It’s been a strange time.
It’s not easy to write about my decision to resign from teaching. But as July draws to a close, I want to get a few thoughts down before they fade with the summer leaves.
I started teaching in 2001 (Yes, September of 9/11.) I was in and out of teaching in classrooms due to the usual reasons, but was always working. I opened a day home for awhile, taught piano and voice lessons, taught preschool one year, and was an EA and SLP assistant. I have mostly taught high school English, Social Studies, Bible, and a few options like Music, Drama, and Cosmetology.
In 2021 I started realizing that something was off with me – I didn’t feel well most of the time, and wasn’t functioning properly at school either. I would be teaching and feel like I wasn’t actually there, like I was watching myself from across the room.
The first and most obvious reason for the struggle was that I had full-blown diabetes for probably three years and didn’t realize it. After almost slipping into a diabetic coma last July, suddenly there was a medical explanation. The exhaustion, dizziness, falling asleep at the wheel while driving home from work all began to make sense.
The other reason centers around being an introvert and always being “on” and in front of a classroom. This is a tough one, because the undeniable best part of teaching for me was the students. I truly cared about each one. I wanted every student to have the best learning experience and to feel seen, heard and understood. The thing with introverted, highly sensitive people is we want to hide sometimes. I think talking, listening, teaching, guiding, leading, and sensing over the years began to overload my frayed nerves. I was approaching burnout; I needed a break! The wonderful school I worked at for 6 years was so understanding, kind and good to me about resigning. It was really, really hard to say goodbye. Packing up all my stuff and driving away for the last time was a tearful experience; actually, for months I knew I was leaving and sometimes would tear up randomly during the day. There is always an emotional toll, isn’t there, no matter what decisions we have to make in life.
Not having a contract for the next year freed my husband and I to look ahead further, and we decided to move back to my hometown to be closer to family. That was a decision years in the making, too. We were leaving good jobs, a house in a nice neighborhood, great friends, and a beautiful landscape. But we simply didn’t see ourselves living there forever.
With a lot of unknowns in front of us, I signed on for a teaching job again in the school I graduated from as an angsty 17-year-old and then taught at from 2008 to 2012. I thought, “I’ve come full circle. This is a great story! Surely it was meant to be”. I put what was left of my heart and soul into getting ready for a new classroom, new students, and even new courses. Looking back at what I wrote a little further up this blog, I wonder if I was a few bricks short of a load. Why did I think I could take on a challenging teaching role when it had taken so much effort to bring that train to a slow and steady halt? Well, partly I felt like I had to do it. Saying yes felt a whole lot better than saying no. And the other half was I truly thought I could make a difference in the school and be a helpful member of the staff and community.
About six weeks into the year 2023, I knew it was over. The big question was, could I somehow survive for nine more months? Could I do a good job, in spite of everything? I pulled out all the stops and tried my best. I reached into the reserve tank and scraped up all the energy I had left. It was a measly offering. I do think I finished well, but the cost was high. That is a story for another time, however.
Today, I simply wanted to paint one bend in the road, one mile of the journey of my teaching career and tell why, after twenty-three years, I find myself stepping off the train in a wild place where there are no well-trodden paths. I look around, and there are only a few dust devils and a lone sagebrush skittering through a one-horse town. There was something comforting in the bustle and busyness, the plans and schedules, the colorful crowds of the school year as a teacher. I knew where I was supposed to be and what I was supposed to do.
The train has trundled off, and I’m alone. If I look around though I bet there is a trail or two here through the grass. People often ask, “So, what are you going to do now?”
“Just wandering through the field, looking for trails. And enjoying every minute of it.”
Stories for Humans 