Quitting teaching was one of the hardest decisions I ever made.
I was born to teach—and I was good at it. Not because of awards or test scores, or even my decades of experience, but because there’s nothing like the look a student gives you when it finally clicks. I taught because I enjoyed working with kids. I filled my classroom with their work, ideas, and photos. I gave out stars with their names on them - earned for asking a brilliant question, creating something truly extraordinary, or experiencing a major personal breakthrough. Over time, those stars became a living history—decades of students and their triumphs, proudly displayed. But it was those quiet, shining moments of self-belief—that’s what I’ll never forget.
I saw my role as a teacher not as an authority figure, but as a catalyst - someone who helped students recognize the best parts of themselves, while also pushing them and holding them accountable. This must have worked because I still get calls from them. Wedding invitations. Visits. As I sat down to write this, I got an email out of the blue from a student I taught fourteen years ago! For many of us, this is the highest praise of all—the kind that validates our dedication to teaching.
My students felt seen.
That’s how I measure my career. And that’s why it hurt so much to walk away.
However, my success with students often made me an outlier. While I was deeply appreciated by students and families, I was sometimes undermined in my own school—bullied by administrators and colleagues who didn’t always value honesty or high standards.
I tried to keep my head down and up at the same time—doing what I knew was right while tuning out the frustrating parts of teaching. Not just the expected struggles like poor pay, lack of respect, inadequate support, and difficult parents, but the stuff no one warns you about - teacher cliques and politicized leadership, and the weight of doing what’s right in a system that rewards compliance over courage—and it became unsustainable.
But trying to change careers in middle age is brutal. Despite 20+ years of experience in the classroom which included curriculum development, publishing, directing, coaching, and marketing - I couldn’t get interviews. I felt defeated. Sad. Then terrified. I knew I couldn’t keep teaching, but unfortunately, the electric company doesn’t accept burnout as payment.
So, in the middle of the pandemic, I applied to grad school. I'd hide out as a student while I figured things out - maybe even become a consultant when I finished - and have health insurance in the meantime. I fantasized about how much I loved college back in the day having time to read, late nights at the library, spontaneous parties and easy side jobs like bartending and dog walking. So, when I was accepted to a doctoral program, I enthusiastically resigned, bought Converse sneakers, dug out my tie-dyed boxers and backpack, and had my bike tuned up for my romanticized ride down memory lane.
They say you can’t go back— turns out, ‘they’ were very observant. College had changed and so had this Gen-xer. My knees argued about the bike ride to campus; the lack of arch support in my Converse sent me to the podiatrist; and “late nights” meant trying to keep my eyes open at 9:00 p.m. Bartending? Not with arthritis. And I had no idea how uncomfortable classroom chairs are, especially for a three-hour class. And this time around? I was carded when I asked for my student discount.
But I got through the classes, the papers, and the humility of being taught by professors I could’ve taught. When it came time to choose my research, though, I didn’t know what to do. I had slowly begun to despise education—especially the relentless “rah rah” enthusiasm and empty, tone-deaf initiatives dressed up as progress. Everything felt trite. Meaningless. When I told my advisor how stuck I felt, she said, “Just make sure you choose something you really connect with—or you’ll be miserable.”
So, I started where I was.
I reflected on my decision to leave. What had happened? I used to love going to work and being a teacher. Teaching was who I was. But something seemed to changed within the system itself that took away the parts of teaching that I know so many of us loved. I decided to find out what happened. Was it just me? Or was there something bigger happening? And that’s where I began.
And what I found was...everything.
Teachers from all over the country responded to my invitation to be interviewed. Then they connected me to their friends and former colleagues. I barely needed to use my protocol and instead, I just let them tell their stories. Every single one of them spoke like they had so much to say and nowhere to say it. Interviews scheduled for 30 minutes lasted an hour and a half and were filled with tears, anxiety, loss and heartbreak; just like me. And by the end of our interview, they were thanking me. This impacted me the most.
My teachers felt seen.
Connecting with others allowed me to begin to feel whole again. I wasn’t alone. And while my research began to take shape and patterns emerged, it provided validation for what I, and so many others, experienced: it wasn’t us.
While writing my dissertation, I dug out this logo – something I had scribbled out years ago – even before the pandemic. When I first created it I jokingly made a few mugs for colleagues, but the logo sat forgotten until Covid, when I dusted it off and made a small batch for a local gift shop. They sold out immediately. People connected with it. More people asked me to make mugs, shirts, bumper stickers—anything that gave voice to their experience. People didn’t just want merch—they wanted recognition. And maybe, just as importantly, they needed to laugh.
As more people connected with my research, they urged me to write a book, and this generated a spark in me that I had not felt in a long time. So that’s the plan. To write a book about what happened to teachers, and the educational system in general, and maybe even provide insight on how to reverse it. I’m not naïve. There’s a lot to fix. But maybe it’ll provide a blueprint for the next generation. So, buying something funds this project. But hopefully, it’ll help build a community in the process. Because ultimately, the real takeaway from my research wasn’t just about teacher attrition. It was about the need for connection.
So, enjoy! Spread the word. Email me with ideas to build this community. This is as much yours as it is mine.
Cheers.
Recovering Teacher
