You hold the stakes and the stakes are high.

I, too, have held precious things.

I’ve weighed the options and made the snap judgments beside the long-furrowed brain circles, when right and left seemed equally tied.

I’ve held my breath. As a first-year teacher, walking through halls full of faces foreign to me. Hearts untouched and lives untapped. I held my breath. Would I be enough? Would I know enough? Would I even show enough to say when I didn’t know the stuff? Would the music we made, the lessons I spoke, the phone calls home- would they be enough? Me? Enough?

I’ve held my ground. When push came to shove and policies and paper became more than people, I spoke up. I spoke up for the young ones. The sick ones. The silent ones. The hurting ones. I filled the forms, I made the calls, I cried the tears. And, at the end of the day, I stood on the solid ground of caring for kids year after year.

I’ve held their hand. When the college rejections come, when the online world becomes too hard to bear, when APs and SATs come down hard on ADD, I’ve sat and cried. I’ve looked them in the eyes and said the words they needed to hear, “You matter.” “Your voice, it can be louder.”

I’ve held my life. I’ve canceled plans–missed weddings, birthdays…clocking time I’m never getting back…so my kids could play on stage for a minute. This factual, non-contractual passing of time fueled by none other than a desire to watch my youths soar far past that stage and their age. I wanted them to thrive–to feel at once, fully alive.

I’ve held my children. I’ve brought my own babies into the world, a world where I want nothing more for them than to be loved- for someone to listen, to cry, and to light up at the very sound of their voice. I’ve watched as my children have walked into other classroom homes. I’ve seen them sit up just a little bit taller when a person in power says, “My dear. You matter.”

I’ve held my tongue. I’ve sat back and listened, I’ve heard all the words. “You’re lazy.” “You’re selfish.” “You’ve forgotten your calling.” “Our support is falling.” And, as those words burned brain lies into my mind,

I’ve held my tears. Hot and fast, pouring from deep inside. To question my pride, my life’s calling my joy- to think that I would want anything other than seeing my kids, making music with my kids, being in space and time with my kids. That I would look for an opportunity (on pretenses of herd immunity) to neglect the very ones I was sworn to protect.

No, Mr. Stakeholder.

Your facts are incorrect. And my fear is that the holders, the givers, the ones who love the kids as if they were their own children, would hear your message loud and clear: “You don’t matter. You don’t care. We don’t need you.”

“Just quit.”

And, the day we stop needing teachers is the day we stop needing our kids to be held.