Month: December 2025

When Change Sneaks Up on You

An image of the author at her desk, looking out the window at her yard and garden. This is a stylized, decorative photo symbolizing how much she wants to be out in the world, but must be on the inside, looking out.

Every once in a while, it sneaks up on me when I’m doing something ordinary: reading, writing a story, making a list, thinking about what needs to get done that day. Then suddenly it hits me that not so long ago, this same moment would have been effortless. I wouldn’t have planned it. I wouldn’t have had to pace myself. I wouldn’t have wondered whether I’d still be functional tomorrow.

What’s strange is how normal this life feels now. I’ve adapted. I’ve learned workarounds. I’ve adjusted expectations so gradually that over time, I’ve barely noticed them changing. Because of that, it can be hard to remember just how much has been lost.

I remember being able to do a full day’s work and still having energy left. I remember thinking clearly without effort. When I wanted to be social or go out to eat, I didn’t need to calculate the cost – both physical and financial. For the most part, I could trust my body and my brain to show up when I needed them.

I don’t dwell there often; you can’t survive if you do. But sometimes I miss that version of myself; not with bitterness, just with a quiet ache. And it’s not because this life has no value, but because it took so much adapting that the contrast only becomes clear in moments of stillness.

And then I take a breath, smile, and keep going, because this is the life in front of me now.  Then I settle back into the quiet rhythm of the day and I’m glad to be alive.

For more reflective writing by Jan Mariet, try Living with Invisible Losses: Finding Meaning in Chronic Illness – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

When the Table Was Full – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life or

When the Storm Changes You – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life.

The Numbers Behind Special Education in Public Schools

How Public Schools Are Becoming the System of Last Resort

A Real-World Simulation

Decorative image of four elementary school students arriving at school and being faced with a wall of graphs, charts, and figures.

Of course, schools do not have identical class sizes, the same number of classes per grade, or special education students evenly split among classrooms. In real life, students cluster. Some grade levels have more needs than others. Some classrooms end up with more complex combinations. Staffing fluctuates year to year. Schedules collide. Services overlap.

To those who suggest that special education students should simply be placed into one classroom per grade level, it is important to understand that this approach is not consistent with federal law. Federal statutes and regulations require schools to educate students in the least restrictive environment appropriate to their needs. Deliberately segregating students who could be educated alongside peers can place districts out of compliance and can subject them to huge fines. And even setting the law aside, what parent would willingly choose the one general education classroom overloaded with high-need students, particularly when behavior challenges are part of the equation?

A Numeric Example

So, let’s look at the numbers. Imagine a local elementary school with approximately 500 students. To keep the math clean, we will use 504 students. The school serves preK through fifth grade, which is seven grade levels. There are three classrooms per grade, and the average class size is 24 students. That means each grade level has 72 students, split evenly across three classrooms.

Now, apply a conservative estimate that 10 percent of students receive special education services of varying degrees. In a school of about 500 students, that equals roughly 50 students with IEPs. Spread across seven grade levels, that works out to about seven special education students per grade.

If those students were perfectly and intentionally distributed to provide the greatest possible interaction with non disabled peers, consistent with federal special education requirements, each grade level would look like this:

Two classrooms with two students on IEPs
One classroom with three students on IEPs

Even in this neat and unrealistic scenario, every classroom includes multiple students requiring accommodations, data tracking, service minutes, and coordination. But special education students are not evenly distributed. When there are behavior needs, safety concerns, or significant academic gaps, students tend to be clustered in certain rooms for practical scheduling reasons.

What appears on paper as two, two, and three often becomes one, one, and five. Sometimes it becomes zero, two, and five. This happens before you account for gifted clustering, English learner clustering, or the impact of one very high-need student on classroom dynamics.

Staffing Assumptions

Now, assume this school has:

  • Two special education teachers
  • Seven paraprofessionals

That sounds reasonable until the workload is examined.

The Compliance Workload

Using conservative estimates:

Each of the 50 students has at least two IEP meetings per year. Each meeting lasts approximately two and a half hours. That is five hours per student per year, or 250 hours total.

Writing the proposed IEP for each student takes at least five hours per year. That adds another 250 hours.

Updating the IEP four times per year takes at least three hours per update, or twelve hours per student annually. That equals 600 hours.

Data gathering and documentation takes at least two hours per week per student and must be completed by a special education teacher. Over a school year, that equals 104 hours per student, or 5,200 hours total.

Add those together and you get:

250 hours for meetings
250 hours for writing IEPs
600 hours for updates
5,200 hours for data collection

That equals 6,300 hours per year of special education teacher time. With two special education teachers, that is 3,150 hours per teacher per year.

So, in this simulation, each special education teacher is being assigned more than double the hours that exist in the work year, and that is before you count:

  • time walking between classrooms
  • crisis response
  • parent communication
  • teacher consultation
  • compliance paperwork outside IEP writing
  • scheduling services
  • evaluating progress monitoring tools
  • documenting accommodations and modifications

This is why special education teachers burn out, and why so many leave. It is not because they do not care. It is because the math does not work.

A typical school year includes about 190 days. Even assuming a generous 7.5 hour workday, that equals approximately 1,425 working hours per teacher per year. So, before any instruction occurs, each special education teacher has already been assigned more than double the number of hours that exist in the work year.

At first glance, it may seem logical to simply add more special education teachers. In reality, school personnel budgets are finite. Adding two special education teachers does not happen in isolation. It usually requires eliminating two other teaching positions, most often general education classroom teachers. When that happens, those classrooms disappear, and the students in them are redistributed across the remaining classes. Class sizes increase, instructional demands rise, and general education teachers face even greater strain. The staffing problem is not solved. It is shifted.

What the Simulation Still Does Not Include

Do you notice what is missing from this calculation? There is no time included for special education teachers to actually teach students. There is no time included to deliver the IEP service minutes that students are legally entitled to receive. There is no time allocated for small group instruction, pull-out reading or math interventions, co-teaching in general education classrooms, or reteaching content in accessible ways.

There is also no time included for supervising and supporting paraprofessionals. Paras are often assigned to students with complex needs and challenging behaviors. They require training, feedback, observation, and guidance. Special education teachers are responsible for monitoring implementation of behavior plans, adjusting supports, coordinating schedules, troubleshooting problems, and ensuring accommodations are delivered consistently. None of that appears in the hours above.

The simulation also does not account for the daily reality of special education work. There are student crises, meltdowns, safety incidents, parent communication, teacher consultations, missed services that must be made up, compliance paperwork beyond the IEP itself, and the constant switching between classrooms and grade levels throughout the day.

The 6,300 hours represent only documentation and compliance demands. The actual teaching and service delivery, which should be the heart of special education, sits on top of a workload that already exceeds the number of hours available.

The Service Minutes Problem

Service minutes are the number of minutes each special education student is guaranteed to receive, and the specific number of minutes is determined in that student’s IEP (Individualized Education Plan). These minutes are intended to be provided by a fully certified special education instructor, not a paraprofessional or a general education teacher.

Consider this school, which has two special education teachers serving fifty students, each of whom is entitled to thirty minutes of service per day. That number is an approximation. Some may require 10 minutes per day, and others 50 minutes per day, but 30 minutes per day is a reasonable average. That requirement alone adds up to 1,500 minutes, or 25 hours of mandated service every school day. Spread across two teachers, this translates to 12.5 hours of direct service per teacher per day. But the school day is only 7.5 hours long.

Even under the most generous assumptions, that workload is impossible. A full-time teacher cannot provide more than approximately 7.5 hours of direct instruction in a day, and that figure is overly optimistic. It does not account for lunch, transitions between students, legally required breaks, planning, documentation, meetings, or compliance work. When required service minutes exceed the total hours available in a school day, the shortfall is structural, not individual. Once again, the math does not work.

Why This Matters

This is why special education teachers burn out. This is why so many leave. It is not because they lack dedication or skill. It is because the system assigns more work than time allows.

No amount of passion, organization, or sacrifice can make an impossible workload possible. When schools rely on goodwill to bridge structural gaps, everyone eventually loses. Students do not receive the services they are promised. Teachers are placed in constant ethical conflict. This is not a failure of individual educators. It is a failure of system design.

The Second Shift: What Happens When Students Leave

Now let’s add a second, very realistic variable. Assume that 10 percent of the students leave this public school and enroll in charter schools or private schools using a voucher program. That means 50 students leave a school that originally enrolled about 500 students.

Voucher-funded schools are not required to accept or serve students with significant disabilities because they do not receive federal special education funding. In practice, many either decline to enroll students with special needs altogether or accept only those with minimal support requirements. For the purpose of this simulation, we will assume that the students who leave are not students receiving special education services, because that is typically what happens.

When Enrollment Changes

Original enrollment:

  • 504 total students
  • 50 students with IEPs
  • 454 general education students

After 10 percent leave:

  • 454 total students
  • 50 students with IEPs
  • 404 general education students

No special education students leave, but 50 general education students do. Originally, students with IEPs made up about 10 percent of the school population. After this shift, they now make up about 11 percent of the school. The percentage change looks small, but the classroom impact is immediate.

Funding Changes

When students leave using vouchers, state funding follows them. Federal special education funding does not increase to compensate, and fixed costs remain.

The school now has:

  • 10 percent fewer students
  • 10 percent less state funding

But it does not have:

  • 10 percent fewer special education students
  • 10 percent fewer IEPs
  • 10 percent fewer legal obligations

Staffing cannot be reduced proportionally. The school still needs special education teachers, paraprofessionals, and specialists to meet mandated services. Cutting even one paraprofessional can destabilize multiple classrooms. Cutting a special education teacher often places the district out of compliance. So funding shrinks, but responsibilities remain unchanged.

Classroom Impact

At first glance, general education class sizes may appear slightly smaller. But because the students who leave are primarily general education students without IEPs, the ratio of students with disabilities inside classrooms increases.

Classrooms that once had two students with IEPs now have three. Classrooms that had three may now have four or five. Clustering intensifies, especially for students with behavioral or safety needs. The overall number of classrooms usually stays the same, but the complexity inside them increases. Nothing about teaching becomes easier.

Staffing Pressure Intensifies

As funding drops, districts often respond by freezing hiring, leaving vacancies unfilled, or reducing paraprofessional hours. Caseloads increase. Support services are stretched thinner.

Special education teachers still carry the same compliance workload for the same number of students. The 6,300 hours of compliance work from the first simulation does not change.

General education teachers now face classrooms with higher concentrations of need and fewer supports. Instructional time erodes. Behavioral incidents increase. Burnout accelerates.

Missed Service Minutes and Enforcement

At this point, missed services become unavoidable. As special education minutes are not met, some parents begin to notice and report these shortfalls to the state education agency, which enforces federal special education law under oversight from the U.S. Department of Education.

When investigations confirm that services were missed, districts face consequences. They are required to correct violations and often must provide “compensatory education services” to make up for instruction, therapy, or supports that were not delivered. These services must be provided outside the regular school day or year and are paid for by the district.

Compensatory education is expensive. Districts may need to hire private providers, pay overtime, or contract specialized services. Costs can range from several thousand dollars for a single student to hundreds of thousands of dollars across multiple cases. In some states, districts also face additional financial penalties tied to corrective action plans or heightened monitoring.

These costs do not stay contained. They are absorbed at the district level and reduce resources available to all schools in the system. Money that could have been used to hire staff or stabilize classrooms is redirected to address compliance failures after the fact.

Administrative Disruption

Enforcement actions also bring disruption. Staff may be reassigned or removed from classrooms to handle corrective paperwork. Administrators may be replaced or relocated as required by federal regulations. New compliance personnel may be brought in temporarily. Each change interrupts services yet again.

Teachers lose continuity. Students lose stability. The system becomes even harder to manage, and the cost of providing services increases.

The Loop Accelerates

Parents of general education students notice increased disruption and instability. Families with options begin to leave. Each departure further reduces funding and increases the concentration of need. This causes the cycle to repeat.

More students leave. Fewer supports remain. More services are missed. More enforcement follows. More money is diverted away from classrooms. More teachers leave.

Why This Matters

This is how public schools become oversaturated with high-need students; not through bad intent, but through policy choices that leave public schools responsible for the greatest needs while funding and flexibility steadily drain away. Public schools are required to serve every student, regardless of need or cost. Voucher-funded schools are not. What begins as parental choice becomes a structural imbalance that public schools are left to absorb.

A Third Shift: When Another 5 Percent Leave

Now extend the simulation one more step. Assume that an additional 5 percent of students leave the public school after the first wave. That is 25 more students, again primarily general education students without IEPs.

The school now looks like this:

  • Original enrollment: 504 students
  • After first wave: 454 students
  • After second wave: 429 students

Special education enrollment remains unchanged:

  • 50 students with IEPs

The proportion of students with IEPs has now risen to nearly 12 percent of the student body. This increase did not happen because more students suddenly qualified for services. It happened because the students who could leave did leave.

Classroom Reality After More Students Leave

The number of classrooms does not shrink easily. Schools cannot always collapse sections midyear without violating contracts, schedules, or staffing requirements, but the composition inside those classrooms shifts again.

Classrooms that once had:

  • 2 students with IEPs now have 3 or 4
  • 3 students with IEPs now have 4 or 5
  • One classroom per grade may now carry the majority of students with significant behavioral or instructional needs

General education teachers are now expected to manage:

  • Higher instructional differentiation
  • More behavior plans
  • More documentation
  • More crisis management

with fewer paraprofessionals and fewer specialists available. At this point, classrooms are no longer strained. They are unstable.

