My colleagues, friends and family often praise my relentless pursuit of excellence, especially in my teaching career. But what they don’t always see is the weight behind that drive — the pressure I feel to prove myself and the deep sense of responsibility I feel to create systemic change for my students. Even after surpassing many of my professional goals, an unsettling feeling lingers — a persistent voice telling me that it’s still not enough. That burden, I carry quietly, and often alone.

My journey into teaching was born from a deep-seated curiosity about the transformative power of education and a drive for social justice. To create the change I envisioned, I focused on becoming the best teacher I could be. From the start, I was never content with just meeting expectations — I was determined to surpass them. I’ve earned two master’s degrees, received a Fulbright scholarship and participated in several prestigious education fellowships. However, these achievements, while significant, never seem to quiet the internal voice that insists on pushing for the next big thing.

I’ve come to realize that this restlessness and the pressures I place on myself are not just personal quirks, but are deeply intertwined with my identity as a formerly undocumented student and now a first-generation Latinx professional. My identity, coupled with the ever-present shadow of negative stereotypes about Latino families not valuing education, has driven me to constantly prove, to others and to myself, that I am worthy of being a teacher and capable of helping my students thrive. This feeling has become consuming and has contributed to mounting anxiety and the early stages of burnout. Yet, this drive has been a double-edged sword. It has also led me to feel empowered and proud, knowing that I can make a meaningful difference in the lives of my students. Teaching brings me immense joy and a deep sense of purpose, reminding me why I chose this path in the first place.

This realization has left me wondering how I, as an educator of color, can navigate the pressure I feel to overachieve, while maintaining a healthy relationship with my identity, my work and my well-being?

Reflecting on the stress I feel, I am brought back to my own experiences navigating the American K-12 system as an immigrant student. My family immigrated to the United States from Guadalajara, Mexico when I was 11 years old, and my memories of schooling in America are colored by episodes of anxiety and shame. I was often made to feel inferior by peers and sometimes even teachers because of my parents' level of formal education, my struggles with language acquisition, and the reality that I came from a working-class family.

Even more troubling were the instances of discrimination I faced from educators who lacked cultural competence — like the AP English teacher I had in my senior year of high school who told me I didn’t belong in his class because I had only been speaking English for a few years or the counselor who, when I confided in her about my undocumented status while seeking help with college applications, dismissed me outright, admitting she didn't know how to assist me and making no effort to find a solution.

These experiences left me feeling like a traveler on a dark road, with nothing to light the way. The lack of Latino male role models in my own K-12 education only compounded this sense of isolation. Despite attending high school in Los Angeles County, which has a diverse population including 49 percent of residents who identify as Hispanic / Latino, I never had a Latino male teacher.

These formative experiences were pivotal in my decision to become a teacher. I entered the profession with a burning desire to counteract the negativity I had encountered, to help my students discover their potential, and to serve as a positive role model for them. Today, I teach at an elementary school where more than 65 percent of the students identify as Hispanic / Latino. Teaching them is an immense privilege, one that I do not take lightly. I am acutely aware that Latino students, who are so often underserved by the education system, deserve a teacher who goes above and beyond for them. This awareness contributes to the weight I feel — pressure to be the perfect teacher, to shatter stereotypes and to prove that as an immigrant and an English language learner, I am good enough.

One of the greatest challenges I face as an educator is that the very qualities that drive me to succeed — my work ethic, my ambition, my desire to create systemic change — are also the ones that have led me down a path of anxiety and burnout. Throughout my career, I have seen many teachers leave the profession, worn down by the demands of the job and the lack of recognition. I believed that the key to avoiding this fate was to focus on growth and impact. I set my sights on leadership roles. I sacrificed sleep, leisure, and, at times, my health, all in the name of becoming the best version of myself so I could serve my students and for the community I represent.

Recently, I found myself at a breaking point. The end of the last school year brought with it a wave of anxiety that I could no longer ignore. Despite the accolades and accomplishments, I still felt like an impostor, plagued by the thought that my success was due to luck rather than hard work. My ambitions began to feel like a checklist, devoid of the passion that had once fueled them. As the school year drew to a close, I realized that I needed to step back and reassess. I had been chasing the approval of others, trying to prove my worth, when in reality, I was responding to the deeply ingrained stereotype threats that had followed me throughout my life.

Recognizing this turning point, I pressed pause and carved out some time to reflect. This summer, I allowed myself to rest — to step back from constantly trying to achieve and instead, created space to reconnect with myself. I traveled back to Mexico and spent my days journaling and meditating in nature. Reflecting on my journey, I remembered my "why" and my joy of teaching. I started to practice gratitude by acknowledging my efforts and accepting that it's okay to take a break sometimes. I reached out to friends, family, my partner and mentors, and talked to them about some of the stress I was feeling. Most importantly, I allowed myself to relax and have fun.

When I got home, I thought a lot about the power of pressing pause and considered the lessons I’d learned. By giving myself permission to engage in joyful experiences myself, I felt better able to model the importance of joy for my students. By reconnecting with my passion for teaching, I felt well positioned to demonstrate a deep love of learning for them. And for myself, I began to understand that I did not need to prove my intelligence or worth to anyone. I have always been enough. My strength does not lie in the titles I hold or the awards I accumulate, but in my ability to practice radical self-love and acceptance.

As I started school this fall, I’ve carried these lessons with me. I’ve reminded myself that I am no longer an immigrant student struggling to prove his worth in the classroom. I am now a teacher who models for my students the importance of embracing their humanity, feeling confident in their identity, and celebrating their accomplishments without fear of judgment.

A mentor once shared with me a piece of wisdom that has stayed with me: “Our ancestors want us to rest.” These words resonated deeply, reminding me of the importance of balance in life. As educators, we often preach the value of work-life balance, yet we frequently fail to apply this wisdom to ourselves. We let our aspirations overshadow our need for self-care, but that is unsustainable.

On my trip, I had a moment when it all came together for me. As I sat on my hotel balcony, overlooking the mountains in Oaxaca as the sun set, I finally understood the importance of rest. I have achieved much, but my greatest area of growth has been learning to value myself, not for what I can accomplish, but for who I am. In doing so, I hope to inspire my students to do the same.