The Loneliness of the Correctional Educator

There’s a particular kind of silence that lives in a correctional classroom.

Not the good kind—the peaceful, focused kind where learning hums beneath the surface.
This one is heavier.
It’s the silence of being the only one in the building who teaches.
The only one who thinks of the people in orange (or white or blue or stripes) as students first.
The only one who celebrates a GED pass with tears while everyone else just sees another inmate who’ll be gone next week.

Teaching behind the fence is lonely.

You don’t get a team lounge or hallway check-ins with colleagues. You rarely have other educators just down the hall to brainstorm with or lean on when a lesson flops. If you’re lucky, you might have one or two coworkers who get it. If you’re really lucky, they haven’t been reassigned or burned out.

You don’t post about your classroom online. Not because you’re not proud, but because you can’t share photos. Can’t name students. Can’t explain what it took to get a group of men or women with trauma, trust issues, and tenth-grade reading levels to finish Macbeth.

Your students don’t bring you apples or handmade cards. Sometimes they don’t bring you respect, either—not right away. They bring years of distrust, fear, and institutional harm.
But when they do start to trust you, you carry that with reverence.
And no one on the outside sees it.

Your wins are quiet.
A student who finally passes the reading section.
A journal entry that’s reflective instead of defensive.
A day with no behavior incidents.
A head nod of thanks as they leave the room.

They don’t show up on Instagram. They don’t earn you Teacher of the Year. But you feel them in your chest.

And that’s why, despite the isolation, you stay.

You stay because you believe that education shouldn’t stop at the gate.
You stay because someone has to see the humanity in the people no one else wants to see.
You stay because you’ve seen transformation.
You’ve seen students walk in guarded and broken—and leave with hope. Even if it’s fragile.

But we have to name the cost.

Correctional educators carry emotional weight most people can’t imagine. We hold space for students’ trauma while navigating institutional indifference. We teach in systems that aren’t always built for healing, while trying to make our classrooms places of refuge and growth.

It’s brave work. Sacred work. Lonely work.

So if you’re a correctional educator reading this: I see you.

You are not invisible.
Your work is not small.
Your impact may go unmeasured, but it is unmistakable.

And if you’re not a correctional educator, but you care about justice and education, I ask you:
See us. Support us. Advocate for us.
Correctional classrooms deserve connection, community, and recognition too.

☕ Until next Sunday, I raise my coffee cup to you!
Amy