Staffing Becomes Impossible to Maintain

Districts now face a dilemma. They cannot reduce special education staff because legal obligations remain unchanged. They also cannot afford to add staff because funding has dropped by 15 percent overall.

The most common responses are:

  • Larger caseloads
  • Fewer paraprofessional hours
  • Delayed evaluations
  • Missed services
  • Increased reliance on paperwork to document intent rather than delivery

This is where compliance begins to fail regularly, not occasionally.

The Cost Comparison Schools Avoid Making

Now let’s compare this reality with a different choice.

Cost of Compensatory Education and Enforcement

Cost of Compensatory Education and Enforcement

When a school district fails to provide the special education services a student is legally entitled to receive, the remedy is known as compensatory education. Compensatory education is not a proactive support. It is a corrective measure ordered after a violation has already occurred.

Enforcement typically begins when a parent or guardian files a formal complaint with the state education agency, alleging that required services were not provided. The state then conducts an investigation, reviews records, and issues findings. If the complaint is substantiated, the district is required to provide services to compensate for what the student missed.

Because these services are intended to make up for lost instructional time rather than replace current instruction, compensatory education is frequently delivered outside the regular school day. This may include after-school sessions, weekend instruction, school breaks, or services provided during the summer.

Compensatory education commonly includes:

  • Private tutoring or therapy
  • Extended school year services
  • After-school or weekend instruction
  • Contracted specialists or outside providers

A single compensatory package for one student can easily cost $5,000 to $20,000. Multiply that across even ten students, and the district is now spending $50,000 to $200,000 after the fact.

In addition to direct services, districts often incur further costs related to enforcement, including:

  • Legal consultation
  • Compliance monitoring
  • Administrative reassignment
  • Overtime for documentation and reporting

The total cost rises further.

None of these expenditures improve day-to-day classroom conditions. They do not add staff, reduce caseloads, or provide preventative support. They exist solely to address violations after harm has already occurred.

Cost of Compensatory Education and Enforcement

When a school district fails to provide the special education services a student is legally entitled to receive, the remedy is known as compensatory education. Compensatory education is not a proactive support. It is a corrective measure ordered after a violation has already occurred.

Enforcement typically begins when a parent or guardian files a formal complaint with the state education agency, alleging that required services were not provided. The state then conducts an investigation, reviews records, and issues findings. If the complaint is substantiated, the district is required to provide services to compensate for what the student missed.

Because these services are intended to make up for lost instructional time rather than replace current instruction, compensatory education is frequently delivered outside the regular school day. This may include after-school sessions, weekend instruction, school breaks, or services provided during the summer.

Compensatory education commonly includes:

  • Private tutoring or therapy
  • Extended school year services
  • After-school or weekend instruction
  • Contracted specialists or outside providers

A single compensatory package for one student can easily cost $5,000 to $20,000. Multiply that across even ten students, and the district is now spending $50,000 to $200,000 after the fact.

In addition to direct services, districts often incur further costs related to enforcement, including:

  • Legal consultation
  • Compliance monitoring
  • Administrative reassignment
  • Overtime for documentation and reporting

The total cost rises further.

None of these expenditures improve the day-to-day classroom conditions. They do not add staff, reduce caseloads, or provide preventative support. They exist solely to address violations after a student has been denied the special education services they are legally entitled to receive.

Cost of Proactive Staffing

Now let’s compare the costs of failing to provide required services to the cost of prevention. The average salary and benefits for one experienced special education teacher often fall between $70,000 and $90,000, depending on the district.

One additional special education teacher could:

  • Reduce caseloads
  • Ensure service minutes are met
  • Supervise paraprofessionals more effectively
  • Support general education teachers directly
  • Prevent missed services before complaints occur

In many cases, the cost of compensatory services for a single student exceeds the cost of hiring an additional teacher who could have prevented the violations in the first place. Yet districts routinely choose the former.

You may wonder why these financial decisions keep being made. Preventive staffing costs are visible, ongoing, and politically difficult to sustain. It is hard to persuade taxpayers to invest in preventing a problem that might occur. Compensatory services, by contrast, are reactive, fragmented, and frequently absorbed into district-level budgets. Once ordered through enforcement, districts have no option but to allocate the required funds.

So districts absorb the chaos instead. Teachers absorb the stress. Students absorb the disruption. Parents absorb the frustration. And the system quietly pays more for worse outcomes, in part because enforcement depends on families who know their rights, understand the procedures, and have the time and capacity to pursue them, making it financially cheaper for the school district to underprovide services than to staff adequately upfront.

Where the Cycle Ultimately Leads

At this stage, public schools are left with:

  • The highest concentration of need
  • The fewest resources
  • The greatest legal exposure
  • The highest staff turnover

Meanwhile, alternative settings continue to enroll easier to serve students with fewer obligations.

Non-public schools can be more stable places to work because they typically have fewer behavioral crises, smaller class sizes, and far less compliance pressure. Many also retain the ability to disenroll students whose needs they determine they cannot meet, returning those students to public schools.

For these reasons, such settings are understandably appealing to educators. As a result, many experienced and highly effective teachers leave public schools for charter or private schools where working conditions are more sustainable.

Those who remain in public schools are not less capable or less committed. They are often the teachers with fewer options, deeper ties to their communities, or a strong sense of obligation to the students who are left behind. But as staffing churn increases, institutional knowledge is lost, mentoring disappears, and classrooms are increasingly staffed by newer or overwhelmed teachers who are asked to do more with less support.

The result is not just a loss of personnel, but a loss of stability. Students who need consistency the most experience the highest turnover. Teachers who stay face heavier loads and fewer colleagues to share them. The cycle tightens, and recovery becomes harder with each passing year.

Public schools are not failing because they serve students with disabilities. They are failing because policy choices concentrate responsibility without preserving the resources required to meet it.  Until that imbalance is addressed, every reform effort will treat symptoms rather than causes.

What Fixing This Actually Requires

Fixing this problem does not require choosing between inclusion and exclusion. It requires structural honesty.

First, placement decisions must be driven by student need rather than fear of litigation or ideological pressure. Inclusion is not synonymous with identical placement. Some students thrive in general education classrooms with appropriate supports. Others require smaller settings or specialized programs. Those placements are not failures. They are appropriate matches.

Second, funding must align with obligation. Public schools cannot remain the default placement for the highest-need students while resources steadily leave through voucher systems. If public schools are required to serve every student, funding structures must reflect that responsibility. Federal funding must also increase to make compliance with those requirements realistically achievable.

Third, preventive staffing must be prioritized over reactive compliance. Districts routinely spend more on compensatory services, legal consultation, and crisis management than they would on additional teachers and specialists. Redirecting resources toward staffing reduces violations, stabilizes classrooms, and improves outcomes.

Fourth, special education teachers must be given realistic caseloads and time to teach. Compliance cannot be layered endlessly on top of instruction without consequences. When teachers leave, it is not a personal failure; it is a signal that the system is unsustainable.

True inclusion means access, support, and belonging, not just physical placement. It also requires the courage to make appropriate placement decisions, even when those decisions are contested.

When schools delay changes out of fear of litigation or parental pressure, the cost is borne by classrooms. Months of disruption, documentation, and instability follow, often ending in the same placement change that should have happened earlier. The financial and human costs of this delay far exceed the cost of acting decisively in the first place.

Public schools are not failing because they serve students with disabilities. They are being placed in an increasingly unsustainable position by policy decisions that concentrate the highest needs in one system while allowing money, flexibility, and stability to flow elsewhere. Until that imbalance is addressed, no amount of policy changes or new initiatives will alter what teachers and students experience in classrooms each day.

Real improvement begins when placement decisions are driven by student needs, when public schools are fully resourced to serve the students they are legally required to educate, and when schools are given the staffing and flexibility necessary to make inclusion work as it was originally intended. Inclusion was meant to expand opportunity, not to overwhelm classrooms or leave students and teachers struggling in environments that cannot meet their needs.

That balance cannot exist while current voucher systems continue to operate as they do now. When funding follows students out of public schools, but the highest need and most expensive students have no option but to remain, public education is left carrying responsibility without the means to meet it. Public schools become the system of last resort for students with significant disabilities, behavioral challenges, or complex needs, while other schools are permitted to opt out of serving them altogether.

This arrangement is not sustainable. If public education is to remain viable, responsibility must be shared, placements must be appropriate, and policies must stop concentrating the greatest needs in one system while steadily eroding public schools’ ability to retain students, staff, and resources.

Author’s Note:
This article was written with deep respect for students, families, and educators. It is not an argument against inclusion, special education, or students with disabilities. It is not about blame. It is about understanding how well-intended policies interact in real classrooms, and why the outcomes so often fall short of what anyone wants.

This numeric simulation does not rely on worst-case scenarios or extreme assumptions. It reflects the daily realities faced by public schools serving students with disabilities. When policy choices, funding structures, and legal obligations are examined together, the outcome becomes clear. Public schools are not failing special education. They are being asked to carry it alone.

If you’d like to read more about the history of schools and special education, you might want to read

The Good Old Days — But for Whom?  When Schools Changed: The Forgotten Truth About Inclusion and Exclusion fore special education % – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

If you’d like to read more articles about teaching and education by Jan Mariet, try

What Teachers Wish They Could Tell You – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Why More Money Will Not Fix Teaching – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Teaching vs. Other Professions – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Teaching Without Trust: How Scripted Lessons Undermine Learning – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Why Early Printing Instruction Matters – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

A Small Tablecloth from France

A Family Heirloom and a Love Story

Today, I have a story to tell that is over one hundred years old and that will, with luck, continue for another hundred years. Is it a true story? Well, yes, and no.

It is a story passed down to me by my grandmother, a remarkable woman who lived in three centuries and two millennia and who also knew how to tell a good story. Is every part of it true with absolute fidelity? I doubt it. Don’t we all reshape our past just a little to show ourselves, and those we love, in the best light? Over the years, I have learned to say, “Well, it makes a good story,” when repeating family lore.  I am sharing this one to the best of my recollection, and I am sure my grandmother did the same.

Young Leona in a simple work dress.

My grandmother’s name was Leona, a very old-fashioned name that suited her well. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and equally, knew what she didn’t want. When she married at eighteen to a man who did not turn out to be compatible, she had the marriage dissolved, a form of divorce that was quite scandalous at the time.

By the time the dissolution was final, she found she was already quite far along “in the family way” from her brief marriage. She had moved back into her parents’ home and taken a job as an assistant cook to pay her own way. She had more to think about than just herself. Her infant son, Bill, made his appearance shortly after her nineteenth birthday.

Leona, wearing a work shirt and work pants, her hair tied up in a scarf, while working at the blow-mold factory as the men headed off to WWI.

As men geared up and began leaving for World War I, Leona stepped into a job at a blow-mold factory. These factories formed part of the industrial backbone of the war, producing chemical containers, glass food jars, and other essential industrial items.

The work was physically exhausting, and the conditions were harsh. Women typically worked ten or more hours a day in factories that were hot, poorly ventilated, and coated in grime from constant use. The pace was set by machines, not by human endurance, and the tasks were repetitive and unrelenting.

Leona was paid less than the older men who remained after the call-ups began, but the wages were still far better than domestic work, which had previously been one of the few paid options available to women. For the first time, factory work offered a measure of financial independence, even if it came at a high physical cost.

While Leona worked long shifts on the assembly line, her older sister cared for her baby. It was a quiet, practical arrangement, one born of necessity. Leona did what needed to be done, trusting family to help fill the gaps, just as so many women did during those years.

As a devout Quaker, technically divorced, and with a young son, one might think her prospects were bleak. However, nothing could be further from the truth.

Young Ward working in a factory prior to being called up for service in WWI.

She met a quiet, unassuming man named Ward. Though only two years older than Leona, he was already accustomed to hard work and responsibility. When his own father became ill and later passed away, Ward left school after the sixth grade and worked full-time to support his mother and three sisters. He was quiet by nature, but his devotion to family was always evident.

I have never heard the story of how Ward and Leona met, only that they did. Ward was kind to Leona’s infant son, and she knew almost immediately that he would be a good father. Soon, they began to speak of a future together.

When Ward was drafted into the army and sent to Europe near the end of World War I, Leona told him that when he returned, if he wished to ask her to marry him, she would be most agreeable. Ward said nothing, but his quiet smile spoke volumes. This would become the pattern of their lives. Leona suggested things, and Ward quietly and happily went along.

Ward returns from France with a gift for Leona: a small, ecru-colored linen tablecloth for their life together. When he returned from the war, they set the date to get married.

When Ward’s enlistment ended, he returned home from France carrying a gift wrapped only in white tissue paper. As a private in the Army, he couldn’t bring back anything large or costly, but he brought something meant for their home and for the life they would build together. While in France, he chose a small linen tablecloth, just large enough for a modest lamp table.

The cloth was made of fine linen, with hand-crocheted lace and drawn-thread work typical of French household textiles from the early 1900s. It was sized for a small table and used beneath a lamp in the parlor. It was not hidden away or saved for special occasions. It was washed, ironed, and used as part of everyday life.

Ward and Leona get married in a simple service at the registry building. Ward is wearing his only suit, and Leona is wearing a simple dress with an attached lace collar. She is holding a small bunch of violets.

Ward gave it to her, and shortly afterward, they were married. Ward wore his suit, not his best suit, but his only one. Leona wore a plain beige dress with a lace collar reminiscent of the crochet work on the tablecloth. In her hands, she carried a small bouquet of violets she had gathered herself outside the registry building.

