Guest Blogger: Andy Kwiecien - Administrator, Academic Coordinator, Educator

As an educator, student success and well-being were always my driving force. They were never abstract ideas or buzzwords. They were faces. Names. Stories. They mattered. They all mattered. That belief shaped every decision I made and pushed me to always go the extra mile, even when no one was watching and no one was asking.

I entered this profession because of a powerful combination: a deep love for science and mathematics, and the joy of working alongside people who shared a commitment to motivating and inspiring young minds. I believed - wholeheartedly - in the power of education. I believed in being part of the learning, the growth, and the formation of the next generation.

Teaching, to me, was never about recycling lessons. Each year brought new students, new needs, new ways of thinking. New research, new strategies, and evolving pedagogy continually reshaped how learning could and should look. I welcomed that. I learned from younger colleagues. I listened. I adapted. Education felt alive - a profession rooted in curiosity, growth, and possibility.

Over time, society changed. Families changed. And rather than resisting that shift, I embraced it. Each day felt like a new frontier. Change wasn’t something to fear; it was something to navigate thoughtfully. Small adjustments - incremental improvements - allowed curriculum to remain relevant, responsive, and meaningful for the students in front of us.

I coached. I mentored. I worked through lunches and ran after-school programs to support students in mathematics - and I loved it. Those moments mattered to me as much as they mattered to the students. Helping a child finally see themselves as capable never felt like work.

Years later, I was invited to share my learning more broadly through a district-level coordinator role focused on integrating technology into classrooms. I remember thinking, I cannot believe I get paid to do this. Supporting educators, encouraging innovation, and helping teachers bring fresh ideas into their practice felt deeply rewarding.

A decade later, I was tapped again - this time as a secondary Vice Principal - entrusted with supporting an entire school community. Then, a few years after that, I was asked to lead my own elementary school as principal. Working alongside an incredible staff - dedicated, passionate, kind professionals who truly believed in teamwork and community - made me feel like the luckiest administrator alive.

But over time, something began to shift.

Expectations multiplied. Responsibilities layered. Policies and liabilities slowly became the foundation of our conversations and decisions. We were doing more with less as services and supports were reduced, stretching staff beyond what was sustainable. The work didn’t slow - it intensified.

Conversations with colleagues changed, too. What once felt like spaces for collaboration and inspiration slowly turned into survival check-ins. Support groups rather than idea-sharing circles. People weren’t just tired - they were depleted. Staff were breaking, quietly and publicly, asking for help while saying the same thing over and over: I have nothing left to give.

And yet, the work kept expanding.

I stretched my role far beyond its original scope to support others because that’s what leaders do. Because they mattered. Because students mattered. Sixty-hour work weeks became common - then expected. They had to be. Schools could not function without someone absorbing what the system could no longer hold.

I was breaking. Colleagues were breaking.

And not because life is hard - though it is.
Not because educators lack resilience - they don’t.

Educators were burning out because we turned excessive workload into culture… and convinced ourselves it was passion.

Somewhere along the way, self-sacrifice became synonymous with commitment. Exhaustion became a badge of honour. Saying “yes” at the cost of our own health was framed as dedication. We normalized crisis mode and told ourselves it was just “the job.”

In schools, we began to see the role not as humanly demanding, but as limitless. There was always one more initiative, one more meeting, one more expectation layered onto already-full days. And if something didn’t get done, it wasn’t the system that was questioned - it was the individual. Why couldn’t you manage it? Why couldn’t you handle it?

That narrative is dangerous.

Because passion should fuel a profession - not consume the people within it.

Education is still a calling. Students still matter. Community still matters. But when we confuse endurance with excellence and survival with success, we risk losing the very people who make schools places of care, learning, and hope.

This reflection isn’t about blame. It’s about honesty.

And honesty is the first step toward change.

Why We Must Change - Not Someday, but Now

If we are being honest - truly honest - then we must acknowledge that education in North America is at a breaking point.

