Let Go, Or Get Dragged

Even when it was clear that quitting teaching was the best decision for myself and my family, I still held on.

On Friday, July 26, after seven years of teaching high school English, I resigned from my tenured position with the Los Angeles Unified School District.

But if I’d really been listening to the signs around me and the quiet voice inside me, I’d have resigned a lot sooner.

I kept telling myself that returning to the classroom was the right thing for my family, the responsible thing. I’d spent the previous two school years, 22-23 and 23-24, on a childcare leave of absence, during the pregnancy, birth and infancy of my second child.

They were a great two years, full of poop and cuddles and tears and many, many firsts—but they weren’t without challenges. Even in our well-below-market-value apartment, living on one income in Los Angeles was tough. And it turns out, I’m not really SAHM material. I like having a career, an income, and a life outside my family.

I kept telling myself that returning to the classroom was the right thing for my family, the responsible thing.

So when it came time to start applying to schools for the 24-25 school year, I was excited. I was ready to be back in the workforce—ready to use my brain, work with teenagers, interact with colleagues, put on pants without elastic… and have two incomes again! My husband and I had been financially holding our breath, and we were ready to exhale, to move toward our bigger goals of home ownership and maybe even retirement someday—and to also enjoy life a little.

In the back of my head, I worried about being able to balance the demands of teaching with my home responsibilities, now that I had two children. I wondered how we’d manage childcare, housework and cooking with two parents working full-time, out of the home. The sheer logistics of the mornings confounded me: since my husband leaves for work at 6 am, I’d have to get both kids and myself up, dressed, fed, teeth brushed, lunches packed, shoes on, and in the car, then drop the kids at two different locations, before arriving in my own classroom—all by 8:25 am. It was like some fucked-up SAT question I couldn’t solve.

But it’d be okay, I told myself. We’d figure it out. We’d hire a house cleaner, get more carry-out. Most importantly, I’d be selective about where I’d apply. I determined that to make the mornings work, I’d only apply to schools within a thirty-minute drive—not actually that far in Los Angeles. In order to preserve my sanity, I’d only apply at well-run, functional schools with good leadership, and only for positions that didn’t entail any out-of-the-classroom commitments or extra preps.

The sheer logistics of the mornings confounded me... It was like some fucked-up SAT question I couldn’t solve.

Stringent as my criteria may have been, I was confident. I’m a great candidate—I have an MEd from UCLA, a compelling teaching philosophy, strong lesson plans, solid references, and a ton of professional contacts. I was going to land a great teaching position.

But that’s not what happened.

First, the Superintendent’s new budget introduced huge cuts, causing schools to slash positions. Declining enrollment (thank you gentrification and charter schools!) caused further positions to be eliminated. There was now a sizable pool of displaced teachers (teachers with tenure and no assigned school) and very few jobs.

Maybe this isn’t right. Maybe I shouldn’t be going back.

I shoved the thought away. It was early, I was great, something amazing would come along. I interviewed at a well-respected magnet school, a blissful 13 minutes from my house; I made it to the final round but ultimately didn’t get the job. Okay. I watched as leads on three other good positions vanished, due to cuts. Okay. I cold-emailed principals at nearby high schools, in case there was a position they hadn’t publicly posted yet. Okay. I sent resumes, followed up, refreshed the job board three times a day. Okaaaaaaay.

Maybe I shouldn’t go back.

I was offered a position that I wanted to want, at a continuation school with a great mission and dedicated teachers. But it was just on the edge of what was reasonably commutable, and I worried the high needs of the students wouldn’t leave me with much bandwidth at the end of the day for my own kids.

Maybe this isn’t right.

A quiet panic began to grow in me, getting louder with each passing day. There were so many things I loved about teaching, and so many things that would be insanely difficult with two children. I felt like I was going to have to choose between my children and my students, and I knew in my heart who would win. Did I have it in me to become a half-assed teacher?

