Disclaimer: This post discusses traumatic events in a school setting, including violence and its emotional impact on educators. Some readers may find the content distressing.
The teacher shortage crisis dominating national headlines typically focuses on predictable culprits. These include low pay, heavy workloads, and political battles over curriculum. Yet, a darker, more insidious factor threatens the education sector. It is driving educators away in record numbers. This factor rarely makes its way into policy debates or school board meetings.
Teacher trauma.
It’s the elephant in the room, the unspoken epidemic quietly decimating our education workforce. We must break the silence around it. Otherwise, we’ll continue losing experienced, passionate educators at an alarming rate. Students and our entire education system will pay the price.
The Invisible Wound
The statistics are staggering. In 2024, 60% of K–12 teachers reported feeling burned out, with 59% experiencing regular job-related stress. By 2025, even as pandemic pressures eased, 53% of teachers still felt burned out. Additionally, 62% were often stressed. This stress rate is nearly double the rate of other working adults. The most alarming statistic is from a 2022 national survey. It found that 55% of educators were thinking about leaving the profession earlier than planned. They cited pandemic-related stress and burnout.
More than half. Looking for the exit door.
But these numbers don’t capture the human cost. They don’t show the tears in parking lots before school. Panic attacks occur on Sunday nights. Nightmares jolt teachers awake, replaying moments they can’t forget. These often go unreported. They don’t show the teachers in their cars with hearts pounding. These teachers must will themselves to walk through school doors that no longer feel safe.
I know, because I was one of them.
When Silence Becomes Complicity
Two days after a 7th-grade student murdered an 8th-grade student on our campus during school hours, my colleagues and I went back to work. Not to our building—that was still a crime scene—but to a meeting location where district officials talked at us for hours. Our principal and assistant principal were conspicuously absent, with no explanation offered. Everywhere I turned, I saw coworkers in tears, yet district administration allowed no one space to truly process what had happened.
When I approached the superintendent, my voice was trembling. I told her, “I’m not ready to go back into that building yet.” Her response was clinical: “I can’t force you. Take a personal day.”
I’ve never felt more devalued. The superintendent reduced my trauma to a minor scheduling issue.
This reaction wasn’t an isolated incident of administrative tone-deafness. It was emblematic of a systemic failure to acknowledge that teachers and students can experience profound trauma. Ignoring this trauma has devastating consequences.
The Spectrum of Teacher Trauma
School violence signifies the most extreme end of the trauma spectrum educators face. A 2023 American Psychological Association task force study found significant post-pandemic impacts on teachers. After the pandemic, 80% of teachers had encountered verbal or threatening incidents from students. Additionally, 56% had been victims of physical violence. As a result, 57% of the teachers surveyed stated that they plan to quit. They want to transfer due to school violence and a poor school climate.
But trauma isn’t always dramatic. It accumulates through:
- Chronic exposure to student crises and home instability
- Repeated Lockdown drills that trigger anxiety
- Daily classroom management challenges that escalate to physical confrontation
- Secondary traumatic stress from absorbing students’ pain
- Administrative neglect and hostile work environments
- The constant fear that “it could happen here”
These experiences layer like bricks in a backpack, getting heavier over time. Each unresolved trauma adds weight. And eventually, something—sometimes catastrophic, sometimes seemingly small—becomes the last brick that breaks you.
For me, years of stress had already pushed me to a breaking point. I’d previously gone on temporary disability leave for anxiety after fearing for my safety daily. Nepotism and favoritism repeatedly blocked my advancement despite two master’s degrees and recognition as Teacher of the Year. Incompetent leadership and toxic school cultures that left me feeling helpless.
I had returned to teaching because I genuinely loved it and believed things would improve. Then a student I cared about was killed in our hallway during passing period.
The Aftermath: Performance Over People
Thursday morning, just four days after the tragedy, I arrived at school early, hoping quiet would help me cope. Outside, a makeshift memorial of flowers and stuffed animals lay under the marquee—a heartbreaking reminder. Inside, my classroom felt frozen in time. On my desk sat the hall pass I’d written for a student just before lockdown was called. I held that slip of paper and sobbed uncontrollably.
Walking to the cafeteria meant passing the spot where she died. My heart pounded. I looked up at the stairs. I half expected to see her bright smile. The last time I’d seen her, she’d called down, “I’m being good, Mrs. Howard. I’m not going to be tardy.”
I still see her there sometimes. Not always, but when it happens, I’m transported back to that fatal Monday.