They began their married life as a family of three. Ward’s quiet composure and humility became his hallmark, while Leona, not so quietly, steered the family.

Their family eventually grew, though much later than they had expected. Seven years after their wedding, Jack was born. He would go on to a life of ministry, serving as a minister and missionary alongside his wife and their two children. After waiting so long for Jack, Ward and Leona believed their family of four was complete.

As Ward and Leona grow older, their son Jack comes along, followed years later by an unexpected baby, Joe.

But as life often does, it surprised them. Twelve years after their wedding, another son arrived. Born at home on Mother’s Day after two days of labor, their unexpected thirteen-pound, thirteen-ounce baby, Joe, was always regarded as a joyful surprise and a blessing in their later years.

The years went by as they always do, bringing good things and bad, but always more good than bad. Leona’s oldest son, Bill, married his childhood sweetheart and became a sheriff’s deputy. He valued Ward’s steady, fatherly advice and quiet concern.

Their son Jack married his soulmate, became a minister, and together he and his wife served as missionaries in Africa before settling into a lifelong calling in ministry.

As for their youngest, Joe, he married a young woman he met and fell in love with at a drive-in restaurant. Like his father before him, he served a tour in the army and later became a successful businessman.

That small ecru tablecloth brought home from France always found a place wherever my grandparents lived. As they moved from one rental home to another, it moved with them. It remained proudly displayed until many years after Ward’s passing.

During their entire married life, that linen tablecloth was used and displayed and became a symbol of their love and devotion to each other and their family.

A tiny blood spot still marks the cloth, left behind when my grandmother pricked her finger while ironing it. That mark has never been removed. It is part of the cloth’s history, a quiet reminder of the care and labor that went into keeping a home when there was very little to spare.

This tablecloth is not valuable because it is rare or ornate. It is valuable because it tells a story of love, effort, and a devoted life. It represents a young couple beginning their life together with few possessions, choosing beauty where they could, and making a home out of what they had.

Ward and Leona never owned a home until they were long past retirement age. They moved from one rental to another, always fixing things up and leaving each place better than they found it. Their plates and silverware never matched. Many of their drinking glasses were old jelly jars or Ball Mason jars that had lost their lids. It would have been hard to find a coffee cup without a chip somewhere along the rim. Their means were modest, but their love and devotion were beyond measure.

The linen tablecloth, folded neatly on top of a chest, is now kept safe by Ward and Leona's youngest granddaughter.

Sixty years after receiving it, Leona entrusted her beloved linen tablecloth to her youngest granddaughter. For the past forty-some years, that granddaughter, Jan, has kept it safe and will one day pass it along to one of Ward and Leona’s great-great-grandchildren.

The tablecloth is not important for what it is, but for what it carries. The love and devotion woven into it will remain long after the final crochet threads have worn away. And that is exactly as it should be.

A rare picture of all three 'boys' -- Bill who was now an adult and had started his own family with his wife, Bessie; Jack who was in high school, and young Joe, who surprised them later in life.
Leona and Ward with Bill, who was already married and on his own at age 24, Jack, who was in high school, and young Joe.

Ward and Leona celebrated their 50th Wedding Anniversary in 1972, with both Jack and Joe, and 4 of their 6 grandchildren.
Ward and Leona’s fiftieth wedding anniversary took place in 1972, with both Jack and Joe, and their wives, along with 4 of their grandchildren.

For another family story by Jan Mariet, why not check out When the Table Was Full – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life. I think you’ll enjoy it, no matter what the time of year.

Skirts, Sneakers, & Sports – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

The Good Old Days — But for Whom?  When Schools Changed: The Forgotten Truth About Inclusion and Exclusion fore special education % – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Resilience is my Power – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

“Life Unworthy of Living” Response – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Teaching vs. Other Professions

Why Teachers Are Denied Professional Respect

A professional teacher standing in front of a high school class, teaching.

Professional Trust in Practice

I have never gone to a doctor’s appointment and watched them be treated the way teachers are treated. If a patient is rude or disruptive, the doctor is not told to ‘build a relationship.’ They are not blamed for the behavior. They are not asked what they could have done differently. No one evaluates their tone, facial expressions, or whether they smiled warmly enough while enforcing boundaries. No one questions whether the doctor had clear rules and expectations posted on the wall of the exam room. And no one would expect that. Doctors are trusted professionals. Their expertise is assumed. Their time is protected. Their authority is respected.

When Professional Boundaries Are Assumed

The contrast with teaching is striking. No one asks a doctor to supply their own alcohol swabs, gloves, cotton balls, or medical equipment because it is “not in the budget.” These materials are recognized as essential for providing safe and effective care. Likewise, no one expects a doctor to keep snacks on hand in case a patient’s behavior is driven by hunger, or to personally fund and maintain a calm, dedicated space to manage an enraged or disruptive patient.

Teachers, meanwhile, routinely purchase basic necessities out of pocket: paper, pencils, books, classroom materials, even food for students. This expectation has become so normalized that refusing to do so is often framed as a lack of compassion rather than a reasonable professional boundary.

Expectations Around Time and Availability

No one insists that a doctor meet with patients in the evening, long after the practice has closed, because some people are ‘too busy’ to come during business hours. Missed appointments carry consequences, and endless reschedules would never be permitted. Responsibility is clear.

Teachers are expected to be endlessly available before school, after school, in the evenings, and on weekends, often without compensation. When parents do not attend conferences, return emails, or follow through at home, the burden still falls on the teacher. Somehow, it becomes their failure to reach out enough. Many teachers are required to tutor or reteach students who failed to put in any effort during class time, after school, before school, or during the teacher’s lunch time. These duties are typically added on to the teacher’s workload, and are often not optional.

Professional Space and Interruptions

No one forces their way into a doctor’s exam room while another patient is being seen to ask one quick question, demand explanations about unrelated issues, or challenge decisions in real time. That behavior would result in immediate removal from the office. Medical offices are set up to protect doctors from distractions or intrusions on their time.

Yet teachers experience constant interruptions. Parents appear unannounced. Students arrive late and disrupt instruction. Teachers are summoned during class for early dismissals or office requests. Administrators pull teachers mid-lesson to address behavior issues or parent concerns. What would be considered inappropriate in other professions is treated as normal in the classroom.

Responsibility Versus Blame

If a patient ignores a doctor’s instructions, fails to take medication, disregards dietary restrictions, or skips follow-up care, the doctor is not held accountable for the outcome. Responsibility rests where it belongs.

But when parents fail to enforce routines, expectations, or consequences at home, teachers are often told they should have done more. Accountability shifts downward, regardless of how little control the teacher actually has.

Boundaries and Consequences

And if a patient is consistently rude, disruptive, or abusive, they are dismissed from the practice. They have to find other options. Doctors are not required to continue serving them indefinitely. Boundaries exist, and they are enforced. Teachers never have that option.

Disruptive behavior is reframed as a classroom management issue. Teachers are told to build better relationships, try new strategies, and reflect more deeply, while remaining legally and professionally responsible for students they cannot remove, regardless of conduct.

The Training Stage Versus Professional Practice

To be clear, every profession has a training phase where close oversight is appropriate. Doctors are closely observed, monitored, and instructed while they are learning. Their decisions are reviewed. Their work is supervised. Mistakes are corrected in real time.

That is exactly how student teaching works. Student teachers are observed, coached, and mentored by experienced supervising teachers. They practice under guidance. They are still learning the profession.

Then something important happens. Doctors earn their license. At that point, constant observation ends. Micromanagement stops. They are trusted to do the job they were educated and trained to do. Their expertise is no longer perpetually questioned.

That transition never seems to happen in teaching. Even after teachers earn full licensure, after years of education, certification exams, student teaching, mentoring, and classroom experience, the scrutiny does not ease. Observations continue. Checklists remain. Micromanagement persists. Teachers are evaluated as if they are perpetually in training.

They are told how to phrase objectives, how to arrange desks, how to greet students, how to speak, how to stand, how to smile, and what to post on their walls. Their professionalism is constantly audited, as though competence must be re-proven year after year, and frankly, sometimes, week after week.

Why Teaching Is Treated Differently

In most professions, trust is the reward for experience and competency. In teaching, that is rarely the case. Why does this happen?

Part of it is perception. Schools are public-facing institutions under constant political and parental scrutiny. Administrators are often required to manage how decisions look to others as much as how effectively teaching and learning actually happen. As a result, administrators are frequently focused on avoiding complaints and controversy as much as supporting effective instruction.

Part of it is misplaced responsibility. When outcomes are poor, accountability is often directed at individual teachers rather than at broader factors such as policy decisions, funding limitations, class size, or systemic constraints that shape what happens in classrooms.

And part of it is cultural. Teaching is still widely viewed not simply as a profession, but as a calling. Because of that, teachers are often expected to give more of themselves, their time, and their resources out of personal devotion, rather than being supported through trust, clear boundaries, and professional respect afforded to other professions.

This pattern is not unique to teaching. Other professions long described as ‘being a calling,’ such as nursing, social work, clergy, and early childhood care, have faced similar expectations of self-sacrifice and limitless availability. In many of those fields, the consequences have been visible: burnout, workforce shortages, and pressure to lower standards in order to fill roles and maintain services.

Teaching remains one of the few professions where the language of it ‘being a calling’ is still routinely used to justify eroded boundaries, inadequate support, and the gradual weakening of professional standards, ultimately harming the profession as a whole.

The result is a profession where expertise never earns autonomy, boundaries are viewed as inconveniences, and disrespect is reframed as a personal failure rather than a behavioral one.

When Working With Children Becomes the Excuse

A common defense of how teachers are treated is that children are different; that managing behavior, emotions, and compliance makes teaching uniquely difficult and therefore uniquely subject to scrutiny. Teaching is often defended as uniquely different because it serves children. But that assumption does not hold up when we look at how other child-serving professions are actually treated.

Pediatric Dentistry and Professional Authority

Consider a pediatric dentist. Pediatric dentists routinely work with children who are scared, anxious, resistant, or openly uncooperative. They deal with crying, refusal, fear-driven behavior, and strong parental emotions in close quarters, often with safety risks far higher than those in a classroom.

Yet when a child refuses to open their mouth, the dentist is not blamed. The dentist is not told to try harder to build a relationship. They are not evaluated on whether their tone was warm enough. They are not asked to reflect on what they could have done differently.

If a child develops cavities because brushing does not happen consistently, the dentist is not held responsible. No one suggests the dentist needs additional training on how to teach daily hygiene habits. Responsibility is understood to lie with the routines outside the dental office. If a child is old enough, that responsibility rests with the child. If the child is too young to manage the task independently, it rests with the adults responsible for supervising and supporting it.

If a child becomes disruptive or unsafe, the appointment stops. Expectations are clear. Parents prepare the child, follow instructions at home, and respect professional boundaries. The dentist’s authority is not up for debate. Their expertise is trusted. Their time is protected.

The Double Standard Inside the Same Building

You can also consider a speech-language pathologist. Speech-language pathologists work directly with children, often those with learning differences, communication challenges, or behavioral difficulties. They build rapport, use evidence-based strategies, and track progress carefully.

But they are not endlessly accessible. Sessions have defined start and end times. Services are scheduled, not on demand outside of the pathologist’s working hours. When families fail to follow through, that noncompliance is documented. In some cases, services are reduced or discontinued.

Most importantly, speech-language pathologists are not blamed when progress stalls due to lack of support outside their sessions. Their professional judgment is respected.

What makes this comparison especially revealing is that many speech-language pathologists work in the very same buildings as teachers. Yet teachers are rarely afforded the same professional boundaries or autonomy.

Teachers are expected to manage every variable at once. They are held responsible not only for instruction, but also for behavior, emotional regulation, family follow-through, and outcomes well beyond their control. Disrespect is reframed as a classroom management failure. Lack of progress becomes a personal shortcoming.

Unlike dentists or speech-language pathologists, teachers are rarely allowed to pause, redirect, or refuse service when conditions become unreasonable. The issue is not that children are sometimes difficult. The issue is that teaching is one of the only child-serving professions where difficulty is used as justification for denying professional trust.

When Professional Trust Is Withheld

Doctors, dentists, speech-language pathologists, and other highly trained professionals are observed closely while they learn. Once licensed, they are trusted to make decisions within their expertise. Their professional judgment sets the boundaries of their work, and accountability is shared appropriately among all parties involved. But for some reason, teaching continues to be the exception.

Teachers are licensed, experienced, and highly trained, yet are subjected to ongoing scrutiny that would be unthinkable in other professions. Teachers are held responsible for outcomes shaped by factors far beyond their control, while their professional judgment is subject to constant interruption, evaluation, and revision by others. Their decisions are routinely questioned, their boundaries overridden, and their responsibilities expanded far beyond a reasonable scope.

If we want better outcomes for students, the answer is not more micromanagement of teachers. It is recognizing that professional trust is not optional. It is essential.

If you are interested in the issues that are important in reviving our education system, you might want to consider Why More Money Will Not Fix Teaching – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life.

You also might want to read The Quiet Heart of Teacher Burnout – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life, which discusses how teachers are often complicit in some aspects of teacher burnout, simply by being too ‘agreeable.’

You might also enjoy a discussion on how ‘scripted instruction’ is minimizing students’ learning experiences and reducing the quality of education they receive. To learn more, go to Teaching Without Trust: How Scripted Lessons Undermine Learning – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life.