And even if I did half-ass it—use packaged curriculum and show movies while I graded papers—there was still the inflexibility of the hours. I’d be limited in my involvement in my own daughter’s education, just as she was transitioning to TK, AKA “big kid school.” She has an IEP and, as the parent with an MEd and professional experience with disability rights and accommodations, I’m the one best poised to advocate for her. And if I were in the classroom, I’d be the least present for her education.

I felt like I was going to have to choose between my children and my students, and I knew in my heart who would win. Did I have it in me to become a half-assed teacher?

Underneath it all was the ambivalence I’d always felt about teaching, from the very beginning—the stone-hard fact that teaching high school wasn’t what I’d actually wanted to do. I’d wanted to write, and I’d been writing, successfully even, but I’d gotten scared—of the instability, of the crumbling industry, but mostly of being big. Of taking up space and actually living my dream. Better to play it safe, and stay small. And get some goddamn health insurance and a pension in the process.

Maybe I shouldn’t be going back.

That voice was ringing in my ear when I got called for an interview at a dream school in mid-June. Like, if you could have designed a school for me, this was it. I had the best interview of my life and left thinking, “I’d be shocked if I don’t get this job.”

It was all lining up for me. All those uncertainties about teaching, that little voice that kept telling me that this wasn’t right, that it would be too hard on my family, that it was time for something new—it’d been wrong. A momentary blip of doubt.

Then I didn’t get the job.

It came down to politics: the district told the principal he had to hire from the displaced teacher list. They’d wanted to hire me but couldn’t. They wished me luck and promised to keep my resume on file.

As the parent with an MEd and professional experience with disability rights and accommodations, I’m the one best poised to advocate for my daughter. And if I were in the classroom, I’d be the least present for her education.

Increasingly, it was becoming clear what I needed to do. But still I balked, held on. Maybe I could just wait and see where I was placed, and try to make it work. (Though I could see the open positions on the job board, and they were almost all at least 45 minutes away, at hard-to-staff schools with high turnover.) Hanging over my shoulder was the specter of my student loans; the interest had mushroomed and I needed four more years to achieve Public Service Loan Forgiveness.

And then there were all the things I liked about teaching—the creative writing lessons, the debates, and the kids, always the kids—and the fact that I’d worked so hard to become good at it. And I was good at it. It feels good to be good at something.

And of course, there was the biggest factor: the finances. My husband had supported us for two years. It wasn’t fair to him to not go back. I had to buck up, take responsibility, do what needed to be done.

This isn’t right.

I knew my family needed the money, but more than that, I knew they needed me. Not a stressed-out, over-stimulated, exhausted, still-more-work-to-do-once-the-kids-go-to-bed me, but a present, engaged, committed me.

I can’t go back.

I cried a lot the day I sent in my resignation papers. It was a kind of grieving, a letting go of something that I’d liked, that had served me, that I’d maybe even loved, at times. But it wasn’t right for me anymore.

I have a friend who says, “Everything I let go of has claw marks on it.” (Apparently, David Foster Wallace said it too.) I really tried to hold on to teaching, but at a certain point, I realized: I could either let go, or get dragged.

My family needed the money, but more than that, they needed me.

Of course, I’m incredibly privileged to be able to make this leap. I was single until I was 36, and don’t come from a family with generational wealth, so I never expected to be in the position to just up and quit a job without another full-time one lined up. My husband’s income, as well as our incredibly cheap apartment, are allowing me to make the decision that’s best for my family—and most people don’t get that choice.

So now I’m here, at 41, stepping into the unknown. Kind of. I’m fortunate to have that previous writing and editing experience, as well as a few contacts still left in that industry. I’ve started a part-time contract position editing college admissions essays (more on that in a later post). The pay isn’t great but I enjoy the work, and it’s flexible and remote. It’s a start.

And who knows—I may fall flat on my face and end up reapplying to LAUSD next school year. Because I don’t hate teaching. I wasn’t burnt-out and miserable in the classroom; I just need more flexibility and time than the job is able to offer.

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a shitton of fear and guilt and anxiety, but there’s also an opening up—a space for possibilities to expand, and the opportunity to learn new ways to earn and live. At moments, I’m even a little excited.

But most of all, I know I did what was best for my family, and myself.