Sometimes there just aren't the right words to say and anything that comes to mind feels trite. Sometimes life doesn't do what it is supposed to do and everything stands still waiting for something to feel better. Sometimes you have to hold space and pray for time to ease the confusion to ease the unthinkable. I have been sitting on a few spins, one on literacy makeovers for grades 4-12 context, another on flash dancing with AI but neither feel right for publication right now. To be honest I can't finish either of them. I’m stuck. In a moment when the heartbreak of Tumbler Ridge and the weight of other geopolitical events feel too heavy to name, I find myself without words. I'm trying to write about something meaningful but right now, the world feels really loud, and I feel mute.
Normally my mind is full of thoughts competing for articulation, but this past week, whenever I slow down to let myself think, an unexpected emptiness sinks in. My initial response has been to move faster, work longer, exercise more, read more, clean more, essentially employing the “just keep doing more” strategy to keep the heaviness at bay. While it may trick the mind at first and serve as an effective surface‑level coping strategy, it only works for so long before fatigue sets in.
My empathic mind hurts for the depth of loss felt in the Tumbler Ridge community. As an educator, a parent, and a human being, the scope of this tragedy is beyond words. I’m searching for a way to write that honours the moment without pretending to have answers. For now, I’m acknowledging that even the silence carries meaning.
Considering tragedy, even from afar, reminds me how closely our emotional and mental lives are tied to what happens around us. Sometimes it feels easier to stay quiet when the right words don’t come, yet expressing care is a fundamental part of wellness and connection. These moments make me think more intentionally about how we support our own mental health when the world feels overwhelming.
I’m grateful that, within education, there is space for leaders to show vulnerability and emotion. At the same time, I’m aware of the fine line between strength and sharing. I’m sensitive to the balance between the public and private sides of leadership, and perhaps that’s why I caught myself overcompensating, filling the silence with busyness.
In my role within my school district, when crises happen, I move quickly with several amazing colleagues on our safe, caring, and inclusive schools portfolio, creating resources, liaising with experts, and shaping appropriate messages that acknowledge difficult situations with care, clarity, and support. We try our best to be sensitive and thoughtful, and to consider the many perspectives without politicizing or positioning. Sometimes the human and professional elements appear to collide, especially when deep hurt or loss is at the core of a situation. Remaining neutral while anchoring in compassion, care, and kindness can be a challenging and confusing space to navigate. But I’m learning that at the heart of community hurt are human emotions, emotions that need time and space to surface, unfold, and be felt.
Today instead of feeling frustrated with myself and my growing writer’s block, I found myself rooting through my card box, looking for a favourite pen, pulling out my old address book, and digging through desk drawers for postage stamps. I began writing the old‑school way, pen to paper, composing note cards in sealed envelopes that I’ll soon walk through the afternoon rain to drop in my neighbourhood Canada Post box. Some of the cards are thank‑you notes, belated valentines, birthday wishes, or just ridiculous, silly “thinking of you” messages. As my hand began cramping, I found myself laughing a little, tearing up, and remembering moments. And somewhere in the middle of all this, I realized I had also begun to compose today’s spin in my mind, just by noticing what I was doing and how it was making me feel.
This spin is about wanting to acknowledge how we care for ourselves through difficult times when the right words don’t exist. It is also about those who help when life is not kind. As I think about the past weeks, I’m struck by how many helpers there are in the world, people who somehow find grace in moments when others are at their lowest, most frightened, and vulnerable. These individuals, who are able to perform acts of grace even in the most tragic and heartbreaking situations, remind us never to underestimate the impact of the many helpers around us. It is about our shared human connection through kindness, and a compassionate, gentle reminder that sometimes the simplest moments bring goodness, compassion, and care.
I’m not sure how to wrap up this spin properly, and perhaps that’s okay. There is no real endpoint to acknowledging deep hurt. Sometimes pain lives on; even with time, it can haunt the heart, confuse the mind, and quiet the soul. Some days will be better, and some days will be harder. One of the most important things we can do is try to find the words that help us connect and honour the feelings that come. The discomfort of accepting non‑closure is real, especially for professionals who are used to knowing the answers, or at least knowing where to find them. Perhaps the best we can do right now is to keep showing up without closure, carrying forward small acts of care that remind us we don’t have to navigate the hard times alone.
Author's Note: I am grateful for the colleagues, conversations, and community that helped shape this reflection, with a touch of assistance from a digital writing tool for clarity and flow.
