why I left

Content Warning: Readers should be advised that this post contains descriptions and details of a mental health incident which may cause distress. If you, or someone you know needs help you can call Lifeline on 13 11 14, available 24 hours, 7 days a week. SMS also available at ​​0477 131 114. 

well, this is awkward… 

After countless promises to write more, to be more engaged with this blog and to be open and candid about my experiences as a teacher, I’ve done the thing that I was always pretty sure I wasn’t going to do: I left. 

Here are a few facts: 

• At university, I was told that by the fifth year post-graduation, some 50% of my peers would no longer be teaching 
• I was pretty adamant that I would not find myself amongst that 50% 
• In my fifth year of teaching I had a considerable mental breakdown at work 
• My reality at work was never the same after aforementioned mental breakdown 
• Bada bing, bada boom: I found myself amongst that 50% (yes, the very same I said that I would not be a part of) 

The story is a little bit more nuanced than that though, so I’d like to rewind a little bit if you wouldn’t mind. 

let’s start from the very beginning, a very good place to start 

I started my education degree somewhat by accident. I had completed a year and a half of a Social Work/Arts degree and found myself feeling lost. I didn’t know what exactly to do, but looked into how I could get the most bang for my buck with the credits that I already had and thus, a transfer to Arts/Education was made. 

In that first semester, I had a truly life changing lecturer / tutor who taught a social justice in education course and I was hooked. Over the next four years, I met a number of teachers in the Education Faculty who I admired the heck out of and respected the absolute shit out of. These were the kind of people who made a real impact on me, and left me feeling that I could go out into the world and make a difference of my own. Fast forward to the end of 2017; I was 22 years old and embarked on my final practical component of my degree: the internship. I bloody loved it. It was some of the hardest work I had done in my life (+ I was still working three jobs at the time, because internships are for rich people but that’s another story entirely) but I had so much fun. I loved the people I worked with and got a real kick out of all of the classes I taught, and lo and behold, at the end of the internship rainbow was a pot of gold: an actual paid job. 

the next five years 

The first few weeks of my teaching career should have been a massive, glaring red flag. My conditional accreditation (the thing that allowed me to actually teach in a school) had not been formally completed, so for the first WEEK of my job, I had to be supervised by other teachers, this of course in spite of the fact that I had literally taught children only weeks beforehand, unsupervised and FOR FREE. Why had my accreditation not been formalised, you ask? Simple, the ruddy office had only gone and filed my name back to front hadn’t they? Ms Tracy Taylor was a conditionally accredited teacher, while I was not. 

In spite of that initial hiccup, my first year was fun, albeit absolutely terrifying. The second year was absolutely bloody golden: I had perfect classes, I was far more confident, and I was getting a little bit better at not needing to be perfect. By my third year, I really felt that I had it all in my stride and that was while contending with the onset of a worldwide pandemic, so I felt like I was doing pretty bloody good. My fourth year was punctuated by a second lockdown, but was all in all great fun – I was working as a Year Adviser, I felt like I finally knew what I was doing and I had enough of my work semi-automated to the point where I could look like I knew what I was doing even when I didn’t, but more importantly, I could admit when I had no bloody clue. Year five was the best of years and the worst of years. I had the most brilliant collection of classes ever, I felt valued and respected, I was more confident than ever before and then, of course, there was the whole business of the menty-b. 

a rip snorting good time 

“But Taylor?!” I hear you yelling through your screen “By all accounts, it sounds like you were having a rip snorting good time at work! Why on earth did you leave?” Reader, you are absolutely right. In the past five years, I have made some of my most foundational memories, had more belly-aching laughs than I can count and I have gained stories that have become immortal in their retellings. There is so much about teaching that I loved, still love and am going to miss, but in 2022 I realised something which genuinely shook me to my core: I didn’t know who I was anymore. 

I really hate to come back to the whole ~breakdown~ thing, but it’s an important part of the story. I’ll give you the Sparknotes version: 

• Had a bad lesson, but it was no worse than anything I had dealt with before 
• Began uncontrollably sobbing one day after someone asked me if I was okay. Had a good cry, nothing out of the ordinary for me to be honest, but straightened myself up, ready to do the next thing I needed to do
• Thought I was fine for a hot second and then went to speak to someone else who asked me if I was okay and then cried and screamed until I thought I was going to be sick 
• Went home that day and did not return to work for three weeks
• I was encouraged to seek WorkCover and did: it was an absolute slog of a process 
• Countless doctor and psych appointments, and lots of uncomfy phone calls wherein I was asked to recount a day that I really wanted to forget with absolute strangers
• Returned to work, but not as I had known it before. I felt awful and secretly suspected that everyone was talking behind my back and/or was so scared that I might spontaneously erupt into ball of tears and/or flames, that they didn’t want to talk to me anymore 

