Or: A Day in the Life of Someone Who Wakes Up Already Tired

Let’s be honest: adulthood is basically a group project where nobody knows what’s going on, and the teacher—ironically—is you. And before any of that noble, inspiring educator stuff starts, there’s coffee. Always coffee.

The alarm rings. You open one eye. The world looks blurry, unpromising, and slightly hostile. Coffee is no longer a beverage. It is oxygen, an existential life-support system, a tiny mug of molten hope. You drink it like it’s an elixir because, in truth, it is. By the third sip, your limbs are functioning, your brain is semi-conscious, and you’re ready to face the cruel, confusing world of humans under eighteen—or under eight, depending on your teaching level. Anything before coffee counts as “pre-life” and should not be considered canon.

Family time comes in small bursts: breakfast with sleepy-eyed children who interpret “eat your eggs” as a challenge to the laws of physics, or a hurried morning hug that somehow anchors you in reality. These moments are fleeting, but they are precious—and they remind you why the chaos matters.

And then it begins: the daily grind. You walk into school ready for the day’s mission… and are immediately ambushed by students asking, “Do we have to learn today?” The printer jams in protest. Someone ate your emergency granola bar from your desk (again). A colleague wants to “chat” about something that could absolutely have been an email. You dodge flying paper airplanes, negotiate treaty agreements over pencil theft, and respond to an endless loop of “I forgot my homework” as though you’ve trained for this exact moment your whole life. By ten-thirty, your calm, ordered plan has mutated into something resembling a game of Whack-a-Mole, but you persevere. You must.

Then there are breaks—those rare, sacred interludes that remind you adults exist outside of work chaos. They are fleeting, a cruel illusion, and often sabotaged by announcements, impromptu student crises, or that one parent who emails exactly at lunchtime. A break may consist of twenty minutes to sip lukewarm coffee, stare at the sky through a window, or simply breathe. You savor it like a hidden treasure, knowing full well the fifteen minutes of quiet will vanish in the blink of an eye. Occasionally, a “break” turns into a stealthy dash to the supply closet because some genius locked all the scissors in the wrong cabinet, or a brief refuge behind the teacher’s lounge door while eavesdropping on a meeting you’re glad you don’t have to attend.

Lunch break—or what’s left of it—is sacred, but social media is a seductive void you cannot resist. You promise yourself five minutes of scrolling, and twenty minutes later you’ve watched a raccoon steal pizza in New Jersey, seventeen memes about teachers, and a viral video of someone teaching their cat calculus. You feel strangely accomplished… until you check the clock. And then guilt.

Teaching itself is a delicate balance of triumph and catastrophe. There are victories: a student finally “gets it,” someone whispers “thank you,” a parent email doesn’t require a crisis-level response. And then there are the plot twists: a fire drill during a test, a kid vomiting near—but not in—the trash can, the smoke alarm going off because someone microwaved a Pop-Tart too long, and the question “Is this for a grade?” repeated like a drumbeat of doom. By afternoon, your brain resembles a computer with seventeen tabs open, none responding. And yet, somehow, it all works. Somehow, you keep going.

After work comes play. Perhaps sports with your kids, or a “just five minutes” run that turns into a full mile because the universe is cruel. Perhaps a Netflix binge with snacks while lying on the couch in what you call “post-grading meditation.” Play is rebellion. Play is survival. Play is pretending the world isn’t constantly screaming for your attention. Even fifteen quiet minutes with a cup of tea can feel like a precious treasure.

Dinner, or sustenance, is often improvisational. It ranges from ambitious roasted vegetables plated like a cooking show to realistic tacos, to actual cereal or handfuls of nuts grabbed mid-email. The dining table is rarely involved. Adults eat like nomads now—leaning on counters, hovering over the sink, balancing plates on knees. You call it sustenance; your stomach calls it survival.

Evening brings the quiet reprieve of family time once again: bedtime stories delivered with dramatic flair, small victories like a child hugging you just right, the kind of fleeting magic that fuels the next day.

Being an adult—especially an educator—is juggling flaming bowling pins while reciting lesson plans backwards. It’s chaos, comedy, caffeine, fleeting breaks, and the occasional miracle moment of clarity. But somehow, every day, we do it again. Because deep down… beneath the exhaustion, the paperwork, and the caffeine addiction… we really do love this wild, absurd little life.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.