There’s a particular kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a weekend off.

Teachers know it well.

It’s not just physical exhaustion (although there’s plenty of that). It’s the mental weight of holding too much, caring too deeply, for far too long without enough space to come back to yourself.

And maybe that’s why you’re here.

Not because you hate teaching.

But because somewhere along the way, between the marking, the data drops, the relentless demands, you started to feel like you were disappearing.

Bit by bit, piece by piece.

Until all that’s left is a person who feels like they’re surviving their own life.

Nobody chooses teaching to feel like this.

We choose it because we care. Because we believe in young people. Because it once lit us up.

But when teaching starts costing you your health, your joy, your energy, your identity, it’s not ungrateful to want something different.

It’s necessary.

And yet… that guilt creeps in anyway, doesn’t it?

"Other people manage."
"It’s just part of the job."
"Maybe it’s me."

If you’ve ever thought those things, let me offer you a softer truth:

It’s not you.

It’s a system built to take everything you’re willing to give… and then ask for more.

You are allowed to want your life back.

Leaving teaching doesn’t mean you didn’t care.

It means you care about yourself too.

And here’s what I see, again and again, in the teachers I work with:

→ They didn’t leave because they gave up.

They left because they woke up one morning and thought, “This cannot be all there is.”

That realisation is powerful. And terrifying. And deeply human.

Because we aren’t meant to live lives that make us dread Sunday afternoons. We aren’t supposed to measure our worth in hours worked or evenings sacrificed.

We are supposed to grow.

We are supposed to change.

We are supposed to evolve.

And sometimes, growing means outgrowing.

But then comes the next question: What else could I do?

If teaching has taken up so much of your life, it’s hard to imagine who you are without it.

That’s where I always encourage teachers to begin, not with job titles or perfect plans, but with curiosity.

What did you love before this role became everything?

What comes easily to you, even when you’re tired?

What do people come to you for help with, without even thinking?

Sometimes the thing you’re looking for isn’t a world away from teaching. It’s in the skills you use every day, but in a new setting. A new rhythm. A new shape.

And sometimes it’s something entirely different.

Writing. Coaching. Freelancing. Supporting others. Designing. Creating. Organising.

There is no one path.

But there is always your path.

A gentle place to begin.

If today all you do is allow yourself to wonder what else is possible, that’s enough.

If today all you do is write a list of the things you used to love before work took over, that’s enough.

If today all you do is sit quietly and say to yourself, “I’m allowed to want more, ” that is more than enough.

The next chapter always starts quietly.

It starts here.

With permission.

With possibility.

With remembering that you didn’t choose teaching to lose yourself inside it.

And you don’t have to stay lost any longer.

Final Thought:

Leaving teaching is not failure.

Staying somewhere that makes you small, tired, or endlessly unhappy?

That’s not noble.

That’s not your only option.

You are allowed to want peace. Joy. Freedom. Time.

And slowly, quietly, gently, you are allowed to begin again.