Across the United States and Canada, educators and administrators are walking away from a profession they once loved, not because they stopped caring, but because the demands placed upon them have become unmanageable. Teachers are leaving classrooms. Principals and vice principals are stepping down. Aspiring leaders are choosing not to apply at all. And those who remain are often doing so at a personal cost that is no longer sustainable.

Recent surveys across the U.S. paint a sobering picture. Large-scale studies from organizations such as RAND Corporation and the National Education Association have repeatedly shown that nearly half of teachers report frequent job-related stress, with significant percentages indicating they are considering leaving the profession earlier than planned. Among administrators, the numbers are just as alarming - many report workloads that routinely exceed 60 hours per week, coupled with increasing legal, behavioural, and mental-health responsibilities.

Canada mirrors these trends. Provincial teacher federations and school boards continue to report shortages, rising sick leave, and increasing difficulty filling leadership roles. While exact numbers vary by region, the pattern is consistent: educators are exiting faster than systems can replace them.

And this is happening while educators are being asked to do more than ever before.

Teachers are not only responsible for academic instruction; they are also navigating trauma-informed practices, escalating mental-health needs, behavioural crises, individualized programming, family communication, documentation, compliance, and accountability demands - often without adequate staffing, time, or external support. Administrators are expected to be instructional leaders, mental-health responders, policy experts, mediators, compliance officers, and crisis managers - all at once.

We are asking human beings to carry institutional weight that was never meant to rest on individual shoulders.

The most painful irony is this: educators are leaving because they care deeply. They care about students’ learning. They care about student well-being. They care about equity, safety, and belonging. But caring without capacity eventually leads to collapse.

This is where change must happen.

Not through another initiative.
Not through another policy layered on top of an already full plate.
And not through telling educators to practice more “self-care” while ignoring the conditions that cause the harm.

Change must come through structural honesty.

We must redefine what is reasonable.
We must protect time - for planning, collaboration, rest, and reflection.
We must rebuild systems of support rather than relying on individual heroics.
We must stop normalizing crisis response as standard operating procedure.

Most importantly, we must remember that student well-being cannot come at the expense of educator well-being. The two are inseparable. Burned-out systems cannot produce thriving classrooms.

Education does not need fewer passionate people.
It needs healthier conditions for passionate people to remain.

If we want educators to stay, to lead, to mentor the next generation - then we must stop asking them to survive chaos and start allowing them to do what they entered this profession to do: teach, guide, inspire, and care - sustainably.

Change is not optional anymore.

It is necessary.

A Call to Those Who Hold the Power to Demand Better

This moment cannot rest solely on the shoulders of educators.

Real change will only happen when voters, parents, and communities speak with clarity and conviction - and demand that governments refocus on what truly matters: adequate supports for the people entrusted with educating and caring for our children.

Parents, this is not about lowering standards.
Voters, this is not about resisting accountability.
This is about recognizing reality.

You cannot ask schools to meet the growing academic, behavioural, and mental-health needs of students while systematically removing the very supports that make that work possible. You cannot expect excellence while funding scarcity. You cannot continue to rely on goodwill, unpaid labour, and personal sacrifice to hold public systems together.

When educators leave, it is not just a staffing issue - it is a warning signal.

It tells us that classrooms are being stretched beyond capacity.
It tells us that leadership pipelines are collapsing.
It tells us that the system is asking for more than it is willing to support.

Governments respond when voters speak. Policy shifts when public priorities are clear. Funding follows pressure - not passion alone.

So this is the ask:

Demand smaller class sizes where possible.
Demand access to mental-health professionals in schools.
Demand manageable workloads and realistic expectations for educators and administrators.
Demand time for collaboration, planning, and relationship-building - the very foundations of effective learning.
Demand that education policies be shaped by those who understand classrooms, not just spreadsheets.

Most importantly, demand that student well-being and educator well-being be treated as inseparable - because they are.

Strong schools are built on strong systems.
Strong systems are built on sustained support.
And sustained support only happens when communities insist on it.

If we want our children to learn in environments rooted in care, stability, and possibility, then we must stop accepting burnout as the cost of education.

This is not an educator issue.
This is not a union issue.
This is a public responsibility.

And the time to demand better - together - is now.