When a Chronic Illness Breaks What Was a Strong Partnership

A couple standing back-to-back. The woman's eyes are downcast as she stands in a bedroom, symbolizing a life laden with chronic illness. The man is facing a path and the sun, signifying moving on to a new life.

It is not surprising when illness fractures a relationship that was already strained or unbalanced. In many partnerships, the now-ill partner quietly carried the majority of the invisible labor that kept daily life running. This often included managing finances, planning meals, buying groceries, doing laundry, keeping track of children’s needs, scheduling appointments, and holding the mental load of what needed to happen and when.

When chronic illness or cancer disrupts that arrangement, the imbalance becomes impossible to ignore. Tasks that were once handled seamlessly now demand attention and effort from the other partner. For someone accustomed to being taken care of, this shift can feel overwhelming. In the short term, they may step up. But as the reality sets in that the change may be permanent, frustration and resentment often follow.

Instead of recognizing the loss their partner is experiencing, some begin to frame the situation as a failure of effort. The now-ill partner is seen as no longer “pulling their weight,” rather than as someone whose capacity has fundamentally changed. Responsibility is deflected through familiar patterns. Help is offered conditionally, with statements like, “I’d help if I were given a list,” or “I don’t know what needs to be done!” Learned helplessness becomes a way to avoid accountability, even while walking past obvious work that needs attention.

What is often labeled as nagging is, in reality, an attempt to get follow-through on promises already made. When reminders stop, nothing happens. When reminders continue, resentment grows. Over time, this dynamic erodes trust and intimacy, not because illness has made one partner unlovable, but because the relationship was never built on shared responsibility to begin with.

What is harder to understand is when a strong, long-term relationship seems to inexplicably crumble. In these cases, both partners have grown comfortable with the way things were. They are accustomed to a familiar division of labor, whether it was truly balanced or not, it is their baseline, their ‘normal’ way of life. When illness disrupts that arrangement, the required shift can feel deeply unsettling. Tasks once handled quietly and reliably by the now-ill partner must be reassigned, and resentment can surface. The partner who is not ill often recognizes that the situation is beyond their loved one’s control, and even feels guilty for the resentment they cannot seem to prevent.

In the short term, most partners either step up or make arrangements for others (siblings, children, friends, hiring people to do jobs that the now ill partner once did) to fill in the slack.  Most emotionally healthy people can handle quite a lot when they know it is a crisis, and is  only for the short term.

But as the reality sets in that these changes may be permanent, the discomfort deepens. The unspoken wish becomes a longing for things to return to the way they were, back when their partner wasn’t ill, back when their partner wasn’t in pain or wasn’t so (understandably) needy. When that return to normal isn’t possible, some partners find they simply cannot cope with the loss of the life they expected and the comfort they once felt.

Many devoted partners remain present during the hardest moments. Like most people, they are often expecting a clear ending to the struggle. They imagine either a triumphant recovery or the tragic loss of their partner. They hope for the best, and steel themselves for the worst.

What even the most devoted partner is rarely prepared for is months, years, or even a lifetime of ongoing struggle. The moments of improvement feel like victories, but they are inevitably followed by setbacks that demand renewed endurance.  It can be more than even the most devoted partner can bear. 

Over time, even the most well-meaning partners can develop what might be called emotional fatigue. They grow tired of hearing about pain or witnessing ongoing suffering and protect themselves by pulling back. They may spend less time with their partner by seeking activities outside the relationship or home, or by retreating within the home into solitary distractions such as television, computer games, solitary hobbies, or scrolling. They invest less effort in the relationship, not out of cruelty, but out of self-preservation. Regardless of the reason, this withdrawal can feel like a profound abandonment to the partner who is ill.

This often leads the ill partner to become desperate for the closeness that once defined the relationship. The more they try to restore that connection, the more the other partner feels overwhelmed and the more they withdraw. The cycle feeds itself and deepens the emotional distance between them.

While it is not surprising when illness fractures a relationship that was already strained or unbalanced, the loss of what once seemed like a strong partnership can feel like the ultimate betrayal. For someone battling cancer or struggling with chronic illness, it can feel like being abandoned at the moment they are most vulnerable.

The hard truth is that there is no socially acceptable time to leave an ill partner, yet some partners feel they have no other option. Both experience profound loss, but in very different ways. The partner who is ill is left to carry grief, illness, and isolation all at once, often without the ability to rebuild or replace what was lost.

The partner who leaves must live with the moral weight of that choice, whether through guilt or rationalization, while forming a new life elsewhere. While they may seem incredibly happy in their new life, they may always have a silent guilt just below the surface that perpetually threatens their new happiness, and that keeps them from committing quite as much to their new relationship.

In the end, neither partner escapes unscathed. Illness reshapes both lives in ways neither anticipated, and the aftermath lingers long after the relationship ends.

If you’d like to read a similar article based more about the toll of chronic illness on friends and family relationships, try reading The Relationship Toll of Chronic Illness – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life.

Why More Money Will Not Fix Teaching

Image of an exhausted, overwhelmed teacher sitting in a classroom after hours, with stacks of papers and grading that needs her attention, but she's just too tired. The text says, "Teachers are not leaving because they hate teaching. They are leaving because the day-to-day reality has become unsustainable."

The call to “just pay teachers more” is often offered as a simple solution to a complex problem. Teachers do deserve higher pay. That is not in question. What is missing from this conversation is an honest look at the daily conditions that are driving educators out of the profession. Salary alone does not address those realities.

Teacher burnout is not simply about pay or workload. It is about being wired to give in a system that is wired to take. Teachers are not burning out because they lack commitment. They are burning out because they care deeply in a culture that treats constant overextension as the baseline expectation.

A typical teaching day requires standing and moving for hours at a time, often six or more, while maintaining constant attention and control. Many teachers have little or no uninterrupted planning time built into their day. Even when preparation periods exist on paper, they are frequently consumed by meetings, coverage duties, or administrative tasks. Teaching is not a job that allows for mental rest during the workday. There is no pause button.

At any given moment, a teacher is managing instruction, behavior, time, and safety simultaneously. An announcement interrupts the lesson. A student packs up loudly for an early dismissal and asks what the homework is. Teaching stops to answer the question. A special education teacher enters to work with a small group of students and begins explaining directions in a voice loud enough to pull attention away from the main lesson. The classroom teacher pauses again when asked to repeat what was taught during that interruption. Nearby students lose focus and begin distracting or taunting one another. The teacher intervenes, redirects, and attempts to resume instruction, knowing that momentum has already been lost. These are not daily occurrences, but hourly occurrences that leave the teacher stressed and frustrated, but are also things over which the teacher has no control.

This level of constant stimulation is relentless. It requires sustained concentration, emotional regulation, and split-second decision-making for hours at a time. There is no quiet. There is no single task. There is no opportunity to focus on one thing from start to finish. By the end of the day, mental exhaustion is not a side effect of teaching; it is a predictable outcome.

Layered onto this cognitive load is the steady erosion of authority. Gone are the days when a teacher could send a disruptive student to the office and continue teaching. In many schools, that option no longer exists. Teachers are required to call the main office, explain the situation, and wait while their instruction is disrupted for the entire class. Even when a student is removed for behavior that is destructive or unsafe, the removal is often brief. The student may return shortly afterward, sometimes with a snack, instructed to offer an apology that everyone understands is insincere, and placed right back into the same environment where the behavior began. Frequently, the behavior resumes or escalates because students come to realize there are no real consequences.

When teachers enforce behavior policies that administrators themselves have established, those policies often remain in place only until a vocal parent objects. Once a persistent or demanding parent becomes involved, administrators may quietly reverse direction. Teachers are then instructed to handle the situation differently in the future, without any public clarification or visible support. The result is that the teacher appears unreasonable or incompetent, with diminished authority and no clear way to manage future concerns with that family. When parents openly share that they succeeded in having a teacher’s decision overturned, it further undermines the teacher’s credibility with other families as well.  It also signals to others that policies are negotiable and that teacher authority can be bypassed.

At the same time, teachers are experiencing a similar loss of authority over instruction. Educators study child development, pedagogy, assessment, and learning theory. They understand how instruction must be adapted to meet students where they are. Yet in practice, teachers are frequently told to ignore that expertise.

Many are required to teach using methods they know are not developmentally appropriate. They raise concerns and explain why certain approaches will not work. Those concerns are dismissed in favor of programs marketed as research-based or proven, even when those claims rely on narrow evidence or have been challenged by broader research. Once districts or administrators commit to a program, questioning it becomes unacceptable. Teachers are expected to implement it enthusiastically, even when early results confirm exactly what they warned would happen.

When the approach fails, responsibility rarely falls on the program itself. Teachers are told they did not implement it correctly, that they need more training, or that they must reflect on what they could have done differently. The outcome they predicted becomes their burden to fix.

This creates a constant state of upheaval. Instructional methods shift regularly, often driven by trends, vendors, or leadership changes rather than classroom reality. Teachers are expected to adapt instantly, without complaint, and without acknowledgment of their professional judgment. Highly educated professionals are hired for their expertise and then repeatedly instructed to work against it.

No amount of money compensates for this combination of physical fatigue, cognitive overload, and professional disrespect. Higher pay does not reduce sensory overload. It does not eliminate constant interruptions. It does not restore authority that has been systematically undermined. It does not remove the strain of being held accountable for outcomes while being denied meaningful control over the conditions that produce them.

Teachers are not leaving because they hate teaching. They are leaving because the day-to-day reality has become unsustainable. Responsibility continues to increase while trust, autonomy, and support continue to shrink.

Paying teachers more matters, but it cannot be the end of the conversation. Real change requires restoring authority in classrooms, respecting professional judgment, and creating conditions that allow teachers to do the work they were trained to do. Until those changes occur, higher salaries may slow the exodus, but they will not stop it.

Teaching has problems that money alone will not fix. And yet, instead of addressing those problems by improving working conditions, restoring authority, providing meaningful support, or even increasing pay, many districts have chosen a different solution entirely. They are lowering the bar to enter the profession.

Across the country, requirements for teachers and substitutes are being reduced in response to staffing shortages. Temporary and emergency licenses are increasingly common. Many individuals with no formal training in education are allowed to lead classrooms while being told they can learn how to teach later. In some cases, they are given a year or two to take a handful of education courses while continuing to teach full-time. Subject mastery is often assessed through a multiple-choice exam on material they are already responsible for teaching, regardless of whether they have ever studied it in depth themselves.

The standards for substitute teachers have dropped even further. In many districts, the only requirements are that a person be at least twenty-one years old, hold a high school diploma, and have no felony convictions. That is the entire bar. As a result, substitutes are routinely placed in classrooms teaching advanced subjects they have never taken, let alone mastered. This is not a criticism of those individuals, many of whom are doing their best in impossible situations. It is a critique of a system that treats teaching as something anyone can step into without preparation.

The message this sends to trained, experienced educators is devastating. Teachers are told they are professionals, yet their expertise is ignored. They are held to high standards of accountability, while untrained replacements are brought in under dramatically lower expectations. The work remains complex, demanding, and high-stakes, but the profession itself is increasingly treated as interchangeable labor.

This approach does not fix burnout. It accelerates it. When districts respond to teacher attrition by devaluing the profession rather than improving it, they confirm what many educators already feel. The problem is not a lack of qualified people willing and able to teach. The problem is a system that refuses to make teaching a sustainable profession for those who are qualified, educated, and committed to doing it well.

Author’s Note: Yes, teachers deserve better pay. That matters. This post is about the reality that salary alone does not address the loss of authority, constant disruption, and lack of professional trust that many teachers experience daily.

Just to be clear, this isn’t about blaming individual teachers, students, or parents. It isn’t about blaming administrators. It’s about the day-to-day conditions that make teaching increasingly unsustainable. Many educators love the work itself. It’s the systems around the work that are breaking people down.

And if you have never taught, consider this an invitation to listen. These are not hypotheticals or worst-case scenarios. They are everyday realities in many classrooms.

If you find yourself thinking about “the way things were” when you were young, I encourage you to read The Good Old Days — But for Whom?  When Schools Changed: The Forgotten Truth About Inclusion and Exclusion fore special education % – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life . It offers important context for why today’s classrooms look so different.

We cannot go back to “the way things were” any more than we can abandon cars and return to horse-drawn transportation, or stop buying clothing and go back to purchasing bolts of fabric, needles, and thread, or even weaving our own cloth. The idea may sound appealing at first, until you remember what it actually required, who was left out, and what progress would be undone in the process.

The Relationship Toll of Chronic Illness

How Long-Term Illness Affects Relationships

Four friends (including one in a wheelchair) are sitting at an outdoor cafe having a great time together. Words across the top of the image say, "Belonging is something we all need."

We love stories with inspiring plots and triumphant endings. We celebrate people who heroically “beat” an illness or injury, and we mournfully grieve those who tragically die from it.

But chronic illness lives in the uncomfortable space in between, where there is no finish line, no victory speech, and no permission to stop fighting or reach a clear ending.  There are no accolades for fighting an endless battle. There is no applause for persevering as symptoms progress rather than resolve.

People want a neat, tidy ending, either a triumphant recovery or a tragic conclusion. What most people are not prepared for is months or years, or even a lifetime of unrelenting struggle. Over time, even well-meaning friends can develop what might be called battle fatigue. They grow tired of hearing about the pain or witnessing the suffering and, quite logically, protect themselves by pulling back. They spend less time. They invest less effort. Not out of cruelty, but out of self-preservation.

