Burnout & Mental Health

📅 April 25, 2020: A Day in the Life (According to My iPhone Memories)

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On April 25, 2020, I didn’t know my phone would save these messages or that they’d still mean so much to me years later. But today they popped up in my photo memories—and I remembered the love, the grief, the trying, the tenderness. These weren’t grand moments. They were just human ones. Small threads in the fabric of that strange, heartbreaking, beautiful time.

1. A Text From My Dad

“When I first saw you I knew I wanted to do my best.”

I cried rereading that. I probably cried when he sent it too. My dad has always been steady, loving, present. I was trying to get back into running then, and he was trying to get healthier. We were both finding motivation in each other.

I said I never wanted to disappoint him.

I still don’t.

Screenshot of a heartfelt text conversation between a person and their dad, expressing love, motivation, and support for getting healthier.

2. A Message From a Student’s Parent

“You’re all she ever talks about.”

This one split my heart wide open when I first read it. That year, I had an incredible group of kids—smart, wild, kind, messy, magical. We were sent home early because of the pandemic, and I never got to say a proper goodbye.

But this message reminded me that the goodbye didn’t erase the impact.

They remembered. I did too.

A screenshot of a text conversation where one person expresses appreciation for a teacher's impact on their child's experience and suggests looping with them to the next grade.

3. A Dream I Was Afraid to Ask For

I had this idea: what if I could loop with my class to 5th grade?

I knew them. I loved them. I believed I could help them in ways that a brand-new teacher might not be able to right away. I wrote out my case in a long green text, half-apologizing for even thinking out loud.

But my assistant principal (a badass motherfuckin’ woman who I deeply admire and respect btw) replied with warmth and support:

“I love that you are thinking outside the box!!”

Maybe I didn’t feel so silly for wanting something bold after all. And soon after texting her about it I went ahead and sent a text and a screenshot to my principal. Anyways, I got to loop with my kids from 4th to 5th grade. One of the hardest but also most beautiful years of my life and I will never forget it.

Screenshot of text message conversation discussing looping with a class, expressing care and support.

4. A Small Offer That Mattered

Even during COVID lockdowns, I was trying to help however I could. One of my student’s family needed hand sanitizer and tissues, and I said yes.

Simple. Small. Kind.

It reminded me that even when the world feels overwhelming, I still have the ability to make someone’s day a little easier.

Screenshot of a text message conversation discussing the need for hand sanitizer and tissues during the COVID-19 pandemic, expressing willingness to help.

April 25, 2020, wasn’t a milestone day. But it was a human one.
A day full of care, connection, hope, and longing.
A day where I was a daughter, a teacher, a friend, a helper.

And I think that’s worth remembering.

Here are some more random photos from around that time. This first one was the last day of school before we never came back because of the covid19 pandemic in 2020. This is a 4th grade student of mine at the time, whom I loved so much, and his little 1st grade sister.

The last day of school waiting fr the buses (because we always had to wait for the damn buses because shortage of bus drivers) before we never returned because of the pandemic in 2020.
A screenshot of a group chat discussing school closures due to COVID-19, featuring messages from multiple participants expressing their thoughts and concerns.
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Screenshot of a mobile phone displaying a notification about the Escambia County School District providing supplemental school meals from March 23 to 27, 2020. It lists participating schools and details about meal distribution timing and procedures.
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A screenshot of a text chat between a student and a teacher expressing feelings of missing school during the pandemic.

The Job That Doesn’t Feel Like a Job (But Still Scares Me Anyway)

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Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Five

A woman sitting on a yoga mat, wearing a yellow tank top and red leggings, smiling at the camera. In the background, there are plants and a cat sitting nearby.
Pharos Tribune January “Healthy Selfie” Contest Winner!

This week, someone offered me a job I might’ve once dreamed of.
Teaching yoga at a studio I love, invited by someone I deeply admire, in a space that already feels like home to my nervous system.

And my immediate reaction?
Joy. Gratitude. Excitement.
…And then: panic.

Not because I don’t want it.
Not because it isn’t the right fit.
But because it has the word job attached to it. And somewhere along the line, that word started to mean danger.

I finished my yoga teacher training last year.
Back when I was still teaching kindergarten, still trying to survive the endless hamster wheel of work and burnout and pretending to be okay.
Back then, yoga teacher training was supposed to be a side gig. A way to earn a little extra money. A way to stretch myself—literally and metaphorically.

I finished the training. I got certified.
And then…I didn’t do anything with it.

Not because I didn’t want to.
But because every time I thought about actually teaching a class—standing at the front of a room, being the person people looked to—I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

The idea of starting something new, of being responsible for other people again, of even just existing in a professional way again after everything I’d been through…
It felt too big.
Too close to the wounds that hadn’t fully healed.
Too easy to fall back into old patterns of people-pleasing, self-abandoning, overextending.

