Push

For years, I’ve pushed myself past my limits.

In grad school, I worked a full-time job and two part-time jobs just to make ends meet—while earning not one, but two master’s degrees. Exhaustion wasn’t a warning sign; it was just the price of admission.

At work, I’ve always pushed myself to never be that person—the one who dials it in. I work hard to connect with my students, to build lessons that matter, to make learning feel individualzed and engaging.

When it came to my health, I pushed the hardest. I refused to let pain stop me. I accepted it as part of who I was. I limped. I braced swollen joints. I joked, “If I wasn’t in pain, I’d think I was dead.”
Pain became background noise. Something to ignore. Something to outrun.

Until my body finally pushed back.

And it turns out—it’s more stubborn than I am.

When I got sick in September, I told myself it was a short blip. A speed bump. A brief interruption.
Then sick days turned into FMLA.
FMLA turned into short-term disability.
Short-term disability turned into a medical sabbatical—extended past my original return date.

Every doctor asked the same question:
Could you take more time off? Could you work less?

And every time, I answered without hesitation: No.

This time was different.

I qualified for long-term disability. The representative called while I was running errands. When the call ended, I sat in my car and cried—really cried. Tears of grief and tears of relief tangled together. Grieving the version of myself that could push endlessly… and relieved that I no longer had to.

Do I want to take long-term disability?
No.

Do I need to take long-term disability to get better?
Yes.

So the push hasn’t disappeared—it’s just changed direction.

Now, my push is toward healing.