The Courage to Care
Holding Care for Our Children, Families, Communities, One Another, and Ourselves
Dear SDEA Family,
Somewhere today, an educator noticed something was different about a child.
Maybe it was the way they walked into the room. The smile that wasn’t there. The unusually quiet voice. Or the way they lingered just a little longer before taking their seat.
Nothing extraordinary happened. There was no announcement, no meeting, no recognition.
Just an adult who noticed.
And a child who, perhaps for the first time that day, felt seen.
I wonder how many moments like that happen in our schools every day.
The teacher who stays a few minutes to listen. The counselor who makes room for one more conversation. The paraeducator who recognizes that a student is becoming overwhelmed before anyone else notices. The colleague who quietly checks on another colleague because something doesn’t seem right.
So much of what makes a school a community happens in moments nobody records.
And yet, those moments can change someone’s entire day.
Sometimes, even their life.
I’ve been thinking about that kind of care lately. The kind that isn’t written into a lesson plan or measured on an evaluation. The kind that asks us to pay attention, to remain curious, and to remember that the person in front of us has a life we may know very little about.
Especially now.
Because there is a heaviness in our world that does not disappear when the school bell rings.
Children hear things. They notice when the adults they love are worried. They sense when something has changed at home, in their neighborhood, or in the world around them.
Some are carrying fears about whether their families will remain together. Some are grieving. Some are struggling to belong. Others are simply trying to understand a world that can be confusing, unkind, and frightening.
And many are carrying things they have never told us.
As educators, we cannot fix everything happening in their lives.
But we can decide what happens when they walk through our doors.
We can decide whether they encounter another person who judges them before knowing them, or someone willing to see beyond what is immediately visible.
After more than two decades as an educator, much of that time working with students with disabilities, I have learned that some of the most important things we do begin with what we are willing to notice.
A change in behavior. A look of frustration. A student who has stopped trying. A child who needs someone to believe there is more to them than the difficulty they are experiencing.
And as a mother and now a Gigi, I understand that from another side of the classroom door.
I know what it means to love a child so deeply that you wish you could protect them from every hurt the world might bring. To trust that when they are beyond your reach, someone else will recognize their worth.
It is a tremendous act of trust to place someone you love in the care of another person.
And every day, families place that trust in us.
Before a child is a student, they are a human being.
Before the IEP, the test score, the behavior referral, the attendance record, or the label someone has attached to them, there is a child with a story still being written.
And we get to be part of that story.
What an extraordinary responsibility.
What an extraordinary privilege.
I also know how difficult it can be to hold onto that perspective when we’re exhausted, overwhelmed, understaffed, or trying to meet more needs than any one person reasonably can.
There are days when patience feels harder to find. When the student who needs the most attention arrives at the very moment we have the least to give.
Those are human moments, too.
We don’t always respond the way we wish we had.
I certainly haven’t gotten every moment right.
But I hope we never lose the willingness to ask ourselves whether we saw the whole child or only the behavior in front of us.
Whether we made room for dignity while holding expectations.
Whether the child left our care feeling smaller or feeling that tomorrow could be different.
And when we realize we missed something, I hope we give ourselves the opportunity to make it right.
That matters.
So does the way we see families.
I think sometimes we forget how vulnerable it can feel to be on the other side of a conversation about your child.
The parent who seems frustrated may be frightened. The caregiver who keeps asking questions may be searching for reassurance. The family who missed the meeting may be managing circumstances we know nothing about.
And sometimes families have been hurt by the very institutions we are asking them to trust.
That history doesn’t disappear simply because we have good intentions.
We may not always agree. There will be difficult conversations, and there should be. Our professional responsibilities matter, and so does our right to be treated with respect.
But I hope we can approach families remembering that love doesn’t always sound calm, fear doesn’t always look like fear, and frustration is not always a rejection of partnership.
Sometimes people need to know we are listening before they can hear anything we have to say.
And sometimes we need to hear something uncomfortable before we understand what they have been trying to tell us.
The same is true of our communities.
I’ve been thinking about the families living with uncertainty and fear right now. About children hearing people speak of their neighborhoods, their identities, and the people they love as though their suffering is somehow acceptable.
I wonder what it feels like for a child to hear the place they call home spoken about with contempt.
Or to wonder whether the adults around them believe their family belongs.
Our schools are part of those communities. Their joys, fears, histories, struggles, and hopes are woven into the lives of the children we teach.
We cannot separate the child from the world they live in.
And we should never ask a child to leave their humanity at the classroom door.
This week has reminded me how quickly words spoken far from a classroom can find their way into one.
A child may not understand every political debate or policy decision, but they recognize when something feels uncertain at home. They notice conversations that stop when they enter a room. They hear the worry in a parent’s voice. They sense when the adults they depend on are carrying something difficult, even when they don’t fully understand what it is.
And I think about the educators trying to find the right words when a child asks a question they cannot easily answer.
Sometimes there are no perfect words.
Sometimes all we can offer in that moment is our presence, our willingness to listen, and the reassurance that the child in front of us matters.
That matters more than we may ever know.
And while we cannot promise that everything outside our school doors will be okay, we can work together to make sure that inside them, every child is treated with dignity, every family is welcomed with respect, and no one is made to feel that their humanity is up for debate.
Care, in moments like these, may require courage.
The courage to speak when something is wrong. To stand beside a family when they feel alone. To challenge decisions that harm people. To recognize that we can disagree deeply with someone’s choices while still refusing to strip them of their humanity.
Caring does not mean accepting injustice.
It does not mean pretending harm hasn’t happened.
