I always thought I’d be a teacher until I retired. For the best part of twenty years, I was. Standing in front of a class of primary school children, seeing the lights go on in their eyes… it was everything. I never wanted to climb the ladder into management; the classroom was my world, and I thought it would be my world forever.

But, as it turns out, forever has a funny way of changing its mind.

Over the years, a slow, creeping dissatisfaction began to set in. It felt less and less like we were nurturing children and more like we were priming them for the next set of data drops. Agendas shifted with every new government, creativity was squeezed out, and a rigid, uninspiring curriculum took its place. The very joy of learning, of discovery, was being systematically dismantled in favour of rote memorisation. It became… well, it became boring. And I could see it in the children’s faces, too.

The way we were expected to teach became prescriptive, restrictive. My own professional individuality, the little sparks of magic I tried to bring, felt scrutinised and frowned upon. Without going into the specifics, my workplace became toxic. The four walls of the school started to feel less like a calling and more like a cage, and I began to dread the sound of my morning alarm.

When the Dream Job Becomes a Nightmare

Looking back now, with the clarity of a late autism diagnosis, I can see things I couldn’t see then. That constant, grinding scrutiny? It was unbearable. At the time, I just thought I was being overly sensitive. Now, I understand that my experience was likely amplified by Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD). For an autistic person, an environment of relentless criticism isn’t just unpleasant; it can feel like a fundamental threat to your sense of self. Every observation, every data meeting, every passive-aggressive comment felt like a personal failing.

And the thought of leaving? It was terrifying. Teaching was my identity. It was my routine, the steady rhythm of terms and holidays that my autistic brain craved. I’ve always been risk-averse, and the idea of throwing that stability away for an unknown future felt like stepping off a cliff. I felt completely and utterly trapped.

“Is It Just Me?” Finding a Lifeline in a Sea of Burnout

One evening, scrolling through my phone in a quiet moment of despair, I found it. A Facebook group. “Life After Teaching – Exit the Classroom and Thrive“. The name alone was a revelation. And then I saw the member count… thousands upon thousands of people who felt the same way I did. There was a video linked to from the Facebook group called “Pit Pony”- I resonated with it so strongly.

I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just me.

This is the thing, isn’t it? The system is designed to make you feel like your burnout is a personal failing. But the statistics tell a different story. The teacher retention crisis in the UK isn’t a secret; vast numbers of talented, passionate educators are walking away. Seeing that reality, reflected in the posts of thousands of others, was like a pressure valve being released. It wasn’t a me problem; it was a system problem.

The group was more than just a place to vent; it was a lifeline. There were inspiring stories of people who had not only survived leaving teaching but were now thriving. They had reclaimed their lives, their health, their happiness. And crucially, they were talking about something I’d never truly considered: transferable skills.

Uncovering the Teacher’s Toolkit: You Have More Skills Than You Think

For so long, I believed the only thing I knew how to do was teach. What else was there? But post after post in that group illustrated the incredible toolkit I’d been building for two decades without even realising it.

• Project Management? That’s planning a term’s worth of lessons, resources, and assessments.
• Data Analysis? That’s poring over student progress data to inform your next steps.
• Public Speaking & Communication? That’s commanding the attention of thirty 8-year-olds every single day.
• Stakeholder Management? That’s every parent-teacher conference you’ve ever navigated.
• Training & Development? That’s… well, that’s literally the job description.

It was a pivotal moment. I started to see possibilities instead of dead ends. I began to understand my worth wasn’t tied to a job title, but to the skills I possessed. That knowledge gave me the strength to even consider taking the next scary step.

The Tipping Point: Making the Leap for My Family and Myself

The final push, the thing that made me brave enough to finally leave, was my son. I didn’t want him to see me being treated the way I was. I didn’t want him to grow up thinking it was normal to accept a situation that was causing so much harm to my mental health. He deserved a parent who wasn’t a shadow of himself.

I still remember the feeling of handing in my notice. My heart was pounding. I gave a sanitised reason about focusing on my family—which was true, just not the whole truth. I desperately didn’t want to burn any bridges (Sadly, that happened anyway, but that’s a story for another day). The immediate feeling wasn’t just relief; it was grief. I was losing a huge part of my identity. For a while, I felt completely adrift.

Life After the Bell Rings: New Beginnings and Unexpected Paths

My first step out was a job with the NHS as an IT trainer. It used my skills, it was helping people, and it was a world away from the toxicity I’d left behind. Eventually, that led to another role, creating e-learning resources. I get to be creative, to teach, and to help people learn, but on my own terms. No longer do I feel trapped. I feel… potential.

Whilst chatting with my son the other day, he mentioned he didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up.

And I smiled. I told him he doesn’t have to choose right now, and that even when he does, he doesn’t have to stick with that choice forever if it stops making him happy.

“I might be doing something completely different in a few years,” I told him. “Who knows?”

And for the first time in a very long time, that thought didn’t fill me with terror. It filled me with excitement.