Earlier
this year, I made the difficult decision to quit my full-time teaching job at a
primary school in West London. It was a good job: lovely people, great location
and pretty well-paid. But I just wasn’t happy anymore. I’d been teaching for
twelve years by this point (11 years as a full-time teacher and some supply
work when I went travelling for six months) and as much as I loved being in my
classroom with my children, it just wasn’t the job that I’d started when I’d
left university at 21, all fresh-faced and eager. “It must be such a nice job,”
people always said to me. But the niceness was being squeezed out. When I had
to choose doing a Maths assessment over making Christmas decorations in the
week before the holidays, I knew something had to change for me. So, I quit.
