Confessions of a recovering teacher
When your job and identity become so intertwined, what happens when you quit? Well, I'll begin here.
I quit my teaching job last June. From the bustling chaos of the classroom to the quiet spaciousness of my San Francisco apartment, I have time to rest, to create, to read, to process. I am lucky to take this time off (even if it is somewhat forced since getting a non-teaching job as a former teacher is nearly impossible). I have the opportunity to consider my next steps and tap into my creativity. But despite this freedom, I find myself unable to sit still, buzzing with fear of the uncertainty ahead of me, or mourning the identity of “teacher” that enabled me to feel so connected to, and needed by, the people around me.
I launched my art business, eviebirdseye.com back in October. It was thrilling to spend my days doing the thing I love most: creating art. I completed commissions of personalized art for friends, family, neighbors and strangers. But I always felt the need to justify my art — or explain its significance — with writing.
In the spring of 2020, I discovered Suleika Jaouad’s Isolation Journals. This was the first time since I was a kid that I wrote for fun. Whether it was personal prompts, creative prompts, or metaphysical prompts, I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. To be able to have this space to process my thoughts felt like an unexpected gift, especially considering that I was still in the throes of my first year of teaching.
So few people get the chance to process their feelings, let alone write them down. Instead, we suppress them and let them fester so we can just get on with surviving. Our pain and resentment then manifests in the form of a petty remark to a friend or worse: a panic attack, a chronic illness, or a violent outburst.
As a teacher, I realized that this was happening to my students. I tried to help them recognize their feelings, and I tried to mitigate the consequences of their inability to acknowledge their pain and suffering. But as I did this, I was also ignoring my own pain. My lack of time to stop and consider myself was breaking me. Of course, I loved my students. I loved being in the classroom when they started to get curious and the space came alive. But I wasn’t taking stock of what was happening to me. I couldn’t stop to understand the impact of the constant stress and anxiety, the failures, the belittlement, the disappointment, the disempowerment, and the subtle and sometimes-not-so-subtle abuses of teaching.
So I quit.
This newsletter is my way of learning and unlearning. I try to make sense of the horrors of the world that unfold before my eyes on my instagram feed. I try to make sense of how my anxiety feels in my body when my skin prickles, my heart beat quickens, or my throat constricts. I try to make sense of the blissful joy I get when working with kids, paired with the lingering dread of walking into a school again. I try to make sense of living in a capitalist nightmare but also wanting to get paid. I try to make sense of why I feel so disconnected from my friends and family, and why I won’t just pick up the phone to alleviate my loneliness.
I hope that eventually this community grows to incorporate other humans (whether they are former educators, artists, writers, or just curious thinkers) who are trying to make sense of the world around them.
I hope you’ll join me.
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As a recovering middle- and high-school teacher, I empathize with this so deeply. I barely made it through two years, and the dread was so deep that I was envious of the construction flagger I passed every morning on my commute. I gazed longingly at the “We’re hiring!” sign at Walmart. I was working 15-hour days teaching 6 different subjects for the first time. The janitors had to kick me out every night at 10pm. And on top of that—the behaviors, the lack of support from the administration, the parents, etc.
Like you, I loved the actual teaching, and the kids (some of the most challenging ones loved me the most). But the job was hell. I don’t know how anyone managed during the pandemic when everything had to go online.
Please know you’re not alone, and I’m glad to see someone writing about this! I’d love to hear more about what motivated your decision to leave. Kudos for following your dream to write and make art! I’m doing the same (minus the art).
By the way, I love the notes you shared from your students! Some of the girls in my seventh grade class used to write little love notes to me on the whiteboard. I took pictures of every single one before I erased them (and sometimes I would leave them up for a few days ;).