For a solid term after returning to work, I felt like a shell of my former self. I was frustrated that I couldn’t work the way that I used to. Very reasonable measures were put in place to ensure my safe return to work, but no amount of rationalising the situation could stop me from feeling like I was no longer trusted. I was constantly having to justify to people that I was doing okay, constantly rehashing painful details of my experience to my doctor, a caseworker and my psychologist. I felt hopeless and weak. I was frustrated because, no matter how hard people tried not to, they treated me differently. I had nightmares about work: vivid movies wherein my students told me how much they hated me and how unqualified they thought I was before more senior teachers would walk into my classroom – giant in stature – and drag me out by the scruff of my neck. I was terrified of breaking down again. I wanted so badly for people to stop trying to pretend it hadn’t happened and to ask me the questions that I could see burning inside them, instead of just feeling bad for me. I was paranoid and felt like everyone was talking about me and that I had no control over my narrative. Ultimately, I felt that the breakdown had forcibly taken a part of my identity from me and no matter what I tried, things wouldn’t be the same again. 

I was incredibly bitter about it. 

_{Note: I want to be incredibly clear that all of the above is simply a reflection of my feelings and inner workings during this time. I do not blame anyone for what happened to me, nor for how my return to work progressed. Everything was handled as carefully and thoughtfully as it could have been and I know that things were done in the spirit of looking after me, always. That being said, logic and emotions aren’t always best buddies.} 

here’s another fact: 

The breakdown is not why I’m leaving teaching, at least, not directly. The truth is this: on that day, someone just laid the final straw on top of the pile of straws that had been mounting for five years, and I wasn’t able to carry them all anymore. 

all the metaphorical straws stacked upon the metaphorical camel 

• Teachers are dropping like flies, and no one is coming to replace us 
• The workload keeps stacking higher, with further calls for data collection, standardised testing and changes to policies (all the while, not revising teacher’s face to face hours so that they have time to do the stuff they’re being asked to do) 
• The to do list of a teacher is seemingly infinite 
• The salary of teachers has not increased in spite of a drastic cost of living crisis 
• The representation of teachers in media is awful and the government response to our industrial action over the course of 2021 and 2022 frankly just seemed disdainful, if not out and out hateful 
• Sometimes the job is just really bloody hard 
• On a personal note: I don’t think that teachers are well-equipped to recognise the early warning signs of burnout 

lessons come in the shittiest of packages 

Part of the Workcover process is creating a return to work plan. The idea is to ease your transition back post-injury and build you up to being “fit for pre-injury duties.” For me, this meant a few things: I was taken off yard duties, I wasn’t able to complete my Year Adviser duties, or anything additional like meetings, I was to leave pretty much as soon as was contractually legal and I wasn’t allowed to take any work home. I hated it. I felt like the most incompetent, completely useless person ever and even though I had all of the time in the world for extra planning for my classes, I was the least motivated I had ever been. 

I grew resigned to accept the conditions of my return to work plan and finally realised that I had the time and energy to do things outside of being a teacher, but I couldn’t really figure out what to do with it. Without all of the work that I was forced to take a break from, I was faced with an absolutely whopping identity crisis: who the hell was I? 

And that’s why I left. 

all the things I wish I said 

For the past five years, I feel like teaching and being a teacher has been the foundations of my identity. When introducing myself to someone new, the go-to response was some variation of “Hi, I’m Taylor and I’m an English teacher.” I didn’t really give myself much time to be anything else. 

That’s the thing about teaching. No one is doing it for the money, and contrary to what the media might have you believe sometimes, it’s really bloody hard. During my admittedly short lived career though, I have known so many people who are giving teaching 110% of themselves at all times. Now, I’m no Mathematics teacher, but the maths just isn’t math-ing here. Anyone can see that that kind of effort is not sustainable. 

When we’re giving 110% of ourselves at work, that’s leaving you with a deficit in the tank to use in all of the other really fucking important places: your family, your friendships, your hobbies and vitally, your gosh dang self. 

You can’t sustain yourself on crumbs. 

And yet, I watch so many people that I love and respect do it, and it’s what I did too. Not because anyone is telling us explicitly that we have to but because we feel like we need to. We’re constantly striving for perfection, seeking to innovate and grow and to do the best for the kids and the communities that we service every step along the way. We do all of this accepting that there might not be enough left in the tank for us at the end of the day. 

And so, while I loved my job last year I decided that I love myself a little bit more. Let me reintroduce myself: Hi, I’m Taylor and I’m 27 years old. I really, really love Paul Kelly and all things Australiana. I contain multitudes. 

so, what next? 

Now I’m left with a blog originally intended about my teaching experiences, but without a teaching job to write about. I’m not entirely discounting returning to teaching, but am taking some time to re-evaluate my situation for now. 

Instead of closing the blog, I would like to keep it and actually write regularly (ideally, at least once a month) but I don’t know what that’s going to look like for the next little bit. If you’d like to stick around for that particular journey, I’d love to have you along for the ride, and if not, I’m grateful for the time we’ve spent together anyway. 

Until next time, be good, 

Taylor.