Hydrangeas and Health
Why I Quit Teaching in the Middle of the School Year
“And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
The Hydrangea
Earlier this summer, my husband Quinn gave me a beautiful hydrangea. It was pinkish-purple and in full bloom. I didn’t plant it right away because I wasn’t sure what the right spot would be (the tag said morning sun, partial shade) and we’d have to get it approved by the HOA (eye roll). The hydrangea lived in its pot on our front walkway for weeks (a month? longer?). I watered it occasionally, but that just wasn’t enough, and it withered and browned and started flaking away. I thought it had died.
Eventually, I decided to go ahead and plant it to see if it would resurrect itself. I marked out a patch of grass on the side of the house, carved up the pre-existing sod as carefully as I could, and dug a hole that was one and a half times as big as the pot, as per the tag’s instructions. We don’t have dirt where we live – it’s this terrible hard, red clay – so there was a large amount of brute strength, sweat, and cursing involved in order to complete this endeavor.
Finally, I planted the hydrangea. I cut away the withered, brown flowers and leaves. I planted what was left in rich gardening soil and covered the newly-dug flower bed in mulch. Then, I watered it regularly and waited, hoping I hadn’t actually killed it after all.
It began to grow. First, new leaves. But I noticed many had brown spots and were rapidly decaying. I pruned away the diseased leaves and watered it some more. Finally, finally it started looking healthier. A small flower appeared.
Soon after, it erupted into full bloom.
It took patience, perseverance, and effort. It took the hope that the hydrangea was not dead yet, but was instead in need of a place to grow and put down roots, of good soil and frequent watering, of watchful patience. When at last it felt comfortable and stable enough, it put out a tiny little flower. When that was successful, it burst into full bloom – nothing could hold it back.
Welcome to Teaching
In a lot of ways, I see this hydrangea as a metaphor for my teaching career. I graduated from UNC Chapel Hill with my BA in English and Chinese in 2018 and jumped straight into grad school, where I excelled. I graduated with my Master’s in Teaching in August 2019 and began teaching high school English that very same month.
I was a promising young educator, filled with a zest for teaching and getting kids excited about learning. I loved the “aha!” moments and the class discussions where we wrestled with what literature has to tell us about what it means to be human. I was constantly probing my students’ thinking by asking “Why?” I was idealistic and beautiful, like the hydrangