Introspection as Resistance: A Reflection for Educators in These Times

In this episode of Eyes on Whiteness, Maureen invites educators—teachers, counselors, staff, and school leaders—into a reflection on introspection as a form of resistance.

Not resistance through exhaustion or constant urgency.
But resistance through honesty. Through pause. Through returning to self.

In institutions shaped by white supremacy culture, educators are often expected to perform superhuman care without ever tending to their own needs. Perfectionism. Urgency. Emotional suppression. Compliance. These are not neutral workplace norms—they are expressions of whiteness.

This episode offers a different path.

You’ll hear:

• Real stories from educators who used introspection to act with integrity under pressure
• Maureen’s personal reckoning with overwork, urgency, and the moment she realized her students were getting her performance—not her presence
• A guided reflection to explore how you’ve survived—and what you might be ready to release
• A compassionate invitation to slow down, reflect, and practice new leadership rhythms rooted in alignment, not sacrifice

Reflection Prompts:

• What coping mechanisms helped you survive—but no longer serve your values?
• Where has urgency pulled you away from being present—with your students, or with yourself?
• What might shift if you gave yourself the same grace you offer your students?

Featured Educators (with deep gratitude):

• Mary Wood (South Carolina): for choosing alignment over compliance
• Amanda Jones (Louisiana): for resisting censorship with honesty and care — @librarianjones
• Katherine Rinderle (Georgia): for centering students over policy
• Abbey Clements (Connecticut): for turning trauma into a vision of healing and advocacy — LinkedIn

Subscribe + Stay Connected:
To stay close to this work, subscribe to the newsletter and explore the course, Cultivating Intersectional Leadership, at:
www.cultivatingintersectionalleadership.com

You don’t have to be perfect.
 You’re simply invited to be present—and to begin again.

Transcript

Title: Introspection as Resistance: A Reflection for Educators in Urgent Times

[Opening Music Fades In]

This is Eyes on Whiteness—a podcast that illuminates the insidious and ignorant ways of whiteness, regardless of intent.

This space is held to practice the work of transmuting white supremacy and patriarchy, because these constructs are pervasive and ever-present—for all of us.

I’m Maureen Benson, a white woman doing my best to be a principled accomplice for racial justice in these apocalyptic times.

Welcome to the show.

Hi friends,

Welcome to Eyes on Whiteness.
I’m Maureen, and I´m looking forward to being with you for today´s episode as we continue the deep, ongoing work of transmuting white supremacy and patriarchy from the inside out.

Last week, we centered artists and cultural workers—those whose imagination and expression are under attack.
And this week, we turn to educators.

The teachers.
The counselors.
The social workers.
The front desk staff, the paraeducators, the afterschool staff.
All the folks who carry both the children—and the system.

I want to begin with the deepest bow of gratitude to each and every one of you.

This moment in education is brutal.
You are teaching and leading through trauma, censorship, urgency, understaffing, burnout, fear.
And still, so many of you are showing up.

And if you’ve had to step away—temporarily or permanently—I see you too.
Sometimes leaving is the most honest thing we can do.

So before we begin—let’s ground together.

-Deep Breath

If you’re able, I invite you to take a moment.
Let your shoulders drop.
Let your breath deepen.
Let your hands unclench.
You don’t have to earn this pause.

Notice your body.
Notice what’s present.
Is there tightness? Exhaustion? A little flicker of hope?

I invite you to imagine there is nothing to fix—in this moment we can just notice.

This is a space where you get to bring your whole self.
The tired parts. The fierce parts. The parts you don’t always get to name during the business of the day.

I would like to offer you this consideration…that this moment isn’t a space for performance.
This is a space for presence.

Today, we’re reflecting on introspection as resistance—not as a soft side note, but as a sacred and strategic practice.
Because inside institutions shaped by white supremacy and patriarchy, where urgency is rewarded and humanity is punished, turning inward can be revolutionary.

And I want to celebrate some stories of educators who practiced introspection as resistance to start us off today. 

These aren’t just individual stories of bravery—they are acts of resistance against cultural elements of whiteness. The parts of white supremacy culture that show up as urgency, control, silence, and perfectionism. The part that tells educators to be martyrs, not humans. These stories are examples of how introspection allows us to interrupt that default script so many of us navigate in the day to day overwhelm.

When we slow down to ask ourselves: What do I believe? What do I value? What does this moment require of me—not performatively, but truthfully?—we are transmuting whiteness. 

That’s what each of these educators chose to do in their own way. Let’s start with Mary. 

Mary Wood – South Carolina

Let’s begin with Mary Wood, a high school English teacher in South Carolina.

Mary was teaching Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates—one of the most urgent and tender explorations of race in America. Her students were reading, discussing, engaging. And then… came the directive: stop.

District officials told her to remove the book. To silence this critical perspective. To back away from the discomfort.
And she could have. She could’ve followed orders and avoided the heat.

