Clawing My Way Back to the Fire

I sat at my desk, the weight of the day pressing on my chest, and typed the words that had been circling in my mind:

“What to do if you don’t want to be a teacher anymore.”

The classroom I had just left behind was one I dreaded every single day. It wasn’t the lessons or the material—it was the way one kid could call out a simple mistake and make me feel like a complete fraud. That day, I’d mispronounced “ornery,” and a student, eager to assert his knowledge, corrected me. He was right, but my cheeks betrayed me, turning red as my confidence evaporated in the muggy air of BO and Warm Vanilla Sugar—the unmistakable high school scent.

I’m a fraud, I thought. How could I teach these kids about the world when I barely felt like I belonged in it myself?

In that moment, everything I had learned in my five years of studying English, Education, and Adolescent Development felt useless. That 20-second exchange held enough power to send me running to Google, desperate for an escape. And if I’m being honest, I’d typed a version of that question more times than I care to admit.

…

I didn’t dive into teaching with full awareness of what I was getting into. It just… happened. One day, I was sitting in the back of a high school classroom, wearing a too-tight Ann Taylor blazer, scribbling notes on lesson plans and classroom management. My closet slowly filled with bargain skirts, and I found myself in bed by 9 p.m. while my roommates stayed up to watch The Bachelorette.

I wasn’t intimidated by the teachers—it was the students who unnerved me. Their unpredictable moods, the weight of their attention. But teaching English seemed like the logical next step after college. I loved reading. I loved writing. And I loved talking about both. It felt right, even when it felt overwhelming.

That first year taught me more than I expected. I learned to trust my voice, though I made mistakes. Some choices were good, others I wouldn’t repeat now, but back then, I couldn’t have known any better. I worked late into Friday nights, over Saturday mornings, and well into Sunday afternoons, trying to prove something to myself. Trying to be enough.

…

When I left my first teaching job after two years, people told me I’d never find another school as good. But I couldn’t hear them through the noise of my desperation. I needed out. I used my partner at the time as an excuse to leave the place I’d called home for seven years. Sonoma County had been where I learned to stand on my own, but I couldn’t trust my gut enough to walk away from both teaching and that relationship. So, I moved to the Silicon Valley, chasing something—anything—that felt different.

About a week before the move, I realized I was making a mistake—not in leaving the job, but in staying with someone who wasn’t right for me. The relationship had decayed from the inside out, and the stench was undeniable. I told myself I could “suck it up” for a year, maybe escape to Europe and end it from a distance. But in a quiet moment one Saturday morning, I faced the truth: I could either live in the rubble of a life I didn’t want, or I could pull the cord, blow everything up, and start over.

So, I blew it up. I stood in the smoking ruins of my old life—disappointed mothers, gossiping friends, a closed-off path to a future I no longer wanted. I was completely alone, but I was finally free.

Eventually, I made it to Europe. I didn’t tell anyone my plans because I was afraid they’d talk me out of it. By the time I announced that I was moving to Madrid, I had already sent a non-refundable deposit to a bank account I’d never heard of, found a job as a teaching assistant, and bought a one-way ticket. It wasn’t as romantic as it sounds. The year leading up to it was a blur of anxiety attacks, flying chairs in classrooms, and migraines that left me too exhausted to keep fighting.

I moved to Spain to forget who I was. To reset. But I quickly realized that my problems followed me across the Atlantic. The same patterns repeated themselves: anxiety, self-worth struggles, shame. I felt trapped in a labyrinth of my own making, the same walls I had faced in California rising up again in Madrid. No matter how far I ran, I couldn’t escape myself.

…

Now, six years have passed since I first stood in front of a classroom in Northern California. It no longer feels humiliating when I make mistakes in front of my students. In fact, I’ve learned that it’s better for them to see me as human, someone who messes up and keeps going. I’ve proven to myself that I’m tough enough to survive—despite my sensitivity—and now, I know what I want.

I feel myself being pulled back to the fire I once ran from. I miss the responsibility, the passion, the need to prove myself that once kept me going through 12-hour days and four cups of coffee. Maybe it’s nostalgia—the kind that glosses over the pain and remembers only the good. But that’s the thing about growing up: you learn the hard way how to demand better. You learn to say, “Something’s not right here,” and then do something about it.

Years ago, I set my life ablaze and walked away from the ashes without looking back. I traveled through North Africa, wandered cobblestone streets in Europe, and learned a new language. But now, as I look at the embers of my past, I feel my feet growing cold again. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s time to stop running and rebuild from the ashes.

It would be easy to disappear again, to blend into a new place and a new life.

But this time, instead of running, I’m choosing to stay.

I’m choosing to fight for myself, to face the fire, and offer my hand—not in defeat, but in determination.