So I just…sat on it.
Held the certification in my hands but never used it.
Told myself I wasn’t ready.
Told myself maybe one day, when I wasn’t so scared.

And then this week, Natasha—one of my favorite instructors, someone whose voice and presence have made my own nervous system exhale more times than I can count—asked if I would like to teach.

Not an application.
Not an audition.
Just an invitation.
Gentle. Genuine. Safe.

And even then—especially then—my stomach dropped.

I lost sleep over it.
Not because anything was wrong.
Not because Natasha had said anything scary or pressured me in any way.
But because my body doesn’t know the difference yet.

It’s still wired to treat anything labeled “work” or “job” like a threat.
It’s still holding onto the memory of late nights crying in classrooms, panic attacks in staff bathrooms, smiling through gritted teeth on law firm calls, pretending to be okay so convincingly that even I forgot I wasn’t.

When Natasha asked to meet up the next day to talk, I wanted to say yes immediately.
I wanted to be the brave, excited version of me that lives somewhere inside.

But instead, I felt my whole system start to short-circuit.
Tight chest. Racing mind. Restless sleep that never really came.

By Monday night, I knew I couldn’t do it.
Not because I didn’t want to teach.
But because I was already spinning so hard that the thought of one more step—one more commitment—felt like it might shatter me.

So I messaged her and asked if we could meet a different day.
And of course—because she is who she is—she responded with understanding, with softness, with complete acceptance.

No pressure. No urgency.
Just kindness.

And still, part of me felt silly.
Ashamed.
Like—Why am I like this?
Why am I working myself into a panic over something that feels, in every logical way, like a gift?

But healing isn’t logical.
Trauma isn’t logical.

It lives in the body long after the mind understands.
It flares up even when the danger is gone.

This job—if you can even call it that—feels like the exact kind of opportunity my nervous system has been craving.

It’s not about hierarchy.
It’s not about performance.
It’s not about squeezing myself into a role that erases who I am.

It’s about embodiment.
Presence.
Breath.
It’s about guiding others in something that has helped me feel safe in my own body again.

And still, it scares me.

Because for so long, “work” meant abandoning myself.
It meant pushing through when I needed to rest.
Smiling when I was breaking.
Holding it together so everyone else could fall apart.

But this—this is different.
This doesn’t require me to become someone else.
It asks me to come exactly as I am.

And that’s why it feels terrifying.
Because I’ve never had a job that made space for my wholeness.
Only the parts of me that were useful. Productive. Palatable.

So I’m learning not to run.
Not to back away from the thing that feels good just because I don’t know how to trust it yet.
Not to dismiss something just because it doesn’t activate my survival mode.

I want to say yes.
Slowly. Gently. With all of me.
Not from fear, but from freedom.

Maybe this is what healing looks like.
Not rushing into the fire again.
But tiptoeing toward the warmth, just to see if it’s safe.

And maybe—for once—it is.

This Is Me: Paint, Blinks, Likes, Ums, and All

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Hola!

This is video #2 that I’m posting. I’m not sure if I’ll keep track of the number of videos forever, but for now it feels right.

This is just me being me — on video — even though I’ve never really been a “video of myself talking” kind of person. (I had to do it for a couple of college assignments and I hated it. That’s pretty much the only time I remember having to video myself.)

This one’s a little messy. I say “um” and “like” a lot — I know. Honestly, I do use “like” way too much in real life, but it’s just a word I love and it’s part of how I talk. I’m not usually much of an “um-er,” though.

I only recorded this once and watched it once, because I’m trying not to overanalyze or turn it into something it’s not. I just want to show up as the realest version of myself that I can.

I blink too much, and to me, it’s obvious I’m still not totally comfortable doing this yet. But that’s just how it is when you’re doing something new and vulnerable — and I know it’ll get easier with time.

For the next few videos, I might try writing myself a little script so I can get my points across more clearly. But for this one, I wanted it to be 100% natural.

Also, after I watched it back, I noticed the black paint on my fingers. But I’m not going to go wash my hands and re-record just because my hands are messy. Honestly, having paint on me (and usually some dirt under my nails) is pretty much my natural state.

Sincerely,

Kayla Sue Warner

Hi, I’m Me – Why I’m Starting These Videos

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I’ve shared a lot of words on this blog. But this time, I wanted to share my voice. My face. Me.

This video is the start of something new for me. It’s a little messy, a little scripty (I won’t lie), but it’s mine.

I’m not here to perform or perfect. I’m here to connect. To talk honestly about the things that matter—neurodivergence, burnout, healing, identity, feminism, softness, survival, joy.

If any of that resonates with you, welcome. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When was the last time you let yourself show up imperfectly—and still called it brave?

