The Unexpected Grief Of Leaving Teaching

Finally, after months of agonizing and hoping and holding on, I resigned from teaching. It was the decision that was best for me and my family, so I should be singing from the rooftops, dancing on the dining room table, gleefully peeing whenever I want, and excitedly launching into my next career chapter—right?

Not so much, it turns out. It’s been six weeks since I officially threw in the towel dry-erase marker, and I’ve been surprised by the amount of grief that’s come up.

Turns out this is pretty common. According to a 2018 New York Times article, and a slew of pop psychology blog posts, grief and sadness can occur even when leaving a job by choice. I’d argue that, as purpose-driven, identity-shaping work with longer-than-average hours, leaving teaching can evoke even more grief.

“It’s not a word most [transitioning] teachers would probably use to describe those feelings,” career clarity coach Laura Litwiller told me in an upcoming interview. “It might be, ‘Oh, I feel like I lost my community,’ or, ‘I miss my students,’ but there's a grieving that comes along with such a big change.”

Of course, in our work-driven society, this makes perfect sense. Our jobs are a huge part of our lives. The average American spends a third of their week at work—for teachers, who work seven hours per week more than other professionals, this percentage is even higher.

When I posed the question of grief to a group of former teachers, dozens of people responded that they’d felt similarly. “No one talks about the grief,” a former K-3 teacher from New Jersey said. These folks opened up about the loss of identity and purpose that came after leaving the classroom. Some shared the feeling that they’d wasted years of their lives—that they were left with expensive, useless degrees, wondering what the hell to do next.

“Honestly, it’s like grieving what you thought your life would be, and it’s no longer that,” Jessica Battles, a former teacher from Alabama, stated. “It’s a hit to your pride.”

In our culture, we often define ourselves by our jobs. Psychologists call this linking of work and identity enmeshment or self-objectification—and my guess is that the phenomenon is more extreme in teaching than in other professions. “What do you do?” is one of the first questions people ask when they meet each other. When you say “teacher,” there’s always a reaction—sometimes respect and gratitude, other times pity and paternalism. But the responses are rarely neutral, and I’d argue serve to reinforce and strengthen our sense of self—and self-worth—as being tied to our careers.

“Being a teacher becomes more a part of our identity than I think we really understand until we are faced with a life without that part of us,” Tara Wyatt-Treslove, a former English teacher from Alberta, Canada, said. “Although it was definitely the right decision for me to leave, I lost a part of who I was.”

Fueling this sense of identity is the fact that teaching is purpose-driven work; many people enter the profession for altruistic reasons. It was one of the things I actually liked most about the job: there was no existential worrying about “what it all means”—every day, I knew exactly what my work meant and the impact it had. Once that’s gone, a part of you does worry what the heck you’re even good for anymore.

“Teaching was my calling and I loved it, but the system made it impossible for me to stay and maintain my own health and family,” Rose Bottle, a former teacher from Virginia, said. “It was the right choice, but I’m still so sad I had to make it.”

Leaving teaching feels a lot like ending a relationship. Even though I know parting ways is the best thing, it’s still painful. Another former teacher likened the job to an abusive relationship, which I can certainly see the argument for—American teachers are systemically exploited for free labor, then gaslit into believing we need to accept these conditions “for the kids.”

Even still, I didn’t hate teaching. I wasn’t so burnt out that all the joy had been sucked out. Despite the challenges of the job, I’d been willing to go back to the classroom, because there are so many things about the job that I love and miss—designing curriculum, building relationships with students, sharing our creative writing.

Leaving teaching reminds me so much of a break-up I had a few years before I met my husband. He was a good dude and treated me well; we had fun together and connected on a lot of deep issues and important values. But our lives were moving in different directions, and we wanted different things, and we weren’t at the ages to fuck around anymore. It was incredibly sad to part ways, and at moments, it was hard to believe that there was something better out there for me—a good dude I connected with, whose life was also moving in alignment with mine.

And then my husband appeared, ready to change my broken tail light (it’s a good story, honestly). I try to keep reminding myself of this—that there could be something out there for me better than I could even imagine. I mean, it happened in my romantic life, so why not my career? (And if doesn’t, I can always go back to the classroom.)

The aforementioned NYT article recommends that “dealing with bouts of grief instead of ignoring them can help you better navigate the complex emotions of leaving a job you love and starting fresh somewhere new.” Lol.

I’d like to say I’m using all sorts of healthy coping strategies to “deal with my bouts of grief”—therapy, mindfulness, meditation, loving presence. I’m doing a little of that, but the truth is, I’m staying busy, chained to my laptop the entire time my kids are at school so I don’t have to feel the uncomfortable feelings. Is this emotional avoidance? Yes. Is it working? Kinda.

I’m aware that I should probably bring some balance into my life—go on a walk, get coffee with a friend, take to a yoga class, or maybe just not eat lunch in front of my laptop. I’d probably be more productive if I did those things. And yet.

“I had so much guilt from not making money that I felt I had to constantly be productive,” Katie Bruce wrote of her first months out of teaching in this week’s interview. It was so validating to read that—that even if I’m engaging in some avoidant tactics, at least I’m not alone. I’m in avoidant good company!

So how about this? I’ll make a promise to you, and myself, that I’ll schedule a real break next week. For a whole hour, I’ll do something totally unproductive and restorative. I’ll sit outside, read a book, go to a museum, take a walk, or sit somewhere pretty. I’ll enjoy it, and I won’t give in to the urge to justify or feel guilty for it.

Which might be easier said than done.