Self-Care for Teachers Navigating Book Bans

This piece from guest essayist Sarah Bland speaks to the necessity of self-care for teachers navigating this era of extreme book banning.

Here at This Book is Banned, we talk a lot about how book banning effects students. What they miss out on when books about diverse characters, and histories of marginalized communities are removed from classrooms and libraries. The holes in curriculums created by the removal of books that talk about difficult moments in American history.

We’ve also talked about the threats of fines or jail time levied at educators who make banned books available to students. To say nothing of Project 2025’s threat to register them as sex offenders. And let’s not forget the doxxing, shunning, and threats of physical violence more than one educator has experienced over the last several years.

And now, guest essayist Sarah Bland, an educator, writer, and wellness advocate, talks about self-care for teachers navigating this era of extreme book banning.

T
he power of books about diversity (like the ones being banned from classrooms and libraries these days), is that they present narratives that are different from the dominant cultural narratives. More specifically, books are often banned because they tell stories of what it is like to live in bodies or have bodily experiences that are outside of the narrow boxes that dominant culture deems acceptable. Essentially, the practice of banning books is a way not just to control ideas, but to control, to manage, how and what we share about bodies.

Peeling back this layer, it is easy to see the subtext: that bodies are dangerous. And this way of thinking, or consciousness, doesn’t just happen on the shelves of libraries or classrooms—it happens within us. The same cultural narratives that silence certain books also teach us how to silence parts of ourselves.

Whether from personality, neurological wiring, trauma, or cultural conditioning, I adopted a similar form of this story early in life: that the mind is more important than the body. For years, the narrative of mind-over-body felt not only dominant but singular, the only possible way of thinking about intelligence and my work in the world. And because of that, I learned to channel almost all of my energy into my head. I could read for hours, write endlessly, and lose myself in creating. I loved this about myself, and it was probably a big reason I was drawn to the teaching profession (specifically, teaching high school English!).

But there was a cost. While my mind moved, I ignored my body. I trained myself to push through exhaustion, skip meals, and silence physical needs so I could “get one more thing done.” Productivity was my priority, not presence. When I was stressed—which was often—I distracted my mind with books, shows, or a couple of drinks, while my body carried the weight of unprocessed tension. My shoulders ached, my teeth clenched, my gut tightened, but I didn’t listen. I thought my job was to control my body, not to hear it.

This pattern worked—well enough. I was anxious, busy, reactive, and always a little on edge, but it kept me surviving as a teacher in a demanding system. Until it didn’t.

The breaking point came during a banned book controversy in my own classroom. Unlike the usual stress of grading or managing tasks, this was a perfect storm: my inner critic listing all of the things I could have done differently, shame and self-doubt creeping in, anger at parents who challenged texts on policing and immigrant stories, frustration with the district’s performative support, and the sheer exhaustion of new motherhood layered on top. The stress felt unrelenting.

Just as banned books disrupt cultural stories of what it means to live in particular intersectional identities, this controversy disrupted my personal story of the mind-body split. I could no longer ignore that my body was saturated with stress even when my mind tried to reason through it. Sleepless nights, hyper-planning, impatience, reactivity—these weren’t just “mental” problems. They were signs of a body stuck in the stress cycle, caught in fight, flight, and freeze without relief.

I didn’t heal this overnight. In fact, it took years of tumbling between survival states before I began to recognize the depth of my mind-body disconnect. It was in an hour-long guided meditation that I could finally listen to what my body was telling me. For the first time, I was still enough to hear what my body had been saying all along. That moment was the beginning of a new narrative—one of integration rather than hierarchy.

This narrative isn’t unique to me. It’s deeply rooted in Indigenous traditions, somatic healing, Ayurveda, and Shamanic practices, and echoed in contemporary works like Bessel van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score, Hillary McBride’s The Wisdom of Your Body, and Tricia Hersey’s Rest is Resistance. Each of these reminds us that healing and wholeness come when mind and body work together.

For me, learning the science of the stress cycle was a crucial step. A.Z. Reznick’s framework—resting state, tension and strain, response, and relief—helped me see why I stayed stuck in reactivity. Emily and Amelia Nagoski’s research showed me how to move through it: exercise that raises the heart rate, tightening and releasing muscles, a 20-second hug, deep rest. These practices gave my body pathways back to safety and relief.

But awareness alone wasn’t enough. Real change came when I layered this with what Pooja Lakshmin calls “real self-care”:

• Setting and enforcing boundaries
• Practicing self-compassion
• Aligning with my values
• Asserting my power

This kind of self-care wasn’t about buying products to mask symptoms—it was about creating conditions that supported real healing. And as I practiced, something surprising happened: caring for my own mind and body didn’t diminish my ability to care for students. It expanded it. I felt more patient, more generous, more attuned. By trusting my own body and emotions, I became more available to listen and adapt in the classroom.

Similarly, the stories in banned books often do the same: these stories don’t diminish our abilities to connect with each other, they expand our abilities to connect.

And finally, I learned that none of this work can be done alone. Teaching in this era of extreme book banning requires community—people who reflect compassion back to us, who help us hear our inner voice, who hold us when the fear and stress feel too heavy. Without support, it’s too easy to default back into survival mode.

So what does this all mean for teachers? It means that caring for ourselves is not optional—it is essential to the work of teaching and advocating for diverse stories. To hold space for marginalized narratives, we must also hold space for our own. Completing the stress cycle, practicing real self-care, and cultivating support systems aren’t luxuries; they are the conditions that make teaching banned books sustainable.

Reading and teaching banned books show us what it means to challenge dominant narratives and imagine fuller, richer ways of being human. Our bodies teach us the same. When we listen, we don’t need the status quo to provide false safety. We can imagine new, juicier possibilities of life—for ourselves, for our students, for our communities.

This is the power of banned books, and the power of embodied teaching. They both invite us to step out of a consciousness of hierarchy and control (both internally and externally) and to live in the wholeness of our humanity—and in doing so, to help co-create a world that liberates us all.

Essayist bio:

Sarah Bland is an educator, writer, and wellness advocate with over a decade of teaching experience in diverse classroom settings. She holds two degrees in English, one with an emphasis on Teaching Writing from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and is a certified mindfulness meditation instructor. She has dedicated her career to helping students and fellow educators cultivate creativity, reflection, and personal growth.

Sarah is the owner and creator of Enter Peace Print and Wellness Collective. And, she integrates mindfulness and holistic wellness practices into her writing workshops, helping participants slow down, tune into their inner voice, and approach writing with focus and intention. Her approach supports both the creative process and personal growth, creating a space where writers feel encouraged, centered, and inspired.

Through her workshops, Sarah guides writers to connect with their unique voices, build consistent writing habits, and gain the confidence to share their work with clarity and purpose—all while cultivating calm, awareness, and presence at every step of the journey.

Images:

Self-Care for Teachers navigating this era of extreme Book Banning:  Photo by Tasha Jolley on Unsplash

This pattern worked well enough…   Until it didn’t: Photo by Mubariz Mehdizadeh on Unsplash

Integration rather than hierarchy:   Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

Teaching in this era requires community:  Photo by Blaz Photo on Unsplash