When the Dust Settles: Part 2

For a long time, I dreamed of having more time with my children, to be fully present, not constantly watching the clock or rushing from one responsibility to another. I longed for the freedom to pick them up from school without needing to ask for permission, to have breakfast together on a weekday, to just be their mum not the teacher who was rushing off in the morning.

When I finally made the decision to leave teaching, I expected it to feel like liberation. I imagined this deep exhale, space, freedom. And while some of that came, what I didn’t expect was the grief.

Because no one tells you how much you’ll miss something you chose to leave behind.

The first few weeks in September were an emotional rollercoaster. I felt sadness that caught me off guard. Waves of loss that came when I’d least expect them. I missed the routine, the purpose, the sense of belonging. I missed my colleagues, the laughter, even the tiredness that only teachers really understand. Walking away from that warmth left a real ache.

And then there was the identity piece. That’s the part no one warns you about.

For so long, being a teacher wasn’t just my job; it was who I was. For almost 20 years. It was woven into every conversation, every introduction, every piece of how I saw myself. When that title suddenly disappeared, I felt lost. Who am I without it?

I questioned everything.
Did I make the right choice?
Was I stupid to leave such a stable, meaningful career?
Would I ever feel that same sense of purpose again?

There were days when I envied the certainty of the classroom. The rhythm of the year, the predictability, the team. And there were nights I’d lie awake, wondering if I’d romanticised the freedom I thought I wanted.

But before I ever made the leap, I had to do the inner work, the mindset work that shifted everything. I had to confront the fears, the “what ifs,” and the part of me that believed safety meant staying where I was. I started unpicking those limiting beliefs, reframing my self-doubt, and reminding myself that courage isn’t the absence of fear, it’s choosing to move forward despite it. That mindset shift changed everything. It gave me the tenacity to try, even when I was terrified. It allowed me to trust that something bigger was waiting on the other side of comfort.

Still, the first few weeks of being self-employed were far from easy. The excitement of a fresh start was quickly joined by fear. That creeping voice asking, “Who do you think you are to do this?” Imposter syndrome hit hard. I’d gone from being confident in my classroom to feeling exposed in a completely new world. Every decision felt uncertain. Every quiet day made me question whether I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. There were moments where the doubt was so loud it almost drowned out the reason I’d left in the first place. It was as though my old identity was tugging at me, urging me back to safety.

But little by little, I found my footing. I kept showing up even when I didn’t feel ready, even when I doubted myself. Each conversation, each client, each small win started to rebuild my confidence.

And slowly, through the questioning, the fear, and the tears, something new began to take shape.

Carving out a new path being self-employed has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been deeply fulfilling. The opportunity to help others build confidence, manage anxiety, and rediscover themselves feels like the natural continuation of what I’ve always done.

Teaching, but in a new form.

Yet even with all the joy and excitement of this next chapter, part of my heart still belongs in the classroom. I’ll always miss the community, the shared purpose, the privilege of shaping young lives. And what this new mindset has taught me is that you’re NEVER stuck. I can still dip my toe into the classroom in the traditional sense by supply teaching if I choose. And that’s the point. If I choose.

I’ve realised that leaving teaching doesn’t mean losing it - it just transforms it.

Teaching is still in me. It’s in the way I speak, how I listen, how I care. I may no longer stand in front of a whiteboard, but I still teach. Only now, the lessons are about courage, calm, and confidence.