District personnel filled the cafeteria, our designated meeting place. They talked endlessly but said nothing meaningful. I couldn’t shake the feeling they didn’t honestly care about the life lost—only about the district’s public image. Teachers went through the same generic trauma-response lessons. We would deliver these to students. It seemed as if adults process grief the same way middle schoolers do.
One official commended us for “being exactly where we needed to be” during the incident. The statement felt painfully hollow given the outcome. The deputy superintendent, who’d reportedly never visited our school before, mentioned she had “not yet had a hard cry.” They offered us snacks, as if Oreos could somehow reduce the magnitude of our loss.
We weren’t allowed to speak or share our feelings. They didn’t want to hear about our trauma—or their failures.
The Performance Continues
Much of the district’s response focused on cell phones, as if a smartphone had taken that child’s life. We received explicit instructions about phone policies while the real security failures went unaddressed. When we returned after spring break, I saw a functioning Evolv metal detector for the first time. In the year and a half I’d been at that school, it was the first time I saw it functioning. Too little, too late.
Meanwhile, our principal and assistant principal never returned, having been placed on administrative leave with no explanation. Bizarrely, the principal’s supervisor became our interim principal. This change raised obvious questions. If our principal had failed so catastrophically, why was the person who supervised him qualified to lead us?
District officials descended on the school, barking orders and berating teachers. The entire culture shifted overnight. What had been a supportive, cordial environment became hostile and chaotic. Students took hours to enter the building each morning due to new security protocols. We often skipped entire class periods. Yet district personnel still called mandatory staff meetings an hour and a half before school ended.
Through it all, the message was clear: the show must go on. Get back to work. Stop dwelling. Move ahead.
The Hidden Cost of Silence
What administrators fail to understand is that unacknowledged trauma doesn’t disappear—it festers. Teachers who’ve lived through crises without support often develop what researchers call secondary traumatic stress. They show PTSD-like symptoms from indirect exposure to trauma. Over time, this can lead to compassion fatigue, where educators become emotionally numb or have a total psychological breakdown.
In the weeks after our school’s tragedy, many colleagues had trouble concentrating, slept poorly, and jumped at loud noises. I developed a habit of checking exits everywhere I went. Sunday evenings became unbearable—my body would respond with anxiety even though I had nowhere to go. I’d cry out in my sleep, full-body sobbing without even knowing it.
This mental and physical reaction is what trauma looks like. And it’s driving teachers away in droves.
Research from the Learning Policy Institute found that lack of administrative support is a major reason teachers quit. Teachers who feel unsupported are more than twice as likely to resign. Twice as likely. Yet many school systems continue to treat teacher mental health as an afterthought, if they consider it at all.
The financial cost alone should be alarming. Replacing a single teacher costs districts an estimated $20,000 to $25,000 in recruitment and training. Nationally, teacher turnover costs exceeded $7 billion annually as of the 2003-04 school year. This figure has undoubtedly increased since then.
But the real cost is measured in lost institutional knowledge, disrupted student relationships, and the crushing of passionate educators’ spirits.
Why We Stay Silent
Teacher trauma remains invisible mainly because of stigma. Educators are hesitant to admit they need mental health help, fearing they’ll be seen as “weak” or “unfit to teach.” Society places teachers on a pedestal of selflessness—we’re expected to martyr ourselves for the job. When we suffer, we do it quietly. And when we can’t take it anymore, we leave quietly.
I felt that pressure intensely. Even after everything I’d experienced, part of me felt guilty for not “handling it better.” A pastor at one of our crisis meetings had told me, “God says you can’t quit. What about the other 100-plus students who still need you?” In that moment, I decided to stay—for the sake of the students. He understood they needed someone who cared enough to stick around.
But staying came at a personal cost that no one in leadership acknowledged. My health deteriorated. My marriage and family life went through turmoil. I began to hate everything about education except the students themselves.
Eventually, I had to ask myself: At what point does staying become self-destruction?
Breaking the Cycle
Change is possible, but it requires administrators and policymakers to shift their perspective on teacher well-being fundamentally. Some research-backed approaches include:
Immediate crisis response: When tragedy strikes, school leaders should speak out quickly. They should acknowledge what happened and its impact on the school community. Bring in professional support—not just for students, but for staff. Create space for teachers to share feelings without judgment or time pressure.
Ongoing mental health support: Districts should fund robust Employee Assistance Programs and wellness initiatives to offer ongoing support. Teachers need access to counseling, peer support groups, and trauma-informed training that recognizes educators as vulnerable to secondary trauma.