At the same time, the person living with chronic illness often has less to give. Managing pain, fatigue, and unpredictable symptoms leaves little energy for maintaining relationships. Sometimes we take more than we give. Other times, we go quietly silent, trying to spare others from seeing our suffering. Neither nourishes a friendship.

It really is a two-sided street. Relationships require give and take, and chronic illness disrupts that balance in ways neither person can fully control.  So, where is the middle ground? Can friendships survive when they become too one-sided for too long?

The truth is, very few people, whether the friend or the person living with chronic illness, can navigate this terrain without loss. It is difficult, exhausting, and emotionally fraught for everyone involved.

Is it any wonder that relationships fracture, friendships fade, and even family bonds strain over the course of long-term illness? Moving between periods of deep need and periods of withdrawal is more than many relationships can withstand.  Even those that do survive are seriously changed in unimaginable ways. 

I am not here to offer a magical solution or a sprinkle of fairy dust that makes everything better. No such remedy exists. As painful as it is to accept, many relationships that once felt unshakable do not survive the relentless nature of chronic illness. And often, no one is entirely to blame, or entirely blameless.

Real life is not a weekly sitcom or even a long-play series that wraps everything up neatly with a satisfying happily-ever-after. Chronic illness does not follow a script, and neither do the relationships shaped by it.

And still, not everything is lost. Some friendships do survive. Not because they are untouched by illness, but because they are willing to change shape. These relationships bend instead of breaking. They adapt to the reality of chronic illness and make room for uneven energy and long silences.

They learn new rhythms, new expectations, new ways of showing up. These relationships may be fewer, quieter, and less effortless than before, but they are often deeper, more honest, and more compassionate. And sometimes, new relationships grow in the space left behind. Friendships rooted not in who we used to be, but in who we are now. People who understand that presence does not always look like productivity, and love does not require fixing.  These friendships are not built on constant availability, but on understanding.

And when older relationships do fall away, new ones often emerge. Connections shaped by shared experience, mutual grace, and the understanding that sometimes simply choosing to remain is enough.

If you’d like to read more about Chronic Illness and Life-Changing Disabilities you might try these articles.

My Disabilities Do Stop Me | When Disabilities Really Do Stop You

How People Respond to Your Chronic Illness – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

The Truth About Chronic Conditions – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

When the Table Was Full

Image of a large holiday table laden with food and decorations; the chairs now empty, as a lonely silver tree stands in the background.

I remember that time, so many snowy winters ago, when my grandparents’ house was packed with my whole family: aunts, uncles, and cousins I hadn’t seen since the last holiday season. The holiday gathered around a large family table, with everyone’s favorite foods made in enormous proportions.  It felt like such a normal, annual occurrence; something you could rely upon like the changing of the calendar or singing Auld Lang Syne on New Year’s as the clock struck 12. Back then, I had no idea how fleeting these moments were or how much things would change.

Christmas will never be the same as it was then, a joyful celebration at home followed by a long car ride to our grandparents’ house. There were presents wrapped and waiting beneath the shining aluminum Christmas tree, the one with the color wheel that slowly changed the light as it turned.

There were songs to sing together and board games to play. Grandma would disappear into the kitchen to keep dinner cooking, and some of the aunts would join her. Grandpa and my dad set the table. It was not fancy china, just good, sturdy plates and silverware. If there were a lot of us, it did not all match, but no one cared. It was the food, the love, and the shared celebration that made it special.

Sometimes there were more people than chairs at the table. When that happened, out came the old wooden ironing board, placed carefully across two chairs, and a third, and sometimes a fourth, child would sit there on the span in between.  There was never a children’s table at my grandparents’ house. Everyone sat together around the big, old table.

Aunts, uncles, and cousins arrived, coats piled onto the bed because the coat closet could not hold them all. My grandmother made everyone’s favorite dish, even if none of them went together, and that dish was placed in front of them when dinner was served. For me, it was her homemade butter noodles. For my mom, date pudding. For my dad, her macaroni and cheese. For my brother, homemade rolls. There was always ham, and sometimes turkey too, and all the trimmings.

And just when you thought you had eaten your fill, my grandmother would say, “But I made that just for you,” gently coaxing you to take just a little more of your favorite dish. Good food, she believed, should never go to waste.

When the meal was finished and the aunts began gathering plates and heading for the kitchen, my grandmother would always say, “Just leave it. Grandpa will do the dishes. Grandpa loves to do the dishes.” For the record, Grandpa did not love to do the dishes. Still, with a quiet smile of surrender, he and the uncles would disappear into the kitchen and not return until every dish, pot, and pan was washed, dried, and put carefully away.

Then it was time for what my grandmother called “The Christmas Game.” Somehow, there were always exactly enough small gifts under the silver tree for everyone present. Each person had a number. When your number was called, you could choose a wrapped gift from under the tree or take one from someone else, and they’d get to choose again. The game went on until everyone had their final gift, and then we opened them together. It always amazed me how everyone ended up with something just right for them. I did not realize until much later that the packages wrapped with flowers and ribbons were meant for girls, while the ones with plain curling ribbon were meant for boys. Still, we all had something we would enjoy in the end.

Those carefully wrapped boxes held small treasures: a plastic yo-yo, a pink headband, a set of jacks, or a Chinese jump rope. It was not until I was an adult that I understood how little my grandparents had. As a child, they seemed like the richest people in the world, simply because of the love and joy they shared so freely.

As families do, we scattered. Grandparents grew older and eventually passed on. Years slipped by without seeing aunts, uncles, or cousins. Distance and growing families pulled us in different directions, and holidays became something celebrated only within our immediate family. Then, in time, the parents became the grandparents, and houses were once again filled with holiday cheer and togetherness.

Eventually, though, the aunts and uncles and parents pass on. Families drift, as is the natural way of things. The grandchildren become parents, and then the great-grandchildren arrive.

And the maiden aunts or bachelor uncles? For a while, they are invited now and then. But distance often weakens even those ties. Slowly, Christmas becomes a day like any other. Sometimes busy. Sometimes lonely. Sometimes both. Without quite intending it, we find ourselves living more in our childhood Christmases than in the quiet days in front of us.

Still, I hold no sadness that those crowded, noisy Christmases now live only in memory. They fill my mind, and they feed my soul. I carry them with me like a treasured pocket watch. 

As the younger ones become parents and then grandparents themselves, the cycle continues. There are new names and new faces, but the same loving togetherness remains, passed along as it always has been. And to me, that is the true meaning of Christmas: a living tradition that moves gently through generations, while we pass through it almost unnoticed, until one day we realize we have become part of the memory itself.

If you enjoyed this remembrance, you might enjoy this post as well. Choose Joy – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Time to Rise Again (Poetry)

Time to Rise Again: A Poem About Resilience and Renewal

by Jan Mariet

We have to loosen our grip
On the things that scorch and sting,
The words that linger too long,
The hurts that weigh down our wings.

The mem’ries that bruise our hearts,
That keep us small and still,
That hold us too close to the ground,
And quiet our inner voice and will.

Maybe now it’s time
To turn the page with care,
To face the light again
And leave the anger there,

To forgive what cannot be changed,
Not for them, but for our souls’ release,
And open the door at last
To flight, and light, and peace.

12/16/2025

This image is a decorative image of the poem, Time to Rise Again by Jan Mariet. We have to loosen our gripOn the things that scorch and sting,The words that linger too long,The hurts that weigh down our wings.The mem’ries that bruise our hearts,That keep us small and still,That hold us too close to the ground,And quiet our inner voice and will.Maybe now it’s timeTo turn the page with care,To face the light againAnd leave the anger there,To forgive what cannot be changed,Not for them, but for our souls’ release,And open the door at lastTo flight, and light, and peace.12/16/2025

If you enjoy poetry, check out other poems by Jan Mariet at Poetry Archives – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

If you enjoyed this poem, you might find Jan Mariet’s book, Our Resilient Hearts, to be something you would enjoy. You can find it on Amazon at Our Resilient Hearts: Thriving Beyond Chronic Illness: Mariet, Jan: 9798315554523: Amazon.com: Books . For anyone navigating chronic illness, disability, or the invisible weight of pain, this book is your companion, your mirror, and your voice. Our Resilient Hearts is more than a collection of stories—it’s a journey toward hope, healing, and hard-earned strength.

The Quiet Heart of Teacher Burnout

The Hidden Cost of Being Too Agreeable

Image of an exhausted, overwhelmed teacher who is feeling burned out.

As a whole, teachers tend to be too agreeable by nature. It is often their strongest asset, but also their greatest weakness. Most teachers I’ve known, myself included, rank high in what psychologists call agreeableness. Caring, empathy, cooperation, and a strong sense of responsibility are hallmarks of this trait. These are the same qualities that make teachers exceptional at what they do. They build trust with students, bring warmth into their classrooms, and create learning environments where children feel seen and valued.

But those same virtues can easily turn into traps. Agreeable, empathetic people often struggle to set boundaries. We have a hard time saying no, especially when someone else needs help. I can’t count how many times I stayed late to organize materials, took home extra work, or volunteered for one more committee because no one else raised a hand. I told myself I was being a team player, but really, I was depleting my own reserves.

At first, that kind of constant giving looks like dedication. Administrators praise it. Colleagues admire it. Parents appreciate it. Students benefit from it. But over time, that steady stream of self-sacrifice turns into exhaustion. The body and spirit start to protest. For teachers, burnout is rarely just about the number of papers to grade or lessons to plan. It’s about being wired to ‘give’ in a system that is wired to ‘take’.

Agreeable, empathetic teachers have a tendency to overextend. Administrators, intentionally or not, have a tendency to lean on those same teachers until “going above and beyond” becomes the new normal. Once that happens, being overburdened stops being a choice and becomes an expectation. That’s the quiet heart of teacher burnout.

The workload alone is monumental. The sheer number of meetings, lesson plans, and individualized accommodations can feel endless. There’s the preparation of engaging lessons, the paperwork that must be completed while simultaneously managing a room of twenty-five children, and the expectation to maintain discipline in a system that often limits a teacher’s authority to do so. And yet, for the teacher who feels responsible for everyone and everything, even this heavy load somehow expands. Extra tasks get piled on because agreeable people rarely push back. Eventually, the weight becomes unsustainable.

When the expectation to do the impossible collides with a teacher’s inner drive to give their best, the result is painful. Teachers begin to burn out, not because they stop caring, but because they care too much for too long without protection. They start to pull back, telling themselves they will do less, care less, or only meet the bare minimum. The tragedy is that most of them are not built that way. Their hearts are wired to give, even when giving has begun to cost too much. Even when they succeed at ‘giving less,’ it feels like a silent failure. 

Teachers don’t need to care less. They don’t need to become hardened or indifferent. What they need is protection from being overused. Schools must begin to value boundaries as much as compassion, and leaders must understand that protecting a teacher’s energy is not indulgence; it is preservation.

At the end of the day, the solution is not to make teachers tougher, but to make teaching more humane. We cannot keep expecting teachers to give until they have nothing left, and then make that the basic expectation. The system itself must change.

Education will thrive when compassion is met with respect, when effort is balanced with support, and when giving until you have nothing left to give stops being the expectation!  The best teachers are not those who give until there is nothing left, but those who are given the space, time, and understanding to keep their light burning. Protecting that light is how we protect the very soul of education itself.  We can’t keep calling exhaustion “dedication.” It’s time to protect the people who make education possible.

Here are some other teaching articles you might enjoy.

When Passion Isn’t Enough: The Unraveling of Teaching – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Teaching Without Trust: How Scripted Lessons Undermine Learning – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

If you’ve decided that it is time to get out of teaching, you might want to check out my book, Classroom to Corporate on Amazon.

Classroom to Corporate: How to Translate Your Teaching Experience into a Powerful Corporate Resume: Mariet, Jan: 9798280322257: Amazon.com: Books

Let’s start a conversation about how to reduce teacher burnout. What are your thoughts on the subject? Leave a response in the comments section.

Why Holidays Can Be So Hard for People with Chronic Illness

Image of a warmly decorated door for a holiday celebration. At the bottom of two steps, a man in a wheelchair, holding a small wrapped gift is looking at the door, and realizing he can't get in. The words say, "Sometimes the distance between 'included' and 'excluded' is just one step.

People often assume that if someone with a chronic illness skips a holiday gathering, it is because we do not want to be there. Nothing could be further from the truth. We miss those moments more deeply than anyone realizes. Even small celebrations can feel like running a marathon with a body that is already on empty.

The Effort Behind Getting Ready

For most people, leaving the house is simple: shower, get dressed, grab your keys, and go. For those of us living with chronic illness, it is a carefully planned operation. Every small step, like washing hair, brushing teeth, getting dressed, and traveling there and back, costs energy we may not have. What looks like a single outing might take days of preparation and a week of recovery.

For me, even showering is a major effort. I use several assistive devices just to get clean. My long-handled silicone body brush helps me reach what I cannot. Afterward, I use a lotion roller that looks a bit like a small paint roller because I am unable to bend in certain ways.

People do not always realize the struggle that comes with arthritis and neuropathy in the hands. Opening a deodorant cap can be a challenge. If I leave it off, it dries up. I use an automatic toothpaste dispenser because I cannot squeeze the tube or twist the cap easily. Even the sprayer on my perfume can be tricky.

Then comes blow drying my hair. I cannot hold a typical dryer for long. My hands give out, and I drop it. There are countertop racks, but my counter is not big enough, and standing or bending to reach them is painful. After a lot of trial and error, I found a lightweight dryer that I can balance on the counter and hold by the nozzle. That is why I keep my hair short. It saves time, reduces pain, and makes the process manageable.

