For the past two years, my journey as a teacher has been a whirlwind of emotions and experiences—challenging, fulfilling, exhausting, and at times, frustrating. What stands out most in this journey is the profound shift in my identity. Teaching became my go-to topic of conversation. It’s a subject everyone has an opinion on: how demanding it must be, how wild the kids likely are, and how one navigates the complexities of AI integration in education. This role quickly fostered connections and recognition from others, and I found it endlessly fascinating while also taking pride in my work.
However, what’s more difficult to articulate—perhaps due to its nebulous nature and a touch of embarrassment—is the way I began to internalize the narratives surrounding educators. Teaching 7th grade English at my school demanded substantial sacrifice. It consumed a great deal of my time and energy, fundamentally altering my self-perception. I found myself letting go of how I viewed my work previously, envisioning myself primarily as an intellectual or a white-collar worker—not because I think teaching lacks intellectual rigor, but because many around me seemed to dismiss its complexity. Suddenly, I was fully investing myself in a profession that some regarded, at best, as selfless sacrifice and, at worst, as mere babysitting.
Given the extensive dedication required for teaching, I felt compelled to assign deeper meaning to my role—it had to be the most significant endeavor I could commit to. I bought into the common narrative of undervalued, pro-social professions: one isn’t merely compensated in currency, but also in recognition and social respect. This mindset led me to blend my personal identity with my teaching role. I perceived myself as hardworking, nurturing, and anti-corporate, which made it easy to convince myself that teaching wasn’t just my occupation, but an intrinsic part of who I am.
The challenge with this mindset, particularly for me, was the immense pressure it placed on my shoulders. Remember, I was still in my early teaching years, with no claim to expertise. Yet, despite this awareness, I found it nearly impossible to show myself any compassion. If I believed I had unjustly treated a student, it would gnaw at me all night; if a student sought my attention during my lunch break, and I redirected them back to the cafeteria, guilt would shadow my thoughts. Despite my disagreements with my school’s fixation on standard testing, I found myself yearning for validation through my students’ scores, anxious if my performance didn’t measure up to my colleagues’. If my teaching defined my worth, any perceived flaw was a grave failing.
I found myself letting go of how I viewed my work previously, envisioning myself primarily as an intellectual or a white-collar worker
This entangled sense of self-worth in my teaching role led me to neglect other parts of my identity that brought me joy. I set aside my writing, read less frequently, and while I attempted to socialize intentionally, my social life took a toll. The crux of my realization hit me during last year’s winter break. After several days off work, my “vacation brain” ignited a creative spark in me, making me feel revitalized. While I chatted with my husband, he remarked, “Wow, I miss you. I miss this version of you.”
This single statement struck a chord within me. My husband had always supported my teaching journey, celebrating my passion. He never voiced complaints about my fatigue or irritability. His comment felt less like criticism and more like an observation, yet it stung deeply. I kept reflecting on this realization as spring approached and I deliberated on returning for another year: I didn’t want my loved ones to miss me again; I certainly didn’t want to lose sight of myself, but I had become too engrossed to even recognize what I had lost.
As I navigate my early career, I’ve come to understand that, despite my shortcomings and worries, I am indeed a good teacher. I’m invested, intelligent, and committed to my work. Yet, somehow, that still felt inadequate. I struggled to perceive my classroom experiences as opportunities for growth rather than personal failures.
A veteran teacher and co-worker once advised me in my early days, “Teaching is just a job.” At the time, I found her sentiment disheartening, but I now recognize that she was trying to help. I wish I could have grasped her message that it’s acceptable to feel disenchanted, that it’s all right to have difficult days, and that it’s okay to be less than the miracle worker I envisioned. It must be fine simply because teaching is inherently demanding, and I am making every effort.
The prevalence of negative stereotypes surrounding educators—the martyr, the ineffective instructor, the tyrant—echoed in the comments from well-meaning individuals, and I internalized those narratives. Yet, nobody demanded perfection from me; I imposed that expectation on myself. Thus, before I return to the classroom—though not this year—I recognize the need to untangle these self-inflicted narratives. I must assess how much of the pressure I carry can be alleviated through robust boundaries and a stronger sense of my identity beyond the classroom. For now, this process of identity reconstruction must be a journey I undertake for and by myself, with some distance from the educational environment.
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