I’d love to hear your answer in the comments, or just let it sit with you quietly.

Why Florida Teachers Should Go On Strike (Even Though They Legally Can’t)

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Note from the Author:
This post is not legal advice. It’s a reflection from someone who deeply loves public education and has watched far too many great teachers disappear from Florida classrooms. I’m writing this because silence isn’t working. And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to make some noise.

My 4th grade classroom during a writing lesson in 2020 before the pandemic.

I. The Absurdity of Illegality: You Can’t Strike, But You Also Can’t Stay

In Florida, it’s illegal for public employees—including teachers—to go on strike. If they do, they risk everything: their licenses, their pensions, their jobs, their futures. The state doesn’t just discourage strikes—it threatens to annihilate you for even trying.

And yet, here’s the irony: What is the state going to do? Fire them all?

Florida is already in a full-blown teacher shortage crisis. Walk into almost any public school and you’ll find long-term subs teaching out-of-field, exhausted educators doubling up classes, and students quietly slipping through the cracks. Qualified teachers are vanishing. College graduates are steering clear of education degrees. Veteran teachers are leaving in droves.

So, really—what power does the state even have left to threaten?

You can’t scare someone into silence when they’re already crawling toward the exit.

II. This Isn’t Just About Pay (But Also… the Pay)

Let’s talk money. Florida ranks dead last in average teacher salaries. 50th. Not 49th. Not hovering around average. Fifty. The bottom. The end of the line. The state’s starting pay looks decent on paper, but that’s part of the trick: it’s a flash-in-the-pan bonus to attract new hires while experienced teachers remain underpaid and disrespected.

Meanwhile, the cost of living in cities like Miami, Tampa, and Orlando is skyrocketing. Teachers can’t afford to live in the communities they serve. Many work second jobs. Some donate blood for grocery money. This isn’t hyperbole—it’s the reality.

And yet when teachers advocate for better pay, they’re told to be “grateful” or accused of being political.

III. A Profession Crumbling From the Inside

Florida classrooms have become battlegrounds. Not just because of underfunding and overcrowding, but because of the political environment manufactured to punish teachers.

Educators face laws like the “Don’t Say Gay” bill and the “Stop WOKE Act,” both of which censor curriculum and stifle professional autonomy. Teachers are being told what they can’t say, can’t read, can’t teach—even when those things are rooted in truth, history, and compassion.

Textbooks are being banned. Libraries are being stripped. Teachers are being investigated simply for having inclusive materials or acknowledging systemic racism.

You cannot expect teachers to remain silent when the very soul of education is being gutted.

IV. Union Power Under Attack

Florida’s legislature has gone after unions with a scalpel and a sledgehammer. New laws ban automatic union dues deductions and require unions to maintain higher membership levels to remain certified—moves clearly designed to destroy them.

The attack on the United Teachers of Dade, one of the largest local unions in the country, is just the beginning. This is not about accountability. It’s about control. It’s about fear.

But unions aren’t just bureaucracies—they’re lifelines. They’re the only protection most educators have left. And if that’s taken away too, what other option do teachers have but to walk out?

V. Public Opinion Is On the Side of Teachers

The truth is, people get it. A recent poll found that 72% of Floridians support the right of teachers to strike—even though it’s currently illegal. Why? Because even parents, students, and voters can see that things are falling apart.

Teachers don’t strike to hurt kids. They strike because the system is already hurting them.

Strikes are not abandonment. They are resistance.

VI. What Happens If They Do Strike?

Let’s imagine it. A mass teacher strike in Florida.

What’s the state going to do—fire every single teacher? Lock them all up? Replace them with who? Substitutes are already maxed out. The pipeline is dry. And parents? They’ll flood school board meetings in a rage when classrooms are closed—not at the teachers, but at the state that let things fall this far.

There’s a quiet power in mass refusal.

And when it’s all gone too far—when you’ve exhausted every channel, every plea, every sleepless night—maybe refusing to keep playing the game is the only real move left.

VII. The Point Isn’t Just Protest—It’s Preservation

Florida teachers aren’t asking for luxury. They’re asking for livable wages, classroom autonomy, books on the shelves, respect for their expertise, and the freedom to teach truth.

If striking is illegal, so be it. It was illegal once before, in 1968, and yet thousands of Florida teachers walked out. They changed history. They forced the state’s hand. And they earned what they deserved.

Maybe it’s time again.

Final Words

To Florida teachers: You are not alone. You are not selfish. You are not wrong for wanting more—for your students, your profession, and yourself.

To lawmakers: If you’re afraid of a strike, maybe you should ask yourselves why.

To everyone else: If you love your public schools, stand with the people who make them run. They might be walking out, but it’s only because they’ve been left behind for far too long.