I’ve spoken about my job before, but there’s still so much I need to get off my chest.
I wasn’t one of those people who always dreamed of becoming a teacher. In fact, I used to say I hated school — but really, I didn’t. I just didn’t feel like I was any good at it. I couldn’t quite manage the learning side of things, and I definitely didn’t excel at doing what I was told. But I wasn’t stupid. In fact, I was clever — and maybe that was part of the problem.
I had a lot going on, but I was lucky in one way: I had some of the best teachers. The kind that genuinely cared. The kind that looked past the behaviour, past the attitude, and saw the person underneath. The kind who never gave up on me.
That’s where the seed was planted.
Even now, whenever anyone asks why I became a teacher — whether it’s in an interview or a casual conversation — I give the same answer every time:
“I wanted to be a teacher because of my teachers. They had a lasting impact on my life, and their lessons still shape the decisions I make today. I wanted to make as big a difference to young people’s lives as they made to mine.”
Call it cringe. Call it cliché. It’s still the truth.
I Wasn’t Supposed to Make It — But I Did
Even after going off the rails. Even after having Archie. I still chased that dream.
I worked hard. Really hard. I was battling things behind closed doors that few people ever knew about — but I did it anyway. I completed my degree while working full-time in a secondary school. Then I went on to do my teacher training, while still juggling everything life was throwing at me.
I don’t think many people expected me to make it through. But I did. And I earned every single bit of it.
That training year nearly broke me. I was drowning emotionally. But I kept going because I wanted it that badly. And when I finally qualified — despite everything I was carrying — I threw myself into the job.
I Gave It Everything
Especially in my most recent role — I gave it everything.
I showed up for the kids I taught. And for the ones I didn’t. My classroom was a constant open door. Kids would arrive before school, during breaks, at lunchtime — needing help, needing space, needing someone. I never turned them away.
I worked closely with parents to make sure I was doing all I could for their children. I handled some of the most difficult behaviour with very little support. But I managed. And because I managed, I was often left to deal with it on my own. Still, I didn’t complain.
In the months leading up to my suicide attempt, I didn’t take a single day off. I came in every single day, even when I had nothing left in the tank. I was running on empty — emotionally, mentally, physically — but I still gave every ounce of myself because I loved the job. And I loved those kids.
Even now, when I’m out with Archie or walking through town, I still hear my name being called — kids running up to me, hugging me, beaming just to see me. That’s how I know I made a difference.
But I Didn’t Want to Leave
And that’s what I’m struggling with.
I didn’t walk away from that job because I stopped caring. If I didn’t care, I would have left long before my breakdown. But I stayed — even when it was destroying me — because I still believed in the work. I still believed in them.
And yet, after everything I gave, I was still treated like I didn’t matter.
Even now, there are chances to show a little care, to make things slightly easier — but nothing. No effort. No compassion. Nothing.
At first, I didn’t want to file a grievance. I was still thinking about the kids. I didn’t want to be another distraction or disruption. But the more I sat with it, the more I realised I couldn’t stay quiet.
Because I deserved better.
Because people need to be held accountable.
Because it’s not just about me anymore.
For Everyone Who’s Been Made to Feel Replaceable
This is for the ones who gave everything and still weren’t seen.
For the ones who showed up when it almost destroyed them.
For the ones who were told that being mentally unwell wasn’t a good enough reason to step back.
For the ones who were made to feel like they didn’t matter anymore once they struggled.
This isn’t just my fight.
It’s all of ours.
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