I often wonder if other women have to choose a hairstyle based on grip strength and how long they can tolerate pain in their hands. I doubt most people consider how much effort and concentration it takes just to get cleaned up each day.

The Complicated Art of Getting Dressed

Getting dressed might look simple, but for many of us it is a daily challenge. Putting on socks or shoes when you cannot bend, zipping zippers you cannot grasp, or hooking a bra with fingers that will not twist takes energy and time most people never think about.

I use a sock aid, a dressing stick, and a grabber to manage clothes. When zippers or buttons are unavoidable, I reach for a zipper pull and a button hook. Many shoes require a long-handled shoehorn. After I am dressed, I still need to put all those devices away so I can find them next time. It takes extra time and extra energy, which I do not have in abundance.

The Penalty for Looking Good

There is a strange penalty for looking good when you are chronically ill. People mean well when they say, “You look great,” but the phrase can sting. If we look too well, people assume we are exaggerating our illness. Some even congratulate us on recovering, as if our illness disappeared because we washed our hair and put on nice clothes. If we look sick, we are pitied or told to try harder.

We cannot win. Existing in public can feel like being on trial. That emotional strain adds another invisible layer of exhaustion.

The Mental Load of Being Around People

When your body lives in survival mode, processing sounds, lights, and conversation takes real effort. Following multiple conversations or navigating new environments can be overwhelming. What looks like zoning out is often us using every bit of energy just to stay present.

What sounds like cheerful background noise to others can feel like an assault on our nervous systems. Noise, flashing holiday lights, and overlapping voices can cause pain, dizziness, migraines, or sensory overload.

You might see us turning our heads from group to group, trying to decide which conversation to follow. When a group bursts out laughing or someone shouts across the room, we may physically flinch. Our bodies often stay in fight or flight, and that surge of sound can trigger panic or the need to escape.

A quiet space to retreat to during a gathering helps more than most people know. When that is not available, many of us leave abruptly. It is not because we do not enjoy the company. It is because our bodies cannot handle more stimulation.

The Risk of Illness and Awkward Moments

For people with chronic illness, a simple cold, flu, or COVID exposure can cause months of setbacks or lasting damage. Gatherings filled with hugs, shared food, and laughter are also filled with germs, and we cannot always take that risk.

There are awkward moments too. Many older gentlemen greet with a firm handshake. It feels friendly to them, and like a vise to someone with arthritis or neuropathy. When pain shoots through your hand and you grimace, the moment turns uncomfortable for everyone. No one intends harm, but it dampens the holiday spirit.

Food, Culture, and Understanding

Many people with chronic conditions have restrictive diets. We might bring our own food or skip eating altogether, not to offend anyone, but to stay safe from allergies, digestive issues, or intolerances. In many cultures and families, refusing food is seen as rude, which makes this even harder.

I have so many food restrictions that my neighbors and I joke about me coming over to ‘not eat.’ They have watched my medical journey and understand why I cannot eat most foods. Others sometimes take offense. They assume I am being picky or dramatic. I have learned to laugh, but I will not make myself sick to spare someone’s feelings.

Scents and Sensitivities

Perfume, air fresheners, scented candles, and cleaning sprays can trigger severe reactions for many people with chronic illness. I am fortunate that this is not one of my personal challenges. For others, a home that smells fresh and festive can lead to hives, migraines, or even an emergency room visit. That is not the kind of holiday anyone wants.

The Struggle for Accessibility

Even if someone does not use a wheelchair every day, steps, narrow spaces, and low seating can make a home inaccessible. We are not trying to be difficult guests. We are trying to be safe.

I cannot climb steps without help. If a home has many stairs, I cannot go. One or two steps are possible if someone assists me. That can mean waiting outside until someone notices, or asking a stranger for help. Both are awkward and embarrassing. If no one comes, you either leave or call inside, which feels humiliating.

Low furniture is another obstacle. I cannot safely rise from a chair that sits lower than a certain height, and overstuffed sofas are out of the question. I have learned to ask for a kitchen or dining room chair so I have a safe place to sit.

Bathrooms can be their own obstacle course. It is not safe for me to use a low toilet unless there are grab bars or something sturdy nearby. One of the first things I do at a party is quietly check the bathroom. If I cannot use it safely, I plan to leave before I will need it. I do not explain why. I make a polite excuse. Saying, “I have to leave because your toilet is inaccessible,” is not something I can bring myself to do.

A Message for the Able-Bodied

If you have never had to think about accessibility, try imagining it for a moment.

How much would you enjoy going to a party where you had to ask someone to help you get in the front door? Would you enjoy having to lean on a near-stranger for support just to enter the house? Would that make you feel festive, or embarrassed and dependent?

Imagine worrying whether you can find a place to sit and join in conversation, knowing that most of the furniture is too low for you to use. You may find one suitable chair, but it is off to the side, far from the laughter and warmth of the group.

Now picture being tempted by foods you used to love but can no longer eat. You bring your own food, your own drink, maybe even your own utensils, and must figure out where to keep them or carry them with you all night. How festive does that sound?

And finally, think about being unable to use the restroom safely. Would you be comfortable telling your host that you need to leave because their toilet is too low or lacks grab bars? There is no graceful way to say that without embarrassing either of you.

If you have never had to consider these barriers, consider yourself not just lucky, but privileged. Accessibility is not about convenience. It is about dignity.

Getting There and Getting Home

Even getting to the party can be complicated.  If someone offers you a ride, can you get in and out of their car? Will your assistive device fit in their trunk, and will their trunk even be empty? If you need to leave early because you are in pain or overstimulated, how will you get home? Asking someone to leave early for you feels awful, but waiting hours in agony is worse.

Driving yourself has its own challenges. Can you park close enough to the house? Can you manage gravel, grass, or a steep driveway? Can you lift your mobility aid out of the car? These are not small details. They are the difference between attending and staying home.

Final Thoughts

None of this is about being difficult. Most of us with chronic illnesses would give anything to join the fun without a second thought. We miss things we desperately wish we could do. So, if someone declines your invitation, cancels at the last minute, or needs extra help, please understand. It is not that we do not want to be there. It is that sometimes our bodies will not let us.

How to Help During the Holidays

1. Offer flexible invitations. Let your friend know that showing up late, leaving early, or changing their mind is perfectly okay. Flexibility means everything.

2. Ask about accessibility in advance. A quick message like, “Is there anything that would make it easier for you to join us?” shows care and avoids awkward surprises. If you are choosing a place to hold a holiday celebration, and you are inviting people who use wheeled assistive devices or people who aren’t able to climb stairs, choose an accessible location.

3. Provide a quiet space. A calm corner or spare room where someone can rest or escape noise can make the difference between staying or leaving.

4. Respect food and scent sensitivities. Avoid strong fragrances, and don’t pressure anyone to eat what you’ve made. They are not rejecting you, they are protecting their health.

5. Offer practical help. Help carry bags, open doors, or bring food to their seat. Small gestures add up to big relief.

6. Don’t make assumptions. If someone looks well, that doesn’t mean they feel well. Compliments are fine, but skip the “You look great, you must be better!” comments.

7. Stay connected. Even if your friend can’t attend, include them in photos, video calls, or messages. It reminds them they are missed and valued.

Here are some other articles that might pique your interest.

Many Wheelchair Users Can Still Stand and Walk – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Let’s keep the conversation going! Add your comments below!

My Story Isn’t Public Property 

Stop Asking, “What Happened to You?”

Image of a man slumped over in his wheelchair, eyes downcast, as a smiling female reporter holds a microphone towards him and asks, "So, what happened to you?"

Have you ever noticed that when you live with a visible disability, total strangers sometimes feel entitled to ask, “So, what happened to you?” Not trying to be rude here, but believe it or not, I don’t owe my medical history and life story to anyone, least of all strangers.

It’s as if people see a disabled person and immediately think, “How terrible! I wonder what happened?” Then, instead of keeping that thought private, they actually ask. You would never ask such a personal question to a non-disabled person you’ve just met, so why is it considered acceptable when the person is disabled?

Too often, people see us as broken or as the subjects of some tragic story they’re curious to hear. Or they want an inspiring tale of triumph over tragedy, when in reality, these experiences are deeply personal and sometimes too personal to share even with close friends, much less with strangers or casual acquaintances.

Let’s normalize respecting boundaries and not treating disabled people like public stories waiting to be told.

Author’s Note: In writing this article, I made an important realization about myself. I have been so conditioned to just accept this intrusion that I not only answer them, but tend to blab my entire life journey. I overshare with strangers, I think, because I still feel the need I’ve felt all my life — to ‘prove’ that I am worthy. I am now making a conscious effort to stop doing this!

So, I’ve been trying to think of some things I could say to a person who asks this intrusive type of question, that aren’t rude, but that make the point that their question is inappropriate and that I have no intention of answering it.

Here are a few I thought of:

“That’s actually pretty personal. I’d rather not get into it.”

“I appreciate your concern, but that’s not something I talk about with strangers.”

“It’s a long story, and not one I usually share.”

“That’s actually a really personal question for disabled people. Most of us prefer not to be asked.”

“I know you probably meant well, but that’s not something strangers should ask.”

“I’m happy to chat, but not about my medical history.”

“Just so you know, asking a disabled person what happened can feel invasive.”

If you have any other suggestions, please leave me a comment. I’d love to know what you think!

Take a moment to explore other articles about living with disabilities or chronic illnesses by Jan Mariet.

Designer Shoes and Disability: Why Judging Others Is Obscene – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Have you ever had a stranger ask you an intrusive question like “What happened to you?” Leave a comment and let’s create a space where our stories remind others they’re not alone.

Living with Invisible Losses: Finding Meaning in Chronic Illness

Image of a person fading away into the background, and faint words saying, "The quiet grief, the missed moments, the life that used to be yours..."

When you live with a chronic illness, there are so many things you wish you didn’t have to face, yet they become part of your life.

There is the loneliness of watching the world move forward while you stand still. Friends make plans, families gather, and life goes on, even when you can’t take part.

There is the heartbreak of memories that belong to the person you used to be. You remember the energy, the freedom, and the ease of doing simple things without thinking twice.

There is the pain of not being able to show up for the people you love in the ways you once could. You miss birthdays, dinners, trips, and quiet everyday moments that used to come easily.

There is the grief of living with a loss no one else can see. The world doesn’t recognize this kind of pain, but it lives inside you every day.

There is the ache of missing out on the small, ordinary moments that most people take for granted. Even something as simple as going for a walk, running errands, or sharing a meal can feel out of reach.

And there is the loss of freedom. The freedom to wake up and simply do what you want, without calculating pain, fatigue, or consequences.

These are the unseen losses that shape your world in quiet, lasting ways; changes that settle deep within you, reinventing how you see yourself and the world around you. Acknowledging them doesn’t mean giving up. It means honoring the strength it takes to live a life that looks different, yet still holds meaning, love, and hope.

Take a moment to explore other articles about living with disabilities or chronic illnesses by Jan Mariet.

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

How People Respond to Your Chronic Illness – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Our Resilient Hearts is more than a collection of stories; it’s a journey toward hope, healing, and hard-earned strength. Author Jan Mariet weaves together powerful personal essays, thought-provoking prompts, and inspiring affirmations that help readers reflect on their own resilience and reclaim meaning in the face of adversity. Our Resilient Hearts by Jan Mariet is available in paperback on Amazon.

Our Resilient Hearts: Thriving Beyond Chronic Illness: Mariet, Jan: 9798315554523: Amazon.com: Books

Have you felt invisible losses too? Leave a comment and let’s create a space where our stories remind others they’re not alone.

Designer Shoes and Disability: Why Judging Others Is Obscene

A woman recently shared that she was accused of “scamming the system” because, in her wheelchair, she wore designer shoes. What her critics didn’t know, and didn’t care to ask, was that the shoes were a gift from her daughter.

A decorative image of a wheelchair user, a white, middle-aged woman, wearing stylish shoes with confidence, representing dignity and self-worth. She is leaving a medical office.

This kind of judgment isn’t rare. Disabled people are often scrutinized for daring to own or enjoy anything that seems “too nice.” A phone, a manicure, a night out, or yes, even a pair of designer shoes, becomes “evidence” that they must be cheating the system — as if disability benefits are supposed to buy only misery.

Let’s be clear: disabled people don’t have to live in visible desperation to be considered “worthy” of help. They deserve a life, one with comfort, dignity, and moments of joy. And those benefits people resent so much? They rarely cover even basic living costs, much less luxuries.

What’s truly obscene is the assumption that strangers can judge who is or isn’t “really” disabled based on a snapshot in time. Many disabilities are invisible. Many people are dealing with mental health conditions they don’t disclose because of stigma. So, when someone says, “I know she’s not disabled because she looks fine” or “he can walk, so he must be faking,” they’re not exposing fraud; they’re exposing their own ignorance.

No one owes the public an explanation of their medical history. The Social Security Administration already requires extensive documentation and verification before granting benefits. If they’ve been approved, that’s the end of the conversation.

Instead of policing how disabled people live, dress, or smile, maybe we should ask why society is so uncomfortable with the idea of disabled people having anything good in their lives.

Because the truth is simple: Joy is not evidence of fraud.

If you enjoyed this article, you might enjoy Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Many Wheelchair Users Can Still Stand and Walk

When most people picture a wheelchair user, they imagine someone who cannot walk at all. In reality, that description only fits a small minority of wheelchair users. Many people who use wheelchairs can stand or walk short distances but rely on mobility aids for safety, energy management, or independence. Wheelchair use is not always about the inability to walk. It is often about the cost of walking: physically, energetically, and emotionally.