Administrative compassion: Simple acknowledgment can be life-changing. Imagine if my superintendent had said, “I know this is incredibly hard. If you aren’t ready to return, we will support you and get you the help you need.” That validation might have changed everything.
Cultural shift: Schools must move away from the expectation that teachers should silently endure anything for the sake of students. As one Texas teacher told K-12 Dive after a school shooting, “We are balls of stress and nervous energy.” We are waiting for the next thing to happen. No one in leadership was openly saying, ‘I see that this is really hard.'”
That acknowledgment—”I see that this is really hard”—can make the difference. It could mean a teacher stays or one walks away forever.
A Personal Reckoning
After much soul-searching and prayer, I ultimately made the painful decision to leave the school where the tragedy occurred. When I submitted my resignation, I acknowledged that I’d missed the official deadline. I had been waiting in good faith for a transfer request to be processed.
In my resignation letter, I wrote:
“I acknowledge that I have missed the official resignation deadline. That is not due to negligence. I submitted a transfer request in the hope of continuing to serve students in a safer, more stable environment… I accept the consequences of that decision—but I will not allow my departure to be reduced to missed paperwork. Because the real reasons I am leaving are deeper, harder, and long overdue.”
I explained what we’d lived through. We experienced a lack of support. We faced years of being overlooked and blackballed despite my qualifications. I concluded:
“I am choosing myself. My health. My future. I leave with clarity and without regret.”
That clarity came at a cost, but it also came with freedom.
The Path Forward
The silent retention crisis won’t end until we name it, acknowledge it, and tackle it systemically. Each teacher lost to trauma impacts hundreds of students. They lose a dedicated educator. A school loses institutional knowledge. An individual loses a career they may have once loved.
To my fellow educators experiencing trauma: You are not alone, and there is no shame in seeking help. The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) and the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) offer resources. They help in managing trauma. These resources give tools and support for those in need. They also offer support for dealing with stress. The National Center for School Crisis and Bereavement provides resources to support school communities during their healing process after tragedies.
To school leaders: It’s time to listen—really listen. Check in with your teachers authentically. Offer outlets for staff to decompress. Develop crisis response plans that focus on caring for caregivers. Remember that acknowledging teachers’ emotions and providing genuine support builds loyalty and resilience.
To policymakers and communities: Support measures that directly tackle teacher well-being. Hold school boards accountable for how they treat staff. Understand that keeping experienced educators requires not breaking them in the first place.
The pastor who told me I couldn’t quit understood something crucial: students need teachers who care enough to stay. The district never understood something important. Teachers can only stay if the framework cares enough to make staying survivable.
We can’t afford to continue losing good teachers in this manner. It’s time to break the silence and tackle the teacher trauma crisis head-on.
Change begins with awareness. When we speak our truth, we can start the changes needed. These changes protect the hearts and minds of those who educate our children.
Read more: To get the full account of that day, visit my Out of the Flames Substack. You can find it at substack.com/@luxeed
Sources & Further Reading
RAND Corporation – State of the American Teacher survey: 60% of K–12 teachers felt burned out in 2024
https://www.rand.org/pubs/research_reports/RRA1108-12.html
https://www.rand.org/news/press/2024/06/18.html
National Education Association (NEA) – February 2022 survey: 55% of educators considering leaving early
American Psychological Association Task Force – 2023 report on violence against educators
https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC11927438
https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC11952076
CuraLinc Healthcare – Teacher mental health challenges and secondary trauma
https://curalinc.com/blog/teacher-staff-mental-health-roi-education
Learning Policy Institute – Research on teacher turnover and administrative support
https://learningpolicyinstitute.org/product/teacher-turnover-report
https://learningpolicyinstitute.org/product/role-principals-addressing-teacher-shortages-brief
Education Week – Cost of teacher turnover
https://www.edweek.org/education/billions-spent-on-teacher-turnover/2007/06
We Are Teachers – Steps principals should take when responding to tragedy
https://www.weareteachers.com/responding-school-trauma/
K–12 Dive – Teaching after mass shootings
Resources for Managing Trauma and Stress:
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) – Mental health resources and support ational Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) – Mental health resources and support
https://www.nami.org/kids-teens-and-young-adults/school-resources/back-to-school-resources/
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) – Trauma-informed approaches
https://www.samhsa.gov/mental-health/trauma-violence/trauma-informed-approaches-programs
National Center for School Crisis and Bereavement – Crisis response resources
https://www.schoolcrisiscenter.org