CARVSMARK

Okay, wake up and smell the coffee that’s been my morning mantra every single day since the new school year started. But let’s be honest, it’s not just wake up and smell the coffee, it’s wake up, inhale the coffee, negotiate with the coffee like it’s a hostage situation, IV drip the coffee directly into your veins, and then beg the coffee not to abandon you halfway through second period.

Because teachers? Oh, we don’t just “hit the ground running.” No, we launch out of bed like we’re in the Boston Marathon and then sprint straight into school chaos. Move over, Usain Bolt. Step aside, Olympic sprinters. Teachers in British Columbia are setting new world records this year. I’ve logged so many steps between the art room, washroom and office that my Fitbit is begging me to sit down: “Ma’am, please… you’ve done enough cardio to qualify for the Tour de France.” And that’s all before recess, where I have spent time cleaning the sink of paint and loading the chemicals in the darkroom.

And it’s not just the teachers. Admin? Oh, they’re in the circus too—juggling schedules, compliance audits, student enrollments, parent emails, and still somehow remembering to say “Good morning” with a straight face. They’re like Vegas performers, except instead of throwing knives, they’re tossing kids into the right classes and praying the whole system doesn’t collapse and a moment of peace will come at some point in the day.

Now here’s the big one:  Three decades of teaching. Thirty years of chalk dust, thirty years of whiteboard markers, thirty years of smartboards that crash mid-lesson like they’re on strike. Thirty years of students asking me, “Is this painting enough for an A?” and me answering, “It’s not about the grade, it’s about the process,” while silently thinking, “Why does this student just see the talent they have not the mark they need in their head?”

Oh, the art teacher life. Let me tell you:

• There’s always at least one kid who confuses the paint water with their drinking water.
• There’s always a trail of glitter. Always. Glitter is eternal. It’s like the herpes of the art room—it never goes away. Now no longer exists in my room for this reason.
• And of course, there’s that one bold soul who scares going into the darkroom and gets the chemical in the eye from the shakes of seeing the magic of your first photo appear.

But just when I finish scrubbing acrylic paint off my elbows, I switch hats to career coordinator. That’s when the real questions come rolling in.

• “Ms. Carv, can you get a scholarship for playing Fortnite?”
• “Do I really need math if I want to be a TikTok star?”
• “Is professional napping a career?”
  At this point, I deserve an honorary degree in “Nodding While Googling Jobs I Didn’t Know Existed.”

Sometimes, my career talks feel like speed dating with reality.

• Student: “I want to be rich and famous by 20.”
• Me: “Great. So… have you considered crime?”

And yet, every single year I hear the same advice: “Slow down. Find balance. Breathe.”

BALANCE? The only balance I’ve got is holding a stack of sketchbooks in one hand, a coffee in the other, and trying not to step on a paintbrush stuck to the floor with mystery glue.

Every September, we get told:

• “Take care of yourself.”
• “Don’t burn out.”
• “Find balance.”

And then, without missing a beat:
“By the way, hand in your year plans, prep for three new classes, adjust for late enrollments, learn the brand-new grading program that crashes every ten minutes, and oh—make sure you’re innovative, inspiring, and available 24/7.”

Sure. Balance. I’ll schedule that right between grading 150 career activation projects and passing out face-first into my pillow while trying to keep my computer going on fumes because I forgot the charger.

I tell my students, “Balance is the key to a happy life.” Then I immediately ruin it by saying, “Do as I say, not as I do, because I suck at it.” Teachers are juggling more than a caffeinated circus clown on Red Bull. We’re spinning plates, tossing flaming torches, riding unicycles across tightropes made of budget cuts—all while smiling and saying, “Yes, darling, of course you can get a career in competitive duck herding. Let’s find a brochure.”

And the students aren’t off easy either. They’re juggling homework, part-time jobs, TikTok, Snapchat streaks, sports, family drama, scholarships, and still trying to “just be kids.” Balance? Their mascot isn’t a noble eagle—it’s a raccoon eating Hot Cheetos at 3 a.m. with dark circles and a Chromebook.

So, is balance real? No. Balance is a myth. Like Bigfoot. Or the Loch Ness Monster. Or a photocopier that works. People swear it exists, but none of us have ever seen it.

We’re sold this fantasy: one yoga class, one kale smoothie, three deep breaths, and suddenly you’re glowing like a wellness influencer who says “Namaste” on Instagram. Reality? Reality is shoving a granola bar into your mouth while updating grad spreadsheets, yelling “Don’t lick the paintbrush!” across the room, and Googling “quick mindfulness hacks for teachers on the brink” at a red light.

But here’s the kicker: sometimes balance does sneak in—not in the way we expect. Not with yoga mats and essential oils, but with laughter, connection, and those tiny moments that remind us why we do this. Like that staff canoe trip, I missed (which I am so sorry I did, by the way), or a class that suddenly clicks, or a student saying, “Ms. Carv, thanks for listening. That helped.” That’s balance—not perfection, but connection.

So, after 30 years, here’s what I’ve learned: balance might not be real. But survival with a sense of humor? That’s the masterpiece. That’s the real career skill. And honestly, after all this time, maybe that’s enough.

My staff—and I mean all my staff—you are the anchors of balance. Seriously, if balance were a boat, you’re the ones keeping me from drifting into the Bermuda Triangle of burnout. Don’t waste time dwelling on retirement and your dramatic exit strategy. Instead, dwell on the fun. Dwell on the chaos. Dwell on those moments of connection we’ll laugh about for the rest of our lives—like when we were at the grade 8 retreats, the winter breakfasts or when a student used their career aptitude test to prove they’re destined to be a professional teacher and we respond, “poor soul!”

Because when we connect, the students connect, and suddenly that’s when balance magically appears—right in the middle of the madness. And me? I’m a “Breaker.” Always have been, always will be. Not a breaker of bones, laws, or bad habits, but a breaker of printers, budgets, and occasionally my own patience. This year, I’m striving to be a balanced teacher which basically means drinking my coffee before it goes cold, remembering where I put my keys, and creating art with my students that connects us as creative humans.