Protect Your Yeses: How a Young Teacher Stopped Filling His Plate

As an English teacher, part of my job is to teach students how to identify and analyze tropes, recurring characters, plot twists, or themes in literature. How ironic, then, that I have inadvertently become the “Martyr Teacher” trope myself?

In my first few years in the classroom, my enthusiasm served me extremely well. My students were engaged in lively, analytical conversations about classroom texts; they discussed our whole-class novel at lunch and often griped when it was time to pack up for the day. Scores were high; spirits were higher.

I felt capable. I was effective and efficient. As a new teacher, I was eager to keep demonstrating that to my administration and to myself, proving that I had not sold myself short by becoming a teacher when everyone told me I could do so much more.

That eagerness drew attention. Once my competence was established, the recruitment began. First, a simple request to coach the basketball team. Then, an invitation to serve on a grant steering committee. The invitations, requests, and appointments continued. With each one, I struggled to make it fit on my single-page resume. I knew I was overcommitted, but this is what teachers do for the kids, right? We do what is best for our students, always. I was overwhelmed, but still, I agreed and accepted. When asked about my role at my school, my first inclination was to list my many responsibilities: Track Coach, Basketball Coach, ABC Steering Committee Member, Curriculum Writer, and Assistant Athletic Director, just to name a few.

What was missing from this list? My true purpose as a teacher: Educator and Role Model. My experience is not unique, but my realization is not universal. Every year, eager teachers enter the classroom, and the system leans on their vibrant resolve until it wears thin. New teachers feel honored and respected when asked to fill a particular role, and they almost always say yes, regardless of the burdens they already carry. They fill their plate with roles and responsibilities while their true purpose gets buried. This is the trope I have fallen victim to.

For three years, I worked hard to earn my administration’s approval. Along the way, I found a clearer sense of what guides me: my students and my own purpose. When I know I am giving them my best, I feel grounded and at peace.

So, in a profession where we are constantly reminded to “remember our why,” I am taking it back. Yes, my students are my “why.” Their success, growth, and development are the only reasons that I am a teacher. My “why” dictates that I dedicate my professional time and energy to my classroom rather than to the athletic court or conference room. To keep doing this, though, I had to reclaim my identity beyond the school building. I have to protect my identity as a person so I can continue to serve my students as a teacher.

As a profession, we must stop overburdening our most enthusiastic, passionate, and dynamic young teachers. Otherwise, they may find that they, too, succumb to the same martyrdom, eventually becoming another statistic in the teacher burnout crisis. Instead, it is time to help young teachers find their place in the classroom. We should nurture their strengths and equip them to establish strong roots where they are most successful. They should be mentored and supported, not stretched thin until there is nothing left.

As young teachers, it is important to remember who we are on a personal level. The complexity and emotional demands of education are unavoidable, but we must preserve our own humanity as well. After all, good teachers are those who have the capacity to show up physically, intellectually, and emotionally every day. Preserving our humanity begins with learning where to draw the line. Saying “no” to extra requests and responsibilities is exactly what allows us to keep saying “yes” to our classrooms.