I didn’t dream of teaching. I defaulted to it.

Becoming a teacher wasn’t a big dream. It was familiar. I’d always liked school, knew how it worked. And in the early ’90s, there weren’t many options that felt solid or clear. I knew my Year 12 results would get me into the degree, and honestly, that was enough. It felt safe. Predictable. Something that was doable.

I did the degree, sat through the lectures, ticked all the boxes. But when I graduated, I shelved the whole thing. I wanted something else – something looser, more creative, less defined. I wanted late mornings, adventure and time to breathe.

But the job market didn’t care about my need for freedom. And rent doesn’t wait. Eventually, I found myself in a classroom – not because I felt called, but because I needed a paycheck. I told myself it was just for now.

Now stretched into years.

It wasn’t a clean arc from resistance to revelation. It was messy. Complicated. Full of moments that made me feel proud, and others that made me wonder if I’d made a huge mistake.

If you’ve ever landed in this job with more doubt than certainty, you’re not alone. And you’re not doing it wrong.

There are moments that will crack you open – in the best way

Some of it will be beautiful. I don’t want to pretend it won’t.

There was a day when a student who never smiled left a note on my desk that just said, “Thanks for not giving up.” Another time, a kid asked me to come to their play because “you’re the only teacher who gets me.” Once, a class spontaneously broke into applause when I returned from being sick.

These moments crack you open. They make you think, Maybe this is why I’m here. Maybe this is enough.

But those moments don’t always outweigh the exhaustion. The underfunded realities. The constant recalibration of who you are, and whether that’s enough.

You can love the moments and still feel like you’re drowning. That’s not a contradiction. That’s teaching.

It’s not your failure. It is a system that eats idealism and calls it dedication.

Curriculum and tech will keep changing – learn to ride the wave

When I started, there were no platforms. No shared drives. No logins or dashboards. Just reporting on floppy disks that we prayed would save properly – because if they didn’t, we’d lose everything and have to start all over again. The internet was just being born, and most of what we did was saved locally, typed on basic computers that didn’t have spellcheck or autosave.

Over time, everything changed. Slowly at first, and then all at once. Suddenly we were uploading, syncing, creating passwords for five different systems, and juggling digital tools we’d never even trained for.

It’s a lot. Especially when you change schools. New place, new leadership, and a whole new stack of platforms to learn. The same job, but an entirely different interface. Sometimes it’s helpful – streamlined, maybe even refreshing. But often it’s just another thing to figure out on top of everything else.

Here’s the thing, though: there are patterns. There’s a rhythm to it all.

Curriculums come and go. Governments rebrand old ideas and sell them as revolutions. New tools roll in, promising miracles, and half of them fade before they land.

You start to recognize what’s actually useful and what’s just noise. You stop panicking when something “big” is introduced because you know the drill by now – there’s always a rollout, a glitch, a workaround.

Sometimes the tech genuinely makes your life easier. Other times it makes you nostalgic for a whiteboard and a stack of worksheets.

You don’t have to love every tool. You don’t have to master every change. All you need to do is stay open, keep your sense of humor, and trust that you’ll figure it out – because you always do.

Let the waves come. You know how to ride them.

The quitting fantasy isn’t a sign of failure

I always imagine walking out mid-term. Just handing in my keys, clearing my desk, and disappearing to a small coastal town where no one will ask about data or lesson plans.

I thought this made me a bad teacher – these daydreams of escape. But it doesn’t. It just means I am human.

You can fantasize about quitting and still show up every day and do the work with heart. You can long for something else and still care deeply about your students.

The fantasy is often just your brain saying, “I’m tired.” It doesn’t mean you don’t belong. It just means you need something to shift.

What helped me was giving myself small escapes. Taking real breaks. Not checking emails, setting boundaries and enjoying work free weekends. Letting one thing – just one – be easy.

That kind of grace matters more than we think.

You’ll be told to give everything. Don’t.

When I first started, I thought I had to be the teacher who stayed late, answered emails instantly, ran three clubs, and laminated everything. I thought being exhausted meant I was doing it right.

But no one tells you that burnout can sneak up slowly. You won’t even notice it until you’re crying in your car over a forgotten worksheet or snapping at people you love because your bandwidth is gone.

Now I know: the job will take everything you offer. It won’t stop you.

So I started drawing lines. Leaving on time, even if my to-do list wasn’t finished. Saying no to extra duties. Letting “good enough” be enough. And guess what? The world didn’t end.

Boundaries didn’t make me a worse teacher – they made me one who could actually keep showing up.

Imagine a Friday night where you’re not grading, not planning, not dreading. Just you, your couch, and a show you’ve seen ten times already. That kind of peace? Worth protecting.

Changing schools doesn’t mean you’ve failed

I stayed at one school far too long because I thought I had to prove I could survive it. That if I just worked harder, it would get better.

It didn’t.

What changed everything was switching schools. A different culture, different leadership, even just different expectations – it shifted how I saw the work, and how I saw myself.

Sometimes it’s not you. Sometimes it’s the place.

You can love your students deeply and still know that you need a different environment to thrive. That kind of honesty is brave.

Picture this: a school where your voice is heard. Where meetings don’t fill you with dread. Where the Sunday scaries don’t start at noon. Maybe it’s out there. Maybe it’s just different enough to make the work sustainable again.

Try this: update your resume, even if you’re not sure you’ll send it. Talk to teachers at other schools. Notice how your body reacts when you imagine walking into a different building.

Staying isn’t the only version of strong.

You might grow out of this – and that’s okay too

I used to feel guilty that I didn’t see myself teaching forever. Like it meant I’d been pretending all along.

But people change. Their needs change. What once felt meaningful can start to feel heavy. That doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done.

You might decide to teach part-time. Or in a different capacity. Or not at all.

You’re not betraying your students or your past self by choosing peace. You’re allowed to change the story.

Now, when I think about what “success” means, it looks a lot like gentleness. Time to read. Work that doesn’t wake me up at 3 a.m. Space to be a full person, not just a role.

That version of success is valid. It’s enough.

You are not the job. And you are not alone.

If I could tell my younger self anything, it’s this: you don’t need to prove your worth by staying in pain.

You might want more than this. Maybe you need rest. And yes, you can choose a different path without losing your worth.

Teaching is hard, even on the good days. You’re allowed to be proud of what you’ve given – and still want something softer.

Wherever you are in the story, you’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re just a person doing their best in a system that asks too much and thanks too little.

That’s worth honoring.