You have probably heard of March of the Penguins, a documentary depicting the yearly journey of emperor penguins in Antarctica. The film follows their triumphs and tragedies in a way that makes it impossible not to empathize with these remarkable creatures. Released in 2005, the film inspired video games, merchandise, and a broader awareness of our environmental impact. It was undoubtedly moving, and it gave me a newfound respect for male penguins. This past week marked the start of a new school year for children and educators across British Columbia. As parents eagerly and nervously handed over their children, I watched educators welcome them with open arms. Beyond preparing classrooms and schools, these educators were clinging to the final days of summer, supporting their own families, and managing whatever personal challenges had arisen the week before. While the first day of school serves as the official starting line for the educator’s marathon, the preparation begins much earlier and every year, I remain in awe of my colleagues and their dedication to starting this vital race.
When I refer to educators, that includes teachers, educational assistants, learning support staff, speech therapists, counselors, early childhood educators, library clerks, Indigenous support workers, food services personnel, office administrators, custodians, and principals or vice-principals. Like any major event, a dedicated team behind the scenes keeps everything running smoothly and handles the hiccups viewers never see. Every late August, we assemble to prepare our schools. Principals arrive well in advance, followed by senior administrative assistants, teachers, and support staff. Classrooms are organized and class lists shift with late registrations as everyone comes together for other people’s children. Educators sacrifice time they could spend with their own families—or dogs, in my case—to set up their spaces. Because our school boards do not allocate classroom setup time, this work is done voluntarily. Once the final touches are complete, staff return home for the Labor Day weekend to recharge amidst family BBQs and camping trips. Yet, even during that long weekend, educators manage their own children’s jitters while anticipating everything that needs to happen on race day.
Much like penguins marching to their breeding grounds, educators face both triumphs and hurdles at the starting line. Commercialism and societal expectations have raised the pressure surrounding the first day of school. Educators navigate unreasonable demands, school board administrative distance, and the persistent myth that teachers enjoy two months of absolute downtime—overlooking that most are parents themselves. On top of that, frequent curriculum changes add to the load. Fortunately, school staff take a deep breath and focus on what matters most: welcoming students past and present. Hearing a former student call out “Ms. Jenn” across the yard remains the highlight of my year and keeps me coming back. In time, however, I realized that enthusiasm alone was not enough. I found my voice to speak out about systemic stress, learning that channeling frustration toward school boards and government bodies is a necessary tool for advocacy.
A widespread misconception persists that education is easy and that our work is non-essential. Yet, closing a school for even a single day causes immediate disruption—demonstrating just how vital these institutions are. Working in a school, in any role, is demanding. Over the past two decades, expectations for administrators, counselors, and support staff have grown exponentially. Classroom teachers are asked to do more with larger classes and fewer resources, often pursuing specialized training on their own time. The situation for support staff is particularly acute. As a former Educational Assistant (EA), I have witnessed the shift in how support is delivered. Insufficient staffing creates immense strain. When passionate individuals are placed in under-resourced environments, the resulting stress affects vulnerable learners, staff, and the broader school culture. Support staff do not enter the field for financial gain—they are among the lowest-paid workers in the building and face annual summer layoffs, requiring them to reapply for their positions every year.
The marathon educators run is challenging, but I share this perspective to encourage reflection rather than foster despair. Having advocated for my youngest child throughout 13 years of public education, I understand the anxiety of placing a unique child in someone else’s care. I know the frustration of rewriting Individual Education Plans (IEPs) and sitting through difficult meetings. However, my experience as an educator taught me to approach advocacy with patience, recognizing that school staff are often balancing overwhelming responsibilities and systemic constraints. When I eventually chose to homeschool my child during sixth grade, I wrote a note to the teacher explaining that my decision was a response to systemic limitations, not her teaching and I similarly informed the principal that I understood her constraints. A few weeks later, after establishing a home routine, I began writing letters to school boards, provincial ministers, federal representatives, and media outlets. The staff within the building were doing everything possible; meaningful resolution required addressing the broader structure.
Over my career, I have completed many full and half marathons as an educator. Despite the physical and emotional toll, I cherish those experiences and the community built along the way. I have formed lifelong friendships, watched children thrive, supported families, and learned immeasurably from my students. Our education systems face significant challenges, requiring action from both inside and outside the system. As voters, we can engage school board trustees and advocate for policy changes. As parents, we can approach school transitions with measured patience, advocating firmly yet constructively. As educators, we can foster healthy boundaries and supportive dialogue with colleagues and administrators. As administrators, we can ground our decisions in empathy for the classroom experience. Ultimately, education is a shared responsibility aimed at guiding children through learning and personal growth. Supporting educators over this ten-month journey helps build resilience in our children and encourages institutions to create sustainable conditions for learning.
During their annual migration, emperor penguins travel up to 150 kilometers. After the female lays an egg, she transfers it to the male and returns to the sea to feed. The male fasts and protects the egg for two months, losing up to 40% of his body weight. His survival rate exceeds 90% because he is physiologically adapted to this process. By contrast, developmental research indicates that young children are not biologically suited for prolonged periods of sedentary instruction. Yet, standard educational structures often demand this of them. When I taught kindergarten in Ottawa with 32 students, I frequently felt stretched beyond my capacity to connect with every child. Realizing that the structure itself was flawed led me to advocacy for both students and educators. These educators and students need sustainable conditions: appropriate group sizes, adequate resources, manageable environments, and strong community support.
An emperor penguin is not a martyr; if his partner does not return, he will eventually choose self-preservation and return to the ocean. Humans similarly reach limits where stress impacts health and well-being. A marathon runner cannot sustain performance without proper training, rest, and support. Sustaining the marathon of education requires systemic changes from leadership, prioritized investment from voters, structural adjustments from school boards, and healthy boundaries from educators. Teaching our children is a long distance run, and it was never meant to be done alone.
Jenn
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