“Be there for friends and family regardless, when it matters most, because you never know when you might need them to be there for you.” – Martin Jeszke

I am writing this post ahead of the day I post it (May 17, 2025 intending to post this Monday, May 19, 2025) because I want to take some time to sit with the emotions I am feeling before I share them with the world. Still, I also must share them because the whole point of this blog is to tell the readers honestly about what this journey has been like for me so that someday others experiencing similar struggles may know they are not alone and that there is hope and silver linings out there. 

In that pursuit, I will share my account of the day honestly and unafraid of what people may think of the vulnerability I express. 

Today was hard. It was probably one of the hardest days I have had since the first day back in January 2025, facing off against all the questions and uncertainty ahead of me. 

Why, might one ask, was this day heard, and in what way?

Because today was the day I had to finally and officially say goodbye. 

I had been delaying it for a while because the reality of it was hard, but I could delay it no longer as of today, since today was the last Friday of the school year. Today was the last day I had to say goodbye, being the least disruptive as possible and getting to address the students who meant so much to me this year. 

As stated in a previous post (see “From Plans to Possibilities: A Personal Transformation Story”), I was a Special Education Teacher in an Intensive Resource Classroom when all of this happened to me, and it was a job I felt I belonged in. I loved my school. I loved my principal, I loved my Aids and Paraprofessionals. Above all, I loved my students. And boy, did they need that love. 

It was a place where I felt like I was making a difference. A place I felt like I belonged. I got up almost every morning excited to be there, excited about what the day might bring, wanting nothing more than to be in my room with my kids. It drove me, who is notoriously not a morning person, to wake up as early as 6:00 a.m. to get to work an hour before I was contracted to be there so I could have my room ready to go. I was always one of the first cars in the parking lot and never felt upset by it because I was passionate about being there. 

My students coming into my classroom every day was the highlight of my day. No matter their mood, no matter the type of day we had, no matter the challenges those kids gave me, that was my classroom, those were my students, and I’d have taken a bullet for every single one of them. 

I hadn’t seen them since January. 

So many questions raced through my head as we drove to the school. Would these kids whom I loved remember me? Would I feel like a stranger in my own classroom? Who had taken over my room in my absence, and would they be okay with me coming in, disrupting their day with a group of students to whom disruptions could ruin a whole day, or would they ask me not to be there? Was I doing the right thing, showing up, or was I being selfish? What would my principal and assistant principal say? What would the front desk staff say? Was I missed, or just deluding myself into the idea that I had been cared about and made a difference in that place? 

As we rode to the school, my anxiety rose, my heart raced, and I could feel my fear in my throat about to choke me. 

We pulled into the parking lot, and I was committed to doing it. I had things I wanted from that room, people to see one last time and say goodbye to, and a chapter of my life to close. 

Walking into that school, reading that book to that group of kids, saying goodbye to those aides, to that principle, to that assistant principal to that front desk staff, to that school for the last time in my life as I know to this time was one of the hardest things I have ever done. That job was the hardest job to walk away from. It was more than a job, it was a calling. It was one of my lifes greatest passions. 

Why did I leave that job if that’s how I felt about it? 

Many people teach with Multiple Sclerosis. Many people can make it work and be okay. I am not one of those people. My brain and my body have taken too much damage for me to be in that room all day, every day of the week, putting in the mental effort needed to make the difference those kids and any other kids need. Even babysitting my niece and nephew for a single day wipes me out for an entire week due to fatigue, tremors, loss of speech, loss of sight, and weak legs. 

The little time I spent in that classroom today wiped me out. I came home mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. I cried harder than I’ve cried since the start of this journey. I got home and cried even more and even harder. I cried so hard my legs gave out, and it was all I could do for a good long while. I was so upset I couldn’t do the things I loved today, like write or play video games. 

Fortunately for me, I wasn’t alone. 

My best friend had called me this morning with some tragedy of her own and had requested to spend the night tonight because she needed me, and I could use comfort, so I agreed (she is sitting behind me, being educated in the TV Show Firefly as I write this). I also have my amazing family, who rallied to support me, and other loved ones in my life, there to give me what I needed, be it space or a listening ear. 

That, I think, is my focus for today. The importance of having a community and why this post is so important, even with it showing the strong depth of sad emotions I felt today. 

The truth is, some days are just hard. Some days are filled with tears. Some days are full of sleeping and barely moving. Some days are full of a lack of cognitive function, loss of skills, and small relapses. Every emotion is valid. Everyone needs to feel what they are going to feel from time to time. But that community makes a difference. Knowing you are not alone makes a difference. 

Today was the hardest day I have had in a while. Saying goodbye was heartbreaking on levels I can’t even capture in words in this post. 

I was not alone. And that matters. 

-Dare. 

P.S. There are many great communities out there for people who struggle with chronic illness, depression, or other issues. If you are struggling, reach out. 

Suicide Hotline: 988 Lifeline

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration- SAMHSA

Multiple Sclerosis Support Groups: Belong MS

Center for Chronic Illnesses Support Group: Hey Peers