And it certainly does not mean that accountability disappears.
Sometimes the most caring thing we can do is tell the truth, even when the truth makes people uncomfortable.
But how we tell that truth matters, too.
I want us to be people who can stand firmly in our convictions without forgetting the human beings standing across from us.
And I want us to extend that care to the people standing beside us.
Because I know our schools are filled with people carrying things we cannot see.
The new educator wondering whether they’re good enough.
The experienced teacher who still loves teaching but is tired of everything surrounding it.
The Special Education teacher trying to meet the needs of every student while navigating responsibilities that never seem to end.
The paraeducator whose relationship with a child has become a source of safety and trust.
The counselor or mental health provider who carries difficult stories home.
The classified union sibling whose work is essential to the life of the school.
The colleague who has become quieter lately.
The person who always says they’re fine.
Maybe they are.
Maybe they aren’t.
And maybe we won’t know unless we ask.
Not every difficult relationship can be repaired with kindness. Some situations require boundaries, intervention, accountability, and meaningful change. I believe that deeply.
But I also believe we can become so accustomed to managing our own pressures that we forget the person beside us may be doing the same.
We do not have to understand every part of someone’s experience to care about what happens to them.
We do not have to share a job title, a bargaining unit, or even the same perspective to recognize that their dignity matters.
And when our labor siblings are fighting for the respect, safety, and working conditions they deserve, their struggle should matter to us.
Because care that only extends as far as our own interests is too small for the communities we are trying to build.
There is another part of this conversation I don’t want us to overlook.
Us.
The people doing the caring.
I wonder how many educators are reading this after a day when they gave everything they had and still went home thinking about what they didn’t get done.
How many are worried about a student right now.
How many are trying to be present for their own children, partners, parents, or families while their minds are still somewhere at school.
How many are carrying grief, financial worries, health concerns, or responsibilities that nobody at work knows about.
And how many have become so good at being the person everyone depends on that they’ve forgotten what it feels like to be cared for themselves.
I understand that more than I sometimes want to admit.
I know how easy it is to encourage someone else to rest while convincing ourselves that we have just one more thing to finish.
One more call.
One more problem to solve.
One more person who needs us.
And I am learning that there will always be one more thing.
Our humanity does not disappear because we chose a profession rooted in service.
We deserve tenderness, too.
We deserve patience when we’re struggling, space to grieve when we’re hurting, and permission to experience joy without feeling guilty about the work waiting for us.
We deserve to have lives beyond our jobs.
And we deserve working conditions that make those lives possible.
Because I am not going to tell an exhausted educator that the solution is simply to take a bubble bath, practice mindfulness, or find a better way to manage their time.
Rest matters. Boundaries matter. Mental health matters.
But no amount of individual self-care can compensate for a system that continually asks people to give more than they have.
We need adequate staffing. Manageable workloads. Safe schools. Respect for our professional judgment. Time to do our work well. And systems that support the people who support our children.
That is part of what we fight for as a union.
Not just a better contract, but the conditions that allow educators and students to flourish.
We cannot build schools rooted in care while treating the well-being of the people inside them as an afterthought.
And we cannot expect educators to carry that responsibility alone.
I think about what becomes possible when care is shared.
When a colleague notices someone struggling and offers support.
When a family feels comfortable enough to tell us what they really need.
When a student knows that making a mistake will not cost them their dignity.
When our union siblings know we will stand beside them, even when their struggle is not our own.
When we are willing to ask for help and know that doing so will not be mistaken for weakness.
Those may sound like small things.
But I have come to believe that some of the biggest changes begin with the smallest decisions we make about how we treat one another.
I don’t expect us to get everything right.
I know I won’t.
There will be days when we are tired, impatient, distracted, or overwhelmed. Days when we miss something important or wish we could take back what we said.
But there will also be another opportunity to listen. Another chance to apologize. Another moment to notice someone we overlooked.
And there will be opportunities to laugh, celebrate, find joy, and remember that our lives are so much bigger than the challenges in front of us.
I want that for us.
I want our children to experience schools where they are loved, valued, accepted, challenged, and understood.
I want families to know they are welcomed as partners, not treated as problems to manage.
I want our communities to know that we see their humanity and that their children are precious to us.
I want the people working in our schools to know that their contributions matter, whether or not anyone notices them.
And I want us to remember that we matter, too.
Not because of how much we accomplish.
Not because of how many people depend on us.
Not because we have managed to hold everything together.
Simply because we are human.
I still have tremendous hope for what we can build together.
Not because I believe the work will become easy, but because I know the extraordinary people doing it.
I’ve seen what happens when someone refuses to give up on a child.
I’ve seen families find their voices.
I’ve seen educators stand together when it would have been easier to look away.
And I’ve seen how one person choosing compassion can change the direction of someone else’s day.
That is worth protecting.
That is worth building upon.
And that is worth fighting for.
Sometimes care is the very reason we fight.
So as we move through the days ahead, I hope we notice a little more. Listen a little longer. Extend a little more grace where it is needed, and find the courage to speak when something is wrong.
I hope we remember that the person in front of us has a story we may not know.
And I hope that when the person who needs compassion is the one looking back at us in the mirror, we offer it there, too.
Our children are counting on us.
But we are also counting on one another.
And I believe we can be there for each other.
With care. With courage. With humanity.
In Solidarity,
Monique Barrett, M.Ed.
President, San Diego Education Association
Until next time,
Take care of yourselves.
Take care of one another.
And please remember, you deserve to be cared for, too.
I’ll see you out there.
