The school year has begun. We have returned to our classrooms with new hopes, new goals, and the optimism that comes with a new school year. New students. New routines. A fresh start.
But what happens when the system we left in June hasn’t changed? We return rested, perhaps hopeful, and ready to give our students our best. But the workload is still there. The staffing challenges are still there. The expectations are still there. And for Black and other marginalized educators, so is the emotional labour that often comes with working within the system.
We talk about educator burnout as though it happens because we simply do too much. But what if some of our exhaustion is connected to the system itself? What happens when we return to the same conditions that contributed to our burnout in the first place? Researchers Smith, Allen, and Danley describe this experience as racial battle fatigue, the cumulative strain that can come from repeated exposure to racism and racial microaggressions.
For many Black educators, it is not one isolated experience. It is the accumulation. The comment in the staff room. The question about why Black students need their own space. The assumption that you should speak to a Black student because you “might connect with them.” The expectation that you should explain why something is problematic. Then the bell rings. You teach. You move on. Or at least, you are expected to.
When Your Professionalism Is Constantly Under Review
One of the most memorable moments of my teaching career should have been inspiring. As a young Black educator, I remember looking up during a Grade 1 phonics lesson to see a Black female superintendent walk into my classroom. Seeing someone who looked like me in a senior leadership role reminded me that there was room for Black women in educational leadership. That feeling quickly disappeared. The feedback I received focused on the absence of a particular phonics sound wall.
Constructive feedback is part of professional growth. Every educator should expect coaching. What stayed with me, however, was not the feedback itself but the broader historic pattern of Black educators being overly scrutinized while the systems and practices that continue to perpetuate systemic racism are overlooked. I began noticing how racialized educators were often subjected to intense scrutiny around their practice, while other classroom practices that disproportionately impacted marginalized students, such as excessive punishment, exclusion from extracurricular opportunities, and frequent loss of recess, did not always receive the same attention. No single incident proves bias. But repeated patterns deserve reflection.
The Invisible Labour
Teaching is already emotionally demanding. Yet Black educators are often expected to do much more than teach. We mentor students navigating racism. We advocate and support families. We educate colleagues. We recommend culturally relevant resources. We join committees. We answer questions about race. We organize assemblies. Sometimes we are asked. Sometimes we simply step in because we know what happens when nobody does. Many Black educators joke that we become the unofficial equity lead when we walk into a building. The joke reflects a reality. We can become the person colleagues turn to when a racial incident happens, the person asked whether a comment is offensive or the person expected to connect with a student simply because they share our racial identity. This work matters. But it is still work. And much of it does not appear on a timetable.
Representation Cannot Be Temporary
Canadian classrooms are becoming increasingly diverse. Representation among educators matters, but hiring diverse educators cannot be where the conversation ends. Retention matters too. What makes a Black educator want to stay? What makes a racialized educator feel supported enough to continue? Because representation without belonging is not enough. I
have worked within the Peel District School Board since 2013. I began as an ECE, then worked as an EA, and now as an OCT-certified classroom teacher. My background also includes Early Childhood Education, community programming, and post-secondary education. Working in different roles has allowed me to see education from different positions within the same system. And from those different positions, I keep coming back to the same question: Are we asking educators to recover from burnout while continuing to place them in the conditions that created it?
Beyond Surviving Another Year
When educators are exhausted, students feel it too. Educators who are constantly proving themselves, navigating difficult conversations and carrying invisible responsibilities have less emotional energy to bring into the classroom. Supporting Black educators is not about preferential treatment. It is about creating conditions where educators can thrive and remain in the profession. Equity work cannot depend on a handful of passionate educators carrying an entire school community. It cannot be the responsibility of the Black teacher in the building to explain every conversation about race. It cannot be another unpaid responsibility quietly added to an already full plate. And burnout cannot always be solved by telling educators to take care of themselves. Sometimes the question needs to move beyond What can I do to manage my burnout? And become What is happening in the system that is making so many of us burn out?
As we return to school this year, I hope we allow ourselves to think beyond simply getting through another year. A summer break can give us space to breathe. But breathing room is not the same as change. If we want educators to stay, we have to look at what they are returning to: the workload, the staffing, the expectations, the invisible labour, the racial battle fatigue, the systems that shape our everyday experiences. Maybe returning to school should not simply mean returning to work.
Maybe it should mean returning to a system that is willing to listen, reflect, and change. Because educators should not have to spend another school year learning how to survive the place where they are supposed to thrive.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily Sagaria
Emily Sagaria is an OCT-certified educator with the Peel District School Board. She has worked in PDSB since 2013 as an ECE, EA and classroom teacher. Her background includes Early Childhood Education, community programming and post-secondary education. She holds a Master of Education in Curriculum, Teaching and Learning and actively advocates for Black, Indigenous and other marginalized communities through her teaching and community work.
This article is featured in Canadian Teacher Magazine’s Fall 2026 issue.
