Triggers in the Workplace

This month has felt like a mirror I didn’t ask to look into. A student in my classroom is walking through storms that feel so familiar to me, and I find myself back in those small shoes, remembering what it felt like to be unseen, unheard, and unprotected. It is both heartbreaking and infuriating to realize that the system — the one I needed as a child — is still broken in many of the same ways forty years later.

Every time I have to speak with their parents, something inside me coils up tight. The minute I hear their voices, I want to scream and run away. My body reacts before I even process the words. And when I see their mother interact with them, it sends shivers down my spine. There’s a tone, a sharpness, an edge that I recognize too well — the kind that doesn’t leave bruises but cuts deep all the same. It’s like watching my own story play out in front of me, and I hate that I know exactly how it feels.

These moments remind me that trauma doesn’t stay neatly packed away in the past. It spills into the present — into workplaces, classrooms, staff meetings, and conversations we’d rather not have. For me, the workplace is a classroom, but my triggers don’t care about the setting. They show up when a parent’s voice echoes the harshness of my own mother’s. They show up when a child’s fear mirrors the fear I carried at that age. They show up when a colleague momentarily loses track of a student of mine, and my heart panics before my mind can catch up.

The day my colleague lost track of a student of mine, I knew they were safe soon after, but my body didn’t know that. It reacted with fear, as if I were back in danger myself. My mind replayed every memory of not being protected. I panicked, not because of the moment itself, but because of the history stitched into me. That’s what triggers do — they collapse time. They take the “then” and drag it into the “now.”

I am not proud of how I reacted that Monday, between the student going through the storms and the other student being misplaced. I was mad, and I let my frustration out at the administration. But when I look closer, I see that it wasn’t really anger at the children or the other teachers — it was anger at the injustice of it all, at the reminder of my own powerlessness as a child. These are the moments when my past and present blur, and I must remind myself: I am the adult now. I am safe. And I can choose differently.

So here is the one truth that pulls me back over and over again: my students have me. They have someone who notices, someone who cares enough to see beyond the surface, someone who knows what it means to sit in that silent pain. I can’t fix the system. I can’t undo anyone’s hurt. But I can show up. I can be safe when the rest of their world feels unsafe.

This is why I became a teacher. To protect as many children as I can. To be the safe adult I once needed. I never want a child to have to suffer alone. I never, ever want a child to believe that they are stupid or lazy. We forget, as teachers, that we, too, play a part in how our students see themselves.

I am grateful for my position at this school, and I see God’s grace in this place on a daily basis. But I also know this about myself: working with adults is hard for me. It’s a growth area I am still learning to navigate, and one I pray for strength in daily. Healing doesn’t make me perfect; it just makes me honest enough to admit where I still stumble.

Promise to Myself and My Students
I will not run from the pain that rises in me when I see their stories mirror my own. Instead, I will stand steady and be the teacher who notices, protects, and believes them. My classroom will always be a place where safety begins, even when the system fails.