Why People Use Wheelchairs

A group of friends, including one friend in a wheelchair, chat, laugh, and have a good time. The caption on the photo says, "Belonging is something we all deserve."

“Why do people use wheelchairs?” It seems like a simple question: “Because they can’t walk.” But that answer leaves out most wheelchair users. Many can take a few steps or stand briefly, yet walking may cause pain, fatigue, dizziness, or imbalance. A wheelchair provides a safer, more sustainable way to move through the day and participate in activities they might otherwise have to skip.

Mobility and stamina can vary greatly from day to day, depending on pain levels, fatigue, or symptom flare-ups. Some people use a wheelchair occasionally, while others rely on one regularly. During busy periods or stressful times, wheelchair use often increases as people try to manage symptoms while still engaging in daily life. Rather than symbolizing limitation, a wheelchair often represents freedom, safety, and inclusion.

How Common Is Ambulatory Wheelchair Use?

There is no official U.S. statistic separating wheelchair users who cannot walk from those who can. However, national surveys show that most wheelchair users report conditions such as arthritis, stroke, multiple sclerosis, or orthopedic disease, conditions that often allow partial mobility. Only a smaller share cite complete paralysis. In short, many wheelchair users are ambulatory, while a minority are completely unable to walk.

Ambulatory wheelchair users are those who can walk or stand to some extent but use a wheelchair to conserve energy, reduce pain, or prevent falls. Many chronic illnesses are unpredictable. Someone might walk into a restaurant one day and need their wheelchair the next.

Outsiders sometimes misinterpret this variability as inconsistency or exaggeration, when it is actually a hallmark of fluctuating conditions such as multiple sclerosis, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), or chronic pain disorders.

Conditions that often involve partial mobility include arthritis, lupus, POTS, long COVID, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, chronic fatigue syndrome, neuropathy, and spinal or joint disorders. Being able to take a few steps does not mean someone can walk safely, consistently, or without pain.

Myths and Misconceptions

Myth: Wheelchairs are only for people who cannot walk.
Fact: Most wheelchair users can walk, just not safely, consistently, or far enough.

Using a wheelchair is not giving up or taking the easy way out. It is choosing safety, independence, and participation over exhaustion, injury, or isolation. Some ambulatory wheelchair users walk indoors but use their wheelchair in airports, shopping centers, or places that require long distances. Others use it during flare-ups, in bad weather, or when fatigue or dizziness increases.

Unfortunately, mobility aids are sometimes viewed as a “last resort,” but early use can prevent overexertion, falls, and long-term damage. Insurance policies and medical gatekeeping often make it difficult for ambulatory users to access appropriate equipment, reinforcing the myth that wheelchairs are only for those who cannot walk.

A Tool of Liberation, Not Limitation

For many people with chronic illness, a wheelchair is not a symbol of paralysis; it is a symbol of freedom. It allows them to attend events, travel safely, and enjoy life without collapsing in pain or exhaustion. Being able to walk a few steps does not mean someone can walk a few blocks, stand in a long line, or navigate uneven ground. The ability to walk does not erase the need for wheels.

Energy Budgeting and Wheelchair Use

Energy budgeting, sometimes called energy management or spoon theory, is one of the least understood aspects of chronic illness. Think of energy as a limited daily allowance, like money in a checking account. Healthy people start the day with a full balance, but people with chronic conditions begin with a smaller and less predictable budget. Every activity, physical, mental, or emotional, withdraws energy: showering, dressing, cooking, walking, holding a conversation, or managing pain. When the account runs dry, symptoms such as fatigue, pain, or dizziness worsen, and recovery can take hours or days. Energy budgeting is the process of spending that limited energy wisely to avoid “crashes” or flare-ups.

A wheelchair plays an essential role in this budgeting process. It is not only about whether someone can walk but about how much energy walking costs and whether it is worth spending that energy. Someone with arthritis may walk across a room but lose the energy needed to cook or socialize later. A person with POTS or Ehlers-Danlos syndrome might stand for a few minutes but faint or dislocate a joint if they push too far. A person with multiple sclerosis might walk short distances but use a wheelchair to prevent fatigue or heat-related symptoms. By using a wheelchair, they conserve energy for the things that bring meaning and joy, not just survival. A wheelchair is, in this sense, a powerful budgeting tool; it allows people to save their energy for what matters most.

Final Thoughts

Wheelchair use is not simply about whether someone can walk. It is about the effort, pain, and risk that walking may cause. For people with chronic illnesses, walking even short distances can deplete the limited energy they need for self-care or participation in daily life. Using a wheelchair helps them prevent fatigue, reduce pain, and live more fully. A wheelchair does not represent loss; it represents access, safety, and choice—the freedom to live life on one’s own terms.

Other articles that might interest you are:

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

The Disability Catch-22 – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Disability Benefits Myths & Facts – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

The Disability Catch-22

When Trying to Work Makes You Poorer: The Trap Disabled People Face

This image shows a calendar page, with many medical appointments scheduled during work hours, since doctors don't work evenings or weekends. The title say "Why Trying to Go Back To Work When You Are Disabled Is So Hard To Do"

People love to say, “If they really wanted to work, they could.” It sounds simple. It sounds fair. But it’s wrong.

Most people have no idea how the Social Security Disability system actually works. The truth is that working while disabled is a high-stakes balancing act that few healthy people could tolerate.

The Limit That Isn’t Livable

A disabled person can only earn a limited amount before being considered “gainfully employed.” The Social Security Administration calls this threshold Substantial Gainful Activity (SGA). The number changes slightly each year, but it’s around $1,080 per month, which adds up to about $12,960 a year. That figure is supposed to represent the point where someone is capable of supporting themselves. In reality, it is not even close to a living wage.

If a disabled person earns more than that amount on a regular basis, the SSA can decide that they are no longer disabled. That decision can stop their monthly benefits and trigger a stressful reevaluation of their entire case. Even if they are still sick, still in pain, and still unable to function consistently, they may be told they can now “work full-time.”

The “Trial Work Period” Sounds Helpful, But Isn’t

There is a program that allows people on disability to test their ability to work without immediately losing benefits. It’s called the Trial Work Period. During this time, you can earn more than the SGA limit for up to nine months within a five-year window and still receive your full disability check.

It sounds like a good deal, but the rules are confusing. Once those trial months are used up, the next stage—called the Extended Period of Eligibility—lasts about three years. During that time, benefits might continue for months when earnings fall below the limit, but paperwork is constant and every dollar is tracked. If you make one small mistake or earn slightly too much, you can receive an overpayment notice or face a new review of your case.

Medicare: Not Gone, But Still at Risk

Medicare coverage does not vanish the moment someone starts working, but the security of it fades. It can continue for around 93 to 99 months after benefits stop, which sounds generous until you realize that every rule change, every pay stub, and every evaluation can shake that stability. No one wants to gamble their only healthcare coverage on bureaucratic promises.

Why “Just Get a Job” Isn’t That Simple

Many disabled people would love to work in some capacity. What most people don’t understand is that disability rarely means total inability. It means limited, unpredictable capacity.

Many chronic illnesses cause flares, periods when symptoms suddenly worsen for hours, days, or weeks. A person might function fairly well on Monday but be bedridden by Wednesday. Fatigue, pain, inflammation, or neurological issues can appear without warning. Employers may expect a regular schedule, but the body does not cooperate with a calendar.

Even part-time jobs are difficult because medical care takes time. Specialists often book appointments only on weekdays. Treatments, lab work, imaging scans, and physical therapy are almost always scheduled during standard work hours. There is no such thing as “just do it after work” when your doctor’s office closes at five o’clock and you may have three or four appointments in a single week.

For a disabled person to keep any kind of job, it must be flexible. It must allow frequent time off for appointments, procedures, and recovery days. It must allow for sick leave when a flare hits or when pain, exhaustion, or dizziness makes it impossible to drive or sit upright.

These jobs are rare, and most do not pay enough to replace lost benefits. The result is that many disabled people stay below the earnings limit, not because they lack ambition, but because the system punishes them for trying to rise above it.

The People Behind the Paperwork

Most disabled people did work. They worked for years—often decades—before illness or injury took away the ability to keep going. They paid taxes. They paid into the very system that now scrutinizes their every paycheck. They want to contribute, but they are trapped between need and penalty.

The Real Problem

We tell disabled people to be independent, then punish them when they try.
We say work builds dignity, but we design rules that destroy stability.
We call it “support,” but we turn it into fear.

If we truly want disabled people to thrive, we must change the structure that forces them to choose between survival and self-sufficiency.

The disability system should make it safe to try, safe to fail, and safe to live.

Take a moment to read other articles on similar topics.

Understanding Disability Benefits in the United States – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Getting Disability Isn’t Easy – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Understanding Disability Benefits in the United States

A group of 5 people, some with visible disabilities others without are standing at a sign post that points in 4 directions. It points to SSDI, SSI, Short-term, and Long-term. In the background is a map of the United States.

When someone in the United States says they are “on disability,” that can mean several very different things. “Disability” isn’t one program. It’s an umbrella term that covers a mix of government, employer, and private systems, each with its own rules and requirements.

Two of the most common programs are government-run: Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) and Supplemental Security Income (SSI). Only SSI covers people who have not worked long enough to earn Social Security credits.

In addition, many employers offer short-term and long-term disability insurance, which are privately administered and paid for either by the employee, the employer, or both. These policies are separate from Social Security and can vary widely in coverage and cost.

A few states also run their own temporary disability insurance programs, and veterans may qualify for disability benefits through the Department of Veterans Affairs (VA).

Understanding which type of disability program someone is referring to matters, because each one operates under very different rules and offers very different levels of support.

1. Federal Programs: SSDI and SSI

The two main federal programs are Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI) and Supplemental Security Income (SSI).

For SSDI, which is based on your prior work history and the amount you paid into Social Security taxes, the average monthly benefit in 2025 is about $1,580 to $1,630, or roughly $18,900 to $19,600 per year. The maximum possible payment for someone who had very high lifetime earnings is about $4,018 per month, or a little over $48,000 per year, but very few people receive that amount. Most disabled workers who had lower wages, intermittent employment, or needed to leave the workforce early because of illness receive well below the average.

After two years on SSDI, recipients become eligible for Medicare, but it is not free. The monthly premium for Medicare Part B is deducted directly from their SSDI check. In 2025, that premium averages about $175 per month, which equals more than $2,000 per year. Many people also purchase a Medicare supplement plan or a Part D prescription drug plan to fill the gaps in coverage. Those plans can easily add another $100 to $200 or more per month, reducing take-home benefits even further. Even with Medicare, there are still out-of-pocket costs such as deductibles, copays, coinsurance, uncovered medications, and medical equipment that patients must pay themselves.

For SSI, which is a needs-based program designed for people with very low income or limited resources, the maximum federal benefit in 2025 is $967 per month for an individual and $1,450 per month for a couple. That equals about $11,600 per year for a single person and $17,400 per year for a couple. Some states add a small supplement, but even with that, the typical SSI recipient receives far less than the maximum because the payment is reduced by any other income or support they receive. The national average payment for SSI tends to fall around $700 to $760 per month, or roughly $8,400 to $9,100 per year, depending on age and personal circumstances.

Both SSDI and SSI are adjusted slightly each year for cost-of-living increases, but even with those adjustments, the amounts are often far below what is needed for basic survival. Rent, utilities, food, and medical costs usually exceed what these programs provide. For many disabled people, these benefits keep them just above complete poverty, but not far from it.

2. Employer-Provided Disability Insurance

Some workers have access to short-term disability (STD) and long-term disability (LTD) coverage through their employers. These are private insurance policies, not government programs.

  • Short-term disability usually replaces 40–70% of wages for a few weeks up to six months.
  • Long-term disability often replaces 60–70% of wages after a waiting period of about 90 days, and it may continue for several years or until retirement age.

However, “access” does not mean “coverage.” According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, about 41% of civilian workers have access to STD and 35% to LTD. Those figures include both full-time and part-time employees, but access is not evenly distributed. Around 52% of full-time workers can get STD, compared with only 20% of part-time workers. Access to LTD follows a similar pattern.

Even when offered, these benefits are not automatic. Many employers require workers to enroll within the first 30 days of employment to receive “guaranteed issue” coverage. After that, insurers can require health questionnaires or medical exams. For anyone who is already disabled, those medical requirements usually mean an automatic denial.

Costs also vary. Individual LTD policies typically cost about 1–3% of annual income. For lower-wage workers, that can be unaffordable, and if the employer pays the premium, any benefits received are taxable income.

3. State Disability Programs

A few states run their own short-term disability insurance programs that cover non-work-related illness or injury. These include California, Hawaii, New Jersey, New York, Rhode Island, and Puerto Rico. Benefits and duration differ by state, but most cover six to fifty-two weeks and replace 50–70% of wages.

4. What Access Really Means

Having access to disability insurance is not the same as being protected by it. Part-time and low-wage workers are the least likely to have coverage, even though they are often the ones who need it most. Many disabled people cannot buy LTD later because pre-existing condition clauses make them ineligible.

5. A Final Word

The disability system in America was designed decades ago for a workforce and economy that no longer exist. Disability insurance in the U.S. is a patchwork of programs that often leave large gaps. Federal programs have strict medical and income rules. Employer insurance depends on job type, enrollment timing, and health status. And millions of workers, especially those in retail, service, and part-time positions, have no realistic safety net at all.

Understanding those distinctions matters because until we fix the gaps, “disability coverage” remains a promise that too often disappears the moment it’s needed most.

Behind every program and policy number is a person trying to survive. Disability benefits were meant to provide stability and dignity, but too often they fall short of both. The truth is that no one plans to become disabled, and few understand how thin the safety net really is until they need it. Until these systems are updated to reflect the real cost of living and the unpredictable nature of chronic illness, millions will remain one setback away from losing everything.

Read articles on similar topics:

The Disability Catch-22 – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Getting Disability Isn’t Easy – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life

This image shows a group of friends sitting at a table laughing. One friend is in a wheelchair. They are all having a great time together.

People act like disabled folks should live on moral rations. The minute we buy a coffee, order takeout, or subscribe to Netflix, someone gasps, as if joy requires a doctor’s note.

We’re not Oliver Twist, holding out an empty bowl to some bureaucratic overseer saying, “Please, Sir, I want some more.” And when we dare to ask for something beyond survival — a treat, a break, a small comfort — they act shocked. “More? After all you’ve been given?”

Here’s the thing: disabled people don’t exist to make the able-bodied feel generous. We don’t need to prove our worthiness before buying a frozen yogurt or enjoying a hobby. We’re not props in your austerity play.

Joy isn’t a luxury item. We have as much right to pursue joy and happiness as anyone else.  It’s a human right. We deserve the same small comforts everyone else takes for granted, no apologies, no explanations, no empty bowls.

Here are some other articles you may enjoy.

Designer Shoes and Disability: Why Judging Others Is Obscene – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

The Truth About Chronic Conditions – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Have you ever had an able-bodied person judge you because you were doing something fun or enjoyable, because you were out on an adventure with friends, or simply enjoying a rare extravagance, like a decadent dessert at a nice restaurant? Leave a comment and let’s create a space where our stories remind others they’re not alone.

Why Early Printing Instruction Matters

Over the years, I noticed something subtle but troubling in my classroom.
Each new group of students seemed to struggle more with printing than the one before. Letters were uneven, reversed, or oversized. Many couldn’t fit words on the line. Others inexplicably mixed lowercase and capital letters within words, and used wildly inaccurate sizing of lowercase letters. Some held pencils so awkwardly that writing even a short paragraph felt exhausting.

I taught mostly third and fourth grade, so by the time students reached my classroom, they should have already mastered printing. They should have been able to print quickly, accurately, and legibly. Yet, year after year, I found that at least one-third of my fourth graders could not do this. These were not students with diagnosed learning disabilities or special needs. Many of them did very well in other subjects. Their struggle lay in the basics of printing because they had learned with tracer sheets instead of through explicit modeling of letter formation, guided practice, and real-time feedback. As a result, they never developed the long-term ability to make printed letters of the correct size and shape, or to use the correct directionality to write quickly and accurately. The basic motor patterns of printing never became automatic.

Early-Grade Printing Instruction Seems to Be Declining

There is growing evidence that explicit instruction in letter formation, the kind that fosters automatic, fluent printing, is often missing or minimized in many classrooms today. Historically, printing (manuscript writing) was typically taught in first grade, with cursive introduced later.

But as classrooms have shifted toward digital learning, keyboarding, and typing as early as first and second grade, the time allocated for manual letter formation has diminished considerably. Since districts and even entire states determine how much time can be spent on each subject, teachers have little control over these priorities. It is easy to say, “Go back to explicit instruction with real-time feedback,” but if that instructional time has already been reassigned to other mandated subjects, teachers simply cannot make more time to teach printing skills effectively.

Recent classroom studies confirm this trend. Observations in early-grade classrooms show limited use of research-based practices that support fluent printing, such as modeling pencil grip and letter formation strokes, providing guided practice, offering corrective real-time feedback, and giving students repeated opportunities to copy letters and then write them from memory.

Programs designed to support printing fluency emphasize that these components — modeling, guided practice, feedback, and varied repetition — are essential if students are to internalize motor patterns and produce legible, automatic printing.

Because printing is not a skill that can be easily measured by standardized testing, and because schools are heavily focused on data collection, explicit instruction in printing has steadily declined. It is unlikely to see a resurgence without a major shift away from the test-driven culture that dominates education today.

Unfortunately, when schools rely on detached methods such as tracer sheets (with little direct teacher observation or real-time feedback), children may visually imitate letter shapes but fail to internalize the correct motion or muscle memory. Without that, printing often remains slow, labored, and error-prone.

The Reality of the Modern Classroom

In most early-grade classrooms, the structure of the day makes this problem even more complicated. While teachers work with a small guided reading group of four to six students, the rest of the class is expected to work independently. This is often when children are given tracer sheets to “practice” printing.

The intention is good—keeping students meaningfully occupied while the teacher provides targeted reading instruction—but the result is that no one is actually observing how those students are forming their letters. Without direct supervision or real-time feedback, students can repeat the same mistakes over and over, solidifying incorrect habits that become nearly impossible to unlearn.

Many children appear busy and compliant during this time, carefully tracing rows of letters. Yet, because no one is watching to correct pencil grip, letter direction, or spacing, their practice time often reinforces poor motor patterns instead of improving them. This cycle repeats across weeks, months, and even years, leaving teachers in later grades to discover that many students can’t print legibly despite years of “practice.”

Why This Matters for Older Students

Because early printing instruction is often superficial or unsupervised, many children reach upper elementary grades without a solid foundation. When printing remains effortful rather than automatic, legibility suffers. This becomes especially problematic when students are expected to write paragraphs, take notes, complete written assignments, or express complex ideas—skills that depend on fluency as much as comprehension.

In my third and fourth grade classrooms, I repeatedly observed that about one-third of fourth graders struggled with basic printing skills. This was not because they lacked intelligence or motivation, but because the fundamental motor patterns had never been taught, practiced, and reinforced.

Writing Development

Decades of research on early writing development strongly support explicit, systematic instruction in letter formation. Key components include:

  • Teacher modeling of the correct pencil grasp, posture, paper position, and letter formation strokes for a sufficient amount of time and duration for these skills to be used with automaticity.
  • Guided practice with visual cues such as arrowed stroke directions and starting-point dots, followed by copying and then writing from memory.  If students are not directly observed to make certain they are starting at the correct starting point, and moving smoothly in the correct direction, the instruction fails from the very beginning.
  • Frequent, brief printing lessons with consistent feedback rather than occasional or worksheet-only practice is essential to developing necessary printing skills.
  • Direct observation by the teacher while students print, allowing for immediate correction and reinforcement of directionality, shape, and size, while time and effort-consuming, is essential to developing smooth, automatic, and legible printing skills. 

Such instruction helps children form stable, automatic motor patterns for letter formation, which supports legibility, writing fluency, spelling, and reading. Ultimately, it allows students to express ideas freely instead of being limited by awkward, inefficient printing.

Conclusion: What We Must Ask Ourselves

If schools replace early manual printing instruction with keyboarding and technology, and rely on tracer sheets instead of guided, explicit teaching, they risk shortchanging many students. This is not to say that both technology and explicit manual instruction are not important. It is simply important to change the trend that has reduced instructional time devoted to writing development, often at the cost of students being able to write fluently.

As a teacher of third and fourth graders, I saw the results firsthand: bright, capable students who struggled simply because printing had never been taught properly.

If we truly believe that clear, fluent writing, whether manual or digital, is part of literacy, then we must ensure that early-grade classrooms include intentional, high-quality printing instruction, not automated worksheets or superficial practice.

Printing is more than a mechanical exercise. When taught correctly, it builds muscle memory, fine motor coordination, and confidence. And when practiced with care and consistency, it fosters clarity in both writing and thinking.

Postnote: Why Moving to Cursive Too Soon Doesn’t Work

Some advocate for an early transition to cursive, but introducing cursive instruction when as many as one-third of students have not yet mastered printing sets them up for frustration rather than success. Cursive relies on the same foundational motor patterns as printing. When those patterns are incomplete or inconsistent, students struggle to form letters, connect strokes, and maintain legibility in motion.

Skipping or rushing the mastery of printing is like asking a child to run before learning to walk. Until printing becomes fluent and automatic, cursive will only compound the problem.

For more on this issue, see my related article, Bringing Cursive Back Sounds Nice, But Is It Really Worth It? at https://janmariet.com/why-bringing-cursive-back-to-schools-wont-work/

Author’s Note:
Jan Mariet is a veteran teacher and writer who spent nearly two decades in public education before turning her focus to writing about teaching, disability, and social change. Her work explores how classrooms, communities, and expectations have evolved, and what we have gained and lost along the way.

Bringing Cursive Back Sounds Nice, But Is It Really Worth It?

I was in third and fourth grade in the late 1960s, back when learning cursive was a rite of passage. We practiced loops and swirls on lined paper, filled pages with capital Qs that looked like 2s, and took pride when our handwriting looked “grown up.” It was part of being educated, part of becoming someone who could write a letter, sign a check, or leave a note your mother could actually read.

Fast forward several decades. I became a certified elementary teacher in 2001 in Virginia. By that point, the teaching landscape had completely changed. Teacher certification programs, the equivalent of a bachelor’s or master’s degree in elementary education, no longer included handwriting instruction. Not manuscript, and certainly not cursive.

From 2002 through 2019, not a single public school I worked in required cursive writing or provided any materials or curriculum for it. None. Teachers who began their careers after 2001 were never taught how to teach cursive. Many of the younger teachers I worked alongside didn’t know how to write in cursive themselves. So even when cursive was mentioned as something “nice to bring back,” it simply wasn’t possible. You cannot teach a skill you do not have.

Now, several states, including Florida, have reintroduced cursive into their standards. On paper, it sounds traditional and wholesome, a nod to the “good old days.” But there is a major problem no one seems to be addressing: who is going to teach it?

The majority of teachers currently in second through fourth grade classrooms never learned cursive formally. They never practiced the proper strokes, letter connections, or spacing. They have spent their careers teaching literacy through keyboards, tablets, and typed text. Simply placing “cursive writing” back into the curriculum does not magically equip teachers with the skills or time to teach it.

And the most common argument for bringing cursive back, so that students can “read historical documents like the U.S. Constitution,” does not hold up to scrutiny.

Why the “Historical Documents” Argument Falls Short

(Source: Smithsonian Historical Society Records)

When people argue that students must learn cursive so they can read historical documents, they usually mean a small handful of famous ones. The Declaration of Independence, the U.S. Constitution, and the Bill of Rights are almost always at the top of that list. Sometimes people also mention the Federalist Papers, the Gettysburg Address, or Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.

There is no doubt these documents are important, but the argument falls apart when you look at them closely. All of these were written with quills in the late 1700s or mid-1800s, using elaborate handwriting styles that no longer exist. The letter shapes, spacing, and flourishes look beautiful, but they bear little resemblance to the Palmer, Zaner-Bloser, or D’Nealian cursive styles taught in 20th-century classrooms. Many of the letters are formed differently, and some are no longer in use. The “long s,” for example, looks like an “f” and appears throughout the Declaration of Independence.

Even most adults who learned cursive would struggle to read those documents fluently without a transcription beside them. Museums, archives, and textbooks do not expect visitors or students to read the original versions. They provide typed, printed, or digital transcriptions so the words can be understood clearly.

In truth, the ability to read historical documents depends far more on historical literacy than on handwriting style. Understanding the context, purpose, and ideas behind those writings is what matters most. And for the rare cases when someone truly needs to see the original script, modern technology can instantly translate cursive text into print. A quick photo on a phone can produce a clean, readable version within seconds.

So while the idea of reading the Constitution in its original cursive form might sound noble, it is not realistic. What we really need to teach students is how to understand what those words meant, why they were written, and how they continue to shape the world they live in today.

There is another practical reason the argument for cursive no longer makes sense. We no longer live in a world that requires a cursive signature. There was a time when your signature was a personal stamp, a mark of identity that proved who you were. You needed it for checks, contracts, and anything official. Today, most financial and legal documents are handled electronically. We sign digitally with a mouse, a fingertip, or an auto-generated font. Even when a physical signature is required, it does not have to be written in cursive. You can print your name, or make a simple squiggle, and it is still legally valid. The idea that students need cursive in order to sign their names no longer matches reality. The world has changed, and the way we write has changed with it.

That does not mean handwriting itself is unimportant. Writing by hand helps with memory, fine motor skills, and even creativity. But insisting that cursive return to classrooms without training, time, or relevance does not bring us back to the “good old days.” It only adds another unrealistic expectation to already overburdened teachers.

The truth is, cursive is not coming back. Not really. What is coming back is the idea of cursive, the nostalgia of it, in a world that has long since moved on from fountain pens and lined practice sheets. And for those of us who once filled pages with careful loops and curls, that realization is both a little sad and entirely understandable.

Postnote: Why Printing Must Come First

Before schools rush to reintroduce cursive writing, it is worth asking a simple question: have students truly mastered printing?

In many classrooms, the answer is no. When students struggle with letter formation, spacing, or directionality in print, moving to cursive only adds frustration and confusion. To understand why so many students reach upper elementary grades without legible and fluent printing, and what schools can do to fix it, read my companion piece, “Illegible Printing and Why Early Printing Instruction Matters” at https://janmariet.com/illegible-printing-and-why-early-printing-instruction-matters/

Author’s Note:
Jan Mariet is a veteran teacher and writer who spent nearly two decades in public education before turning her focus to writing about teaching, disability, and social change. Her work explores how classrooms, communities, and expectations have evolved, and what we have gained and lost along the way.