Silencing the Guilt

I stared at the heavy glass bottle and wondered how much force it would take to break my hand if I "accidentally" dropped it. Not a horrendous break, just a little crack on the back, or a couple of broken fingers. Enough to send me to the hospital, not enough to endanger my life. I shook my head and put it back in the fridge. Stupid idea. As I closed the door, I looked at it for a few minutes, wondering how hard I would have to hit my head to knock myself out, or give myself a mild concussion. Not hard enough to cause irreparable damage, just enough for a few days' rest.

All so I wouldn't have to go to school. That's where life had got to for me. Thinking of ways to hurt myself so I wouldn't have to go in and face my teaching job.

I handed in my resignation a few days later.

Almost every teacher who is unhappy in their role has a story like mine. For some, it's a tree they consider crashing into on the route to work. For others, it's an intense wave of relief when they're COVID test comes back positive. It's dramatic, over the top, excessive. Yet for all of us, it is reality.

Before I go any further, I want to state for the record that my school is a wonderful community. I have fantastic colleagues, a wonderfully supportive senior leadership team, and lovely children who make me smile every day. Honestly, if it weren't for the children, I would have left years ago, which is quite common in teachers who are no longer happy in their vocation. At some point though, you must put yourself first. And that's why I'm leaving.

A lot of my guilt stems from the fact that I didn't wait until the end of the year to leave, instead handing in my notice for the Easter holidays. I'm inconveniencing my school, depriving my class of the consistency that they have desperately needed since they began their educational journey (COVID hit in their first year of school), and leaving a lot of paperwork to someone else. But this guilt needs to be silenced. Because honestly, they wouldn't have had me until the end of the year; I know I would have needed to be signed off again.

In April 2021, my mental health dipped significantly. I was anxious all the time, severely depressed, and unable to find joy in anything I did. No matter where I was, what I was doing or who I was with, the constant nagging in my brain about the work I still needed to get done would take over, taking pleasure out of doing my favourite things. The Easter holidays, usually my favourite time of the year, were filled with tears, therapy sessions and medication reviews.

So, I made a decision and got signed off for six weeks. In that time, I began painting. I wrote short stories and articles. I looked for the good in the world, even something as small as a cluster of pretty flowers, or the happiness on my dog's face when I threw his tennis ball. Gradually, I got a little better. I returned to work, phasing back in over a few weeks so I didn't feel overwhelmed. By the end of the term, I was back full-time and feeling confident about the upcoming academic year.

Then September came. Many people believe that starting a new school year will get easier with more experience. I believed it myself. But I was wrong. When you go back after the summer holidays, you have new children, different challenges, changes to schemes and updated research for how best to teach. The goalposts change again. The parents don't know you yet, and you feel you have to prove yourself to them. The deterioration in my mental health was quick.

It didn't take long for me to realise I needed a change, and I made the decision to go part-time. And for a while, it worked. Until it didn't.

At first, the freedom was wonderful. I had my weekends back, I had time to myself, I could go out and not panic about the work I still had to do. But eventually, the anxiety returned, and this time it was worse. I had longer to ruminate and worry about what would happen when I was in school. It wasn't helped by some difficulties with a parent, or that I was still planning for the days I wasn't in school. But the harsh truth was I'd fallen out of love with teaching.

I was tired of the never-ending to-do list, of the constant pressure to be "on". Teaching, after all, is not just a job, it's a performance art. Positivity, enthusiasm, engaging lessons, it's all crucial to the role, and it's exhausting. Not just for me, but for any teacher. And that's how I ended up in my kitchen, glass bottle in my hand, testing the weight of it on my fingers. That's how I made the decision to quit.

So, what's next for me? Well, to be honest, I don't really know. I'd love to have a job where I could write, and I'm keeping an eye out for freelance work and submissions, while still working on my romance novel. I'm signed up to mark Key Stage Two SATs papers in May/June, which doesn't sound exciting, but I actually really enjoy the administrative routine I get into when marking papers. I've got an interview with a supply agency coming up, but I have a lot of mixed feelings about it. I've got a lot of issues surrounding the classroom that I need to work on, but I'm also not completely ready to give up on education just yet.

I've also applied for a few shop assistant jobs so I will still have a regular income (that mortgage won't pay itself!). It will also give me more time to write and is something to get me out of the house. While retail is not my forever sector, it's one in which I'm confident. I've become a bit of a hermit over the last few years (thanks, COVID!), but I do love talking to and helping people. Plus, it's a job I can leave at the door when I go home. It's been so long since I've been able to do that!

Ultimately, the future is unclear. I've just turned thirty, soon to be unemployed, and no idea what I'm going to do next. The only thing I do know is that I'm going to put myself first. I'm going to forgive myself for leaving teaching. And I'm going to live my life happy in the knowledge that I did the right thing, not just for me, but for everyone.

With any luck, my hands will stay intact.