Why I Became A Teacher And Then Quit

I learned about my own self-worth after I quit teaching

This story isn’t an unusual one. It’s quite common. I grew up in Australia, but this story could be universal. This is the story of a teacher who failed.

And there lies the problem.

Are teachers put under so much scrutiny and stress today, that in the end, the hopeful, bright-eyed newly graduated teachers end up quitting after just a few years?

Or is there something else that makes them quit?

I lasted eight years as a teacher, but during that time, I stopped for almost a year to raise a baby. So, I guess you could say I was a teacher for seven years. Lucky seven, hey?

After my extended year-long maternity leave from teaching, I moved to China with my partner and our one-year-old son. My husband’s work took him overseas and I wanted to join him. We decided it would be a great opportunity for us as a family to try something new and different.

Since I already had teaching qualifications, it seemed natural that I would go into teaching in China. I applied to a few different international schools, but in the end, it was a “small” college in the industrial town of Taiyuan that accepted me into their multi-storied doors.

Let me explain what I mean by “small,” because the town had almost five million people living in it. The college had over twenty thousand students. It felt massive to someone who came from the suburbs of Sydney, Australia.

Everything about China was different. The food, the people, the history. And I loved it. Walking the Great Wall of China was one of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had. The sheer size of the wall was mind-blowing. And taking the toboggan ride down to the bottom of the wall was pretty cool, too.

However, one thing I didn’t love was teaching. I began to lose my passion for it. I wanted to spend more time with my son, so we moved up to Beijing and changed schools. I started working at a Chinese International high school where Chinese students learned English and moved to America, Canada and Australia to complete their university degrees.

But moving to Beijing was a big mistake. Now we lived in a bigger city, with more traffic, more pollution. More problems. The work hours were terrible. Classes started at 7am and finished at 9pm. Although, I managed to “knock-off” work early at 5.30pm each day, since I didn’t live on campus.

While the students were polite, the classrooms were run-down and the food on campus was terrible. But it was all we had and no one else seemed to complain.

The teachers worked hard. They stayed back late, worked weekends and barely saw their own children. It was the beginning of the end for me. By the time I left China, I didn’t want to be a teacher anymore.

But it was the only thing I knew. Teaching was convenient, and we still needed to pay our mortgage back in Australia. When we returned to Australia, I resumed teaching at a local high school. I became more bitter each day.

My fellow teachers were amazing. They were the kind of teachers you hope your children will have. They were excited about introducing new novels to students and devised ingenious ways to make learning fun. I was jealous of them. I envied their enthusiasm for teaching, and the ease in which they walked into their classrooms with a smile on their faces. Like they were genuinely happy to be there.

I told myself I was a bad teacher. I couldn’t keep the kids engaged. I had to force myself out of bed each weekday morning. I kept telling my partner that I wasn’t made out to be a high school teacher. I was too soft. The kids hated me.

The weird thing is, a few years later, I received a text message from a fellow teacher in Sydney who had been promoted to Head Teacher at a new school. She wanted to know if I could come and teach there.

By that time, I’d let my teaching licence lapse. I never wanted to step foot into another classroom again as a teacher. I was busy working in the office of my family concreting business and trying to get my writing career kick-started.

I look back on my time as a high school teacher and I wonder why I thought it was all so bad. Why I thought I was a bad teacher.

I bump into old students of mine every now and then. Many of them have kids of their own now. And when I talk to them about their high school days, they never talk about the bad things. It’s always positive. They remember me as a different person to who I remember myself as. They talk about this person who was fair and caring and sometimes even funny.

Why was I focused on the negatives of being a teacher? Why didn’t I see who I really was? That maybe I was an alright teacher. Or even a good one.

My self-worth plummeted after I came back from China. I think it had a lot to do with the unrealistic expectations I set for myself. Of course, it was going to be hard moving overseas with a baby and working full-time in a foreign country where I didn’t speak the native language. I didn’t see failure as an option, though. All I saw was the opportunity to try something new and different. And to be grateful for that opportunity. I had to succeed, or else in my head, it was all a waste of time.

My health suffered because of that self-doubt. If only I’d given myself a break. I shouldn’t have done everything I was asked to do. It was overwhelming. I should have allowed myself to relax a bit. To be easier on myself, and to feel more confident in the person that I was becoming. Because I was a good teacher. I should have told myself that more often.

Perhaps then, I would have walked into my classes with a smile on my face, enthusiastic about each day. Perhaps then I would have enjoyed being a teacher. And perhaps I might still be a teacher today.

Lana Graham is Editor of Mama Write. She writes about parenting, psychology and her writing journey. She lives in Sydney, Australia with her hubby and their three marvellous sons. You can find her sitting on her front verandah sipping black tea, writing in one of her many planners and listening to the kookaburras laugh each morning. Say G’day by emailing: [email protected]