PEN Mondays - Teaching Is Lonely, But You're Not Alone

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6 min read

If you’re new here, welcome to PEN Mondays, where we explore more of the socio-emotional aspects of teaching. You’ll see us again on Wednesday with a brand new tech tool and academic study to supercharge your classroom.

It’s July. You’re off the clock, but your brain hasn’t quite gotten the memo. Maybe you’re sitting on the porch with a cold drink, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Maybe you're pacing your living room thinking, “Why do I already feel anxious about going back?” And maybe — just maybe — you feel something heavier, something harder to name: lonely.

If that sounds familiar, you’re not broken. You’re just a teacher.

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The Unspoken Truth About Teaching

There’s a myth out there that teaching is a highly social job. After all, you’re surrounded by people all day, right? Kids, colleagues, administrators, hallway traffic, the occasional rogue custodian shouting “Heads up!” as they zip down the hallway with a mop. But here’s the thing — proximity isn’t the same as connection.

Most teachers spend their days as solo operators. You have your classroom. Your schedule. Your pile of papers. Your emotional energy that’s being rationed like it's the last roll of toilet paper in March 2020. Even when you're technically "collaborating," it often feels more like coexisting in a Google Sheet than building real human connection.

So yes — you’re in a crowd, but somehow still alone.

Why It Happens — And Why It Hurts

Let’s be honest: the modern school is a strange kind of social paradox. You’re rarely alone, but you’re often isolated. Your day is filled with voices — students, announcements, bells, emails, hallway noise — and yet, when was the last time a colleague asked how you’re really doing and had time to listen to the answer?

Teaching is built on silos. You have your own room, your own schedule, your own students. In most schools, there's no natural space carved out for adult connection unless you wedge it in between paper jams and fire drills. Collaboration time, when it exists, is often swallowed up by logistics and grading spreadsheets — not actual relationship-building.

The emotional labor of teaching makes this worse. You spend all day being there for everyone else — supporting kids in crisis, navigating behavior challenges, decoding cryptic emails from parents — and when the bell rings, there’s often nothing left in the tank for small talk in the lounge. That kind of exhaustion isn’t antisocial; it’s self-preservation. But it reinforces the problem.

And let’s not forget the pressure cooker of performative professionalism. In too many schools, being vulnerable feels risky. If you say “I’m struggling,” will that be seen as weakness? If you admit you’re lonely, will anyone actually get it, or just nod and change the subject?

This isn’t just sad — it’s damaging. We weren’t meant to teach (or live) in emotional isolation. Humans are wired for connection, and when our profession trains us to operate like islands, it chips away at our mental health, our motivation, and ultimately, our love for the work.

Connection is still an act of resistance.

Here’s the good news: loneliness is common — but it’s not inevitable.

We can’t always fix our school cultures overnight, but we can take small steps toward connection. Reach out to the colleague who always seems rushed. Eat lunch in the staff room once a week — and not just to microwave something that smells suspiciously like regret. Send a message to the coworker who made you laugh in May and say, “Hey, you around this summer?”

You might be surprised how many people are also craving connection but don’t know where to start.

This isn’t just about being social. It’s about survival. Teaching is emotionally intense work. It asks you to give and give — and if you're not receiving support in return, something breaks. So seek out the people who fill your cup. If they don’t exist at your school, find them online. Educator Twitter (well, what’s left of it), Facebook groups, Slack communities — they’re not the same as a real-life colleague, but they can remind you that you’re not weird for caring so much or for struggling to keep caring at all.

You’re Not Alone in Feeling Alone

Maybe the hardest part of loneliness is the way it tricks you into believing you’re the only one who feels it. But you’re not. Thousands of teachers — right now, mid-summer, mid-anxiety spiral — are quietly wondering if they made a mistake, if they’re cut out for this, if they’ll ever feel seen by their colleagues again.

The answer? You are cut out for this — not because it doesn’t hurt, but because you care enough to keep showing up anyway.

So as you sip your coffee this morning, or take your walk, or stare at your ceiling fan wondering what day it is — know this: someone else is doing the same thing, wondering the same thing, hoping for the same connection.

And that, oddly enough, means you’re not alone at all.

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