I didn’t leave teaching because I stopped loving it.
That would’ve been easier.
I loved the subject I taught. I loved the connections. I loved the purpose.
I left because I loved it… and it was still slowly draining everything out of me.
The long days.
The constant noise.
The pressure to care about everything, all the time, for everyone.
At some point, my brain and body both hit the same conclusion:
we’re done.
I was diagnosed with multiple chronic health conditions that were getting worse. I was having daily panic attacks.
I’d come home, sleep until dinner, eat, and go right back to sleep.
In twelve years of teaching, I gained 150 pounds, developed chronic illness, and had major surgery—all from stress and neglecting myself.
This wasn’t burnout in the “take a weekend and reset” way.
This was burnout in the “something has to change or I won’t survive” way.
The Part No One Talks About
No one really tells you what happens after that.
When the thing you built your life around—your routines, your identity, your sense of purpose—suddenly doesn’t fit anymore.
You don’t just pivot overnight.
You sit in this weird middle space where:
- you’re not who you were
- but you’re not sure who you are yet either
That’s where I am right now.
What This Is
This isn’t a polished “new life, new me” situation.
This is me figuring it out while I’m still in the middle of it.
Trying to build something better.
Trying not to lose my mind in the process.
What You’ll Find Here
- Teaching tips (because that part of me didn’t just disappear)
- Rants (because… obviously)
- What life looks like beyond teaching
- Books, thoughts, and the occasional spiral
- Things I’m building along the way
Basically: the honest version of what comes after loving something you couldn’t stay in.
If You’re Here
You probably get it.
Or you’re starting to.
Either way—you’re not the only one trying to figure this out.
I’ll be doing it here, in real time.