As of June 10th, 2019, I became part of the ever-growing group of school teachers who quit after three years. The decision was incredibly difficult; leaving behind a place that felt like home, coworkers that turned into family, and students that taught me more than I could teach them. My choice was influenced by a number of things, but after making the decision early in the year, I was confident that my last few months would be rather painless.
I had no idea how wrong I would be.
As months turned to weeks and weeks turned to days, the feeling became more bittersweet with each passing day, and I couldn't help but notice a constant presence of guilt, arising not only from leaving the kids but also a staff that welcomed me with open arms from day one. Just to make sure I wasn't stressed enough, the constant thought of not receiving a comfortable paycheck twice a month firmly etched its place in my brain's working memory.
But, despite the anxiety that everyone undoubtedly faces when approaching a significant life change, I noticed something else was subconsciously manifesting itself in all of my interactions at work.
Being a gym teacher, I saw each class twice a week for 55 minutes at a time. Not much when you consider how many weeks it would take just to get a full eight hours of facetime with the kids. As I continued to count down the days, I became increasingly aware of how many times I would see each class again (and each student). Reality started to hit hard with about three weeks left. Realizing that I would only see every student five or six more times (and less with each passing day) became a sobering reminder that was constantly running through my mind.
However, in the midst of the turmoil, I found something else. A deep appreciation for every moment. I was more present, more willing to help, and much more eager to simply engage with the kids. Even a month or two before, I was a different teacher than I became at the end. My goal was to give the students as much attention as I had to offer, since this would be the last year I would ever get the chance. I became the teacher I would have always wanted, and one that would hopefully be worth remembering.
When the last week came and went, most of the kids were in heaven. 10 weeks of freedom. Nothing feels as good as summer. But my reaction was more one of culpability. Feeling as though maybe I could have done more, been nicer, tried harder, or been more involved. Maybe this is standard when leaving a job, especially one that involves teaching or working with large groups. It definitely felt different than the year before, when I was elated to step outside on the first day of summer and enjoy my time off. You'd think unlimited freedom would lead to euphoria, but my brain's chemicals were far from it.
As of now, it's been almost three months since I've taken the leap. There have been struggles, periods of doubt, uncertainty, fear, and even boredom. School has started back up, and I find myself missing the routine that I used to dread just a few months before. Time will tell how this pans out, and I'm confident that I'll keep finding ways to replace the void that I feel is still present during the weekdays. I'm eternally grateful for the opportunity (and the best birth control available: working with kids!), and won't fully close the door on teaching again someday. For now, I've got other dreams to chase, but I'm not ever going to close the door on teaching again. I've still got some yelling left in me.
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