But Mary paused.
And she literally asked herself (this is a quote):

“What do I actually believe the role of a teacher is? To protect students from discomfort, or to help them face truth with care?”

That’s introspection.

She didn’t act out of rage or rebellion. She reflected. She rooted. She chose alignment.
And in doing so, she modeled something far more important than a lesson plan—she modeled integrity. The following year, she returned—with clarity and courage—to offer the book again. This time with thoughtful structure, space for conversation, and transparency with families. It wasn’t defiance for the sake of drama. It was a deliberate, values-aligned choice.

That’s what introspection makes possible: not just a moment of clarity, but a strategy of care. In the face of censorship and fear, Mary chose depth. Chose dialogue. Chose to lead with presence—not performance. That is what introspection leading to resistance can look like.

Amanda Jones – Louisiana

Amanda Jones, a middle school librarian in Louisiana, stood up at a public library meeting and spoke out against proposed book bans. Simple, clear, and grounded in care.
And the backlash was immediate—and brutal. Harassment. Doxxing. Public smears.

It would have been easy to retreat.
To protect herself.
To fall silent.
And she considered it.

But Amanda tells the story of what she asked herself in that moment:

“What would it mean if I stayed quiet? What message would that send to the kids who already feel erased?”
“I realized silence would be easier—but it wouldn’t be honest.”

That’s the turning point.

That’s the turning point.

She wasn’t seeking attention or applause. She was reckoning with her own voice, her own privilege, her own threshold for discomfort.
And she chose honesty.

Amanda didn’t just continue to speak. She took legal action. She wrote a memoir.
She turned harm into a broader fight for intellectual freedom.

Amanda’s decision to keep speaking wasn’t just an act of defiance—it was the result of deep internal reckoning. She weighed the risks. She reflected on what silence would cost not only her, but the students who watched her example. And in choosing honesty, she modeled something rare in this moment: the willingness to be clear, even when comfort is easier.

That clarity from her introspection became her resistance. And it continues to ripple far beyond her classroom.

Katherine Rinderle – Georgia

Then there’s Katherine Rinderle, an elementary school teacher in Georgia.

She read her fifth-grade class a picture book—My Shadow is Purple—a gentle, loving story about gender identity.
And for that, she was fired.

But instead of shrinking, Katherine reflected. She went inward.
She didn’t focus on punishment or policy. She focused on her students.

“What would they take from this moment,” she asked,
“Not just about the book—but about themselves?”

She was thinking not about rules, but about impact.
Not about optics, but about care.

Her introspection led her to sue the district—not out of bitterness, but out of a desire to make schools safer and more expansive for all children.

Katherine’s decision to act didn’t come from outrage alone—it came from reflection. She thought about her students. About the messages embedded not just in books, but in silence.

And instead of retreating, she chose to model what it looks like to lead with care and clarity.

Her resistance wasn’t loud—it was principled. A lawsuit grounded not in spectacle, but in a deep belief that children deserve to see themselves reflected in their classrooms. That truth, told with compassion, is not a threat—but a gift.

This is what it means to transmute harm into advocacy. To listen inward, then move outward with purpose.

Abbey Clements – Connecticut

And finally, there’s Abbey Clements.

Abbey is a survivor of the Sandy Hook school shooting. A former teacher. A person who experienced a kind of trauma that no educator should ever have to endure.

And after the shooting, she didn’t rush to the front lines of advocacy. She paused. She grieved. She reflected.

She asked herself:

“I had to ask myself what healing looked like—not just for me, but for the people I was going to face every day in this work.”
“I didn’t want to act from trauma—I wanted to act from clarity.”

That’s introspection at its most tender and profound.

And from that clarity, she co-founded Teachers Unify to End Gun Violence, an organization that supports educators, centers healing, and calls for common-sense gun laws rooted in compassion—not fear.

Abbey’s story reminds us: resistance doesn’t always look like urgency. Sometimes, it’s the quiet commitment to heal.

After surviving unimaginable violence, Abbey didn’t rush into activism. She paused. She asked what healing required—not just from others, but from herself. And from that space of honesty, she chose to build something rooted in care.

That inward reflection became her foundation. Not a reaction—but a response. Not driven by fear, but guided by purpose.

Teachers Unify to End Gun Violence isn’t just an organization—it’s a testament to what becomes possible when we lead from introspection, not trauma.

Let’s take a breath here.

You’ve heard stories of courage. Of harm. Of alignment. Of clarity.

And now I want to offer you space.

Because this isn’t just about what those educators did.
This is about you.
Where you are.
What you’re carrying.
What you might be ready to set down.

So take a moment.

If it’s available to you—close your eyes.
Let your shoulders soften.
Let your hands rest in your lap, or against your heart.
Feel your body in space.
Notice what’s present.

Not what you should be feeling—but what’s actually there.

You are not here to perform reflection.
You are invited to experience it.

This week’s reflection questions are just that—an invitation.

You might answer them in writing.
You might take them on a walk.
You might sketch something.
You might speak them aloud into the night air.

You might dance with them.
Or cry with them.
Or whisper them to the part of you that’s tired but still here.

Here are this week’s invitations:

What coping mechanisms have helped you survive—but no longer serve your values?
Where has urgency pulled you away from being present—with your students, or with yourself?
What might shift if you gave yourself the same grace you offer to the children in your care?

Let these live in you for a bit.

There’s no right way to respond.
There’s no perfect answer.

There’s just you—returning to yourself with honesty and care.

For me? I spent twelve years in public education—first as a teacher, then a principal, and eventually a coach and thought partner to school leaders and staff. 

Throughout those years, I internalized a dangerous belief: that urgency was a virtue, and overextension was proof of commitment. I survived by overworking. By rushing to fix everything. By seeking the high of being the one who could carry it all.

But that meant I never truly stopped. On weekends, I’d crash. I’d numb out. I didn’t give myself time to feel my feelings, and I rarely made space for the anxiety and depression that were always simmering just below the surface.

It meant that the people around me often got my performance—not my presence. I was calm, strategic, innovative. But I wasn’t okay. And worse, I was modeling that to the students and communities I was trying to serve.

There’s one moment I’ll never forget. I arrived at school one morning after someone had been murdered less than a block away. I said a few solemn words as students walked by, and then… we just carried on with the school day.

It was an Indigenous colleague who gently pulled me aside and said, “This is just weird. Someone died. And we’re pretending that class should go on like nothing happened?”

She was right.

That was a wake-up call.

I’d internalized the lie that continuing was more important than honoring what was real.

Now, when I feel those old patterns returning—the urgency, the self-neglect, the compulsion to hold it all together—I try to pause.

And I imagine the scared little girl version of me. The one who never had space to feel. The one who survived a lot. The one who had to perform safety before she ever felt it.

I ask: What would she need right now? And how can I, as the adult version of me, give it to her?

Sometimes it’s stillness. Sometimes it’s walking away. Sometimes it’s letting someone else step in.

It’s been a radical shift to start treating my most tender self like one of my students—offering grace instead of guilt. Care instead of punishment. Space instead of shame.

That’s the practice I keep coming back to. And it’s changed everything.

So wherever you are in your journey—still in the classroom, leading a team, supporting a school community, or taking space from it all—I want to say thank you.

Not just for what you do.
But for who you are.
For how you’re trying.
For the reflection you are willing to make space for, even when no one sees it but you.

If this episode stirred something in you—please feel free to share it.
With a colleague.
A coach.
A school leader.
Or a friend who could use a moment of pause.

Use the reflection prompts in your journal, sure.
But also?
Take them on a walk.
Paint them.
Cry with them.
Sing with them.
Lie down next to them and listen for what your body is trying to say.

You don’t have to intellectualize everything to be in deep reflection. In fact, the practice of transmuting invites us into the body, the spirit, the emotions…

Sometimes it’s just the act of noticing—and choosing to be honest about what’s here.

And if you want to stay close to this kind of work—if you want weekly reflections, tools, and moments like this delivered gently to your inbox—

subscribe to the newsletter at  www.cultivatingintersectionalleadership.com

And if you’re part of a school or leadership team that is ready to practice this work more intentionally,
you’re invited to explore the course:
Cultivating Intersectional Leadership.

This is not a DEI training. But not because DEI is the latest phrase under attack…because this training is different than most. 
This is a rhythm of reflection, repair, and transformation.
It’s a space for educators, counselors, administrators, and staff who are ready to move beyond performative inclusion—and toward deep personal and community-rooted care as a pathway to systems change.

You are not required to be perfect.
 You’re not required to get it all right.

You are simply invited to bring your whole self.
To compost what’s no longer serving.
To co-create a culture of learning and belonging—from the inside out.

You don’t have to do it alone.

This is a season for re-rooting. For restoring. For realignment.

And if this is the season where you’re ready to return to your own humanity—
you are more than welcome here.

Thanks for being with me.
Take good care of yourself this week.

[Outro Music Fades In]
This episode was created with deep love, and deep thanks to the frameworks and tools within Cultivating Intersectional Leadership, a course I co-created with Diedra Barber.

CIL isn’t just a training. It’s a transformative journey—one that supports individuals and organizations in making the systemic, strategic, and spiritual shifts needed to build something different.
 Something rooted in justice. Something aligned with who we say we want to be.

You're invited to learn more or inquire about participation at:
 🌐 www.cultivatingintersectionalleadership.com
Or visit our podcast site at:
🎧 www.eyesonwhiteness.com

If this episode stirred something in you, share it.
 If you’re holding big questions, write them down.
 And if you’re tired—rest. But don’t quit.

This is a long journey. And we don’t do it alone.

See you next time on Eyes on Whiteness.