Last Tuesday, I found myself sobbing between the laminating sheets and the box of broken crayons we keep meaning to throw away. It wasn't anything dramatic that broke me. It was just Tuesday.

You know those days. Little Marcus (not my son, my student Marcus) had thrown his math worksheet across the room for the third time that week. Sofia's mom had sent another email questioning why her daughter wasn't reading at a 6th grade level yet. The copy machine was jammed again. And somewhere between lunch duty and trying to explain fractions to 28 fourth graders in 90-degree heat with a broken AC unit, I just... cracked.

So I did what teachers have been doing since the dawn of public education. I hid in the supply closet and had myself a good cry.

We All Have That Closet

Here's what I've learned in 22 years of teaching: every teacher has their breakdown spot. Maybe it's your car during lunch. Maybe it's the bathroom stall at the end of the hall. For me, it's always been the supply closet. There's something oddly comforting about being surrounded by all the tools of our trade while we fall apart for five minutes.

And you know what? We need to stop feeling guilty about it.

I spent my first few years thinking I was the only one who occasionally lost it. I thought real teachers had it all together. Real teachers didn't cry over spilled glue sticks and missing homework folders. Real teachers certainly didn't question their life choices while reorganizing construction paper by color.

Pero, mija, was I wrong.

The Breaking Points Are Real

Teaching is one of the few professions where you're responsible for the academic, social, and often emotional well-being of 20-30 little humans every single day. We're expected to be counselors, nurses, cheerleaders, disciplinarians, and miracle workers. And we're supposed to do it all with a smile while someone's questioning our methods on social media.

Of course we're going to crack sometimes.

Last year, my colleague Jennifer found me in our supply closet after a particularly rough parent conference. Instead of asking what was wrong, she just squeezed in next to me and said, "Rough day?" We sat there for ten minutes, not talking, just breathing. Turns out she'd been having her own rough week with a new student who was struggling to adjust.

That's when I realized something important: the supply closet isn't a place of shame. It's a place of reset.

What the Closet Teaches Us

Those few minutes surrounded by our teaching supplies remind us why we're here. Every box of tissues represents the tears we've dried. Every pack of pencils represents the lessons we've taught. Every bottle of hand sanitizer represents how we've kept our kids safe and healthy.

We're not crying because we're weak. We're crying because we care so much it sometimes overwhelms us.

And honestly? Our students need us to be human. They need to see that adults have feelings too. Not the breakdown part, obviously, but the recovery part. The part where we dust ourselves off and get back to the important work of teaching.

Making Peace with the Hard Days

Here's what I wish someone had told me during my first breakdown in year three (it involved a glue stick explosion and a fire drill during a state assessment): the hard days don't mean you're failing. They mean you're human.

Now when I feel that familiar tightness in my chest, I don't fight it. I tell my students I need to grab some supplies, and I give myself permission to feel whatever I'm feeling. Sometimes it's frustration. Sometimes it's sadness. Sometimes it's just exhaustion from giving everything I have and wondering if it's enough.

I keep a small mirror in our supply closet now. After I cry, I look at myself and say, "Okay, Maria. You've got 23 kids who need you. Let's go." It's not about pretending the hard moment didn't happen. It's about choosing to keep going anyway.

The Practical Stuff

If you're new to teaching and wondering if you're the only one who occasionally loses it, let me save you some time: you're not. Here are some things that have helped me over the years:

Keep tissues in your breakdown spot. Trust me on this one.

Have a five-minute reset routine. Mine involves three deep breaths and reminding myself of one good thing that happened that day, even if it's just that the coffee was decent.

Find your teacher friend who gets it. Every school has that one colleague who will listen without trying to fix everything. Find them. Be that person for someone else.

Remember that tomorrow is a new day. I know it sounds cheesy, but it's true. That kid who frustrated you today might be the one who finally gets long division tomorrow.

You're Not Alone in This

The thing about teaching is that we're all figuring it out as we go. Even those of us who've been doing this for decades still have days when we question everything. The difference is that now I know those days are part of the job, not a sign that I'm bad at it.

Carlos still doesn't understand why I come home emotionally drained from "just teaching kids." But my teacher friends get it. We're not just delivering curriculum. We're shaping futures, one frustrated fourth grader at a time.

So the next time you find yourself crying in the supply closet (or wherever your breakdown spot is), remember this: you're in good company. Teachers have been having these moments for generations, and we keep showing up because this work matters.

Take your five minutes. Feel your feelings. Then grab those extra pencils you came for and get back out there. Your kids need you, breakdown and all.

And if you see a colleague heading toward the supply closet with that particular look in their eyes, maybe grab them a coffee later. We're all in this together.