can cope with the pressure I feel to improve myself, while maintaining a healthy relationship with my identity, my work, and my well-being.
As I reflect on the stress I feel, I return to my own experiences navigating the American K-12 system as an immigrant student. My family immigrated to the United States from Guadalajara, Mexico, when I was 11 years old, and my memories of my studies in the United States are colored by episodes of anxiety and shame. I was often made to feel inferior by my peers and sometimes even teachers due to my parents' level of formal education, my difficulties with language acquisition, and the reality that I came from a working-class family.
Even more troubling were the instances of discrimination I faced from educators who lacked cultural competence, like the AP English teacher I had my senior year of high school who told me I didn't belong in his class because I had only been speaking English. for a few years or the counselor who, when I confessed my undocumented status to her while seeking help with college applications, dismissed me outright, admitting that she didn't know how to help me and making no effort to find a solution.
These experiences made me feel like a traveler on a dark road, with nothing to light the way. The lack of Latino male role models in my own K-12 education only compounded this feeling of isolation. Despite attending high school in Los Angeles County, which has a diverse population Including the 49 percent of residents who identify as Hispanic/Latino, I have never had a Latino teacher.
These formative experiences were instrumental in my decision to become a teacher. I entered the profession with a burning desire to counteract the negativity I had encountered, to help my students discover their potential, and to serve as a positive role model for them. Today I teach at an elementary school where more than 65 percent of the students identify as Hispanic/Latino. Teaching them is an immense privilege, one that I do not take lightly. I am very aware that Latino students, who are so often neglected by the education systemThey deserve a teacher who will do everything possible for them. This awareness contributes to the weight I feel: pressure to be the perfect teacher, to destroy stereotypes and prove that, as an immigrant and English learner, I am good enough.
One of the biggest challenges I face as an educator is that the same qualities that drive me to success (my work ethic, my ambition, my desire to create systemic change) are also the ones that have led me down a path of anxiety and burnout. . . Throughout my career, I have seen many teachers leave the profession, worn down by the demands of the job and lack of recognition. I believed the key to avoiding this fate was to focus on growth and impact. I set my sights on leadership roles. I sacrificed sleep, leisure, and sometimes my health, all in the name of becoming the best version of myself so I could serve my students and the community I represent.
Recently, I found myself at a breaking point. The end of the last school year brought with it a wave of anxiety that I could no longer ignore. Despite the accolades and achievements, I still felt like an impostor, tormented by the idea that my success was due to luck and not hard work. My ambitions began to feel like a checklist, devoid of the passion that had once driven them. As the school year came to an end, I realized I needed to take a step back and reevaluate. I had been chasing the approval of others, trying to prove myself, when in reality I was responding to the deep-seated stereotype threats that had followed me all my life.
Recognizing this turning point, I paused and took some time to reflect. This summer, I allowed myself to rest, stop constantly trying to achieve, and instead created space to reconnect with myself. I traveled back to Mexico and spent my days journaling and meditating in nature. As I reflected on my journey, I remembered my “why” and my joy of teaching. I started practicing gratitude by acknowledging my efforts and accepting that sometimes it's okay to take a break. I reached out to friends, family, my partner, and mentors, and talked to them about some of the stress I was feeling. The most important thing is that I allowed myself to relax and have fun.
When I got home, I thought a lot about the power of pressing pause and considered the lessons I had learned. By giving myself permission to engage in joyful experiences, I felt more able to model the importance of joy for my students. By reconnecting with my passion for teaching, I felt well positioned to show them a deep love of learning. And for my part, I began to understand that I didn't need to prove my intelligence or my worth to anyone. I have always been enough. My strength is not in the titles I hold or the awards I accumulate, but in my ability to practice radical self love and acceptance.
When I started school this fall, I carried these lessons with me. I have reminded myself that I am no longer an immigrant student struggling to prove myself in the classroom. I am now a teacher who models for my students the importance of embracing their humanity, feeling secure in their identity, and celebrating their achievements without fear of judgment.
A mentor once shared wisdom with me that I still remember: “Our ancestors want us to rest.” These words resonated deeply and reminded me of the importance of balance in life. As educators, we often preach the value of work-life balance, but we often fail to apply this wisdom to ourselves. We let our aspirations overshadow our need for self-care, but that is unsustainable.
On my journey, I had a moment where everything came together for me. As I sat on the balcony of my hotel, gazing at the mountains of Oaxaca as the sun set, I finally understood the importance of rest. I have accomplished a lot, but my biggest area of growth has been learning to value myself, not for what I can achieve, but for who I am. By doing so, I hope to inspire my students to do the same.
