It’s a strange feeling when you realize that the career you’ve always dreamed of isn’t the one that’s meant for you.
At 26, I’m a former teacher. A title I never imagined I’d hold so soon.
Let me start with something that seems small but was a huge red flag: Every morning, before I even stepped foot into the building, my heart would race. It started out as just some pre-work nerves. But it got worse as time passed. My chest would tighten, my palms would sweat, and I felt physically sick by the time I walked into the school. I’d get that tightness in my chest and the pulse in my ears, like my body was telling me that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t just a bad day or too much caffeine—it was a sign that I was barely keeping it together.
I told myself it was just part of being a new teacher, but deep down, I knew it was more than that. I was burning out. I was barely able to get through the workday, but at least I was “pushing through,” right? That’s what teachers do. We're supposed to be strong, resilient, handle stress, and somehow still manage to be good at what we do. But what they don’t tell you is that eventually—all that pressure has a way of taking a toll you can't ignore.
For me, that toll was anxiety—anxiety that became so overwhelming I felt like I was just surviving. I’d watch the clock, waiting for it to hit 4:00 p.m. every day so I could go home and find a moment of relief. It wasn’t just the stress of the classroom. It was the constant pressure to be perfect, to do more, to be everything to everyone, all the time. The longer I stayed in the job, the worse it got.
My anxiety made it hard to do the basic things—like eat lunch. I thought that if I worked through lunch I’d be viewed as a teacher who prioritized her work. I didn't want to look like I was slacking or being lazy, so I skipped lunch day after day.
But it wasn’t just about not eating. It was my body’s way of telling me that the stress was shutting me down, that I was too anxious to even feed myself. I’d sit in my classroom, trying to focus on lesson plans or grading, but every part of me felt on edge. It was easier to just keep working, to pretend like everything was fine, than to admit that my body was struggling to keep up.
What pushed me even further into this corner was how my absences were viewed. Like most people, I get sick from time to time. I had to take days off for doctor’s appointments and, sometimes, because my migraines were just too bad to function. But instead of support, I was met with questions, almost as though I had to justify every moment I needed to take care of myself.
I didn’t want to admit any of this to anyone. I didn’t want to seem like I was weak or that I couldn’t handle the pressures of teaching. But my exhaustion and anxiety eventually became too obvious to ignore. I was told bluntly that if I didn’t make “improvements” I might not have a job in the coming years. That phrasing stuck with me. I was expected to just change, to be better—not to meet the needs of my students, but to fit into a mold of a teacher that couldn’t be further from the one I wanted to be.
That night, I sat on the floor of my bedroom, crying on the phone with my parents. I was raised with the belief that you don’t give up easily. My parents always told me that persistence was the key to success, that the struggle was part of the journey. And I tried to hold on to that. But as I was curled up in my room crying, I realized that even they knew something had to change. I think they could hear it in my voice, the exhaustion that I couldn’t hide any longer.
That was when I had to face the truth: I couldn’t keep going. I wasn’t going to be the teacher I wanted to be if I couldn’t take care of myself first.
Leaving teaching wasn’t easy. It felt like giving up on a dream that I had worked toward for so long, but staying felt like it was slowly breaking me. I had to choose me. I had to choose my health, my sanity, and my future. It wasn’t the job I had envisioned, but it was the right decision for me at the time.
I still love education. But what I’ve learned is that no career, no matter how meaningful, is worth sacrificing your well-being. If you’re drowning, you need to save yourself first. Sometimes that means walking away from something you love—and that’s okay.
I miss the students so much. I think about them often and wonder how they’re doing. They were the heart of why I became a teacher in the first place, and the hardest part of leaving was knowing I wouldn’t be there for them anymore. But the truth is, they deserve a teacher who wants to be there—someone who can give them all the energy, care, and attention they need and deserve. They deserve someone who loves teaching as much as they love learning. And I wasn’t that teacher anymore.
I’m now focusing on rediscovering what I need to be okay. I’ve learned the hard way that I can’t pour from an empty cup, and I’m learning that it’s okay to take a break, step back, and figure out what’s next. It doesn’t always go as planned, but sometimes, it’s the unexpected detours that lead to the most growth.
Looking back, I can see that the decision to leave teaching, while painful and full of uncertainty, actually showed me just how strong I am. I had wanted to be a teacher since I was 8 years old. It was my dream. And walking away from it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But it also proved to me that I am capable of making big decisions—decisions that are in my best interest, even when they don’t follow the path I’d imagined. I’m learning to trust myself more, and I’ve realized that choosing my mental and physical health over anything else is the most important thing I can do.
Take care of yourself. Everything else will fall into place. Here’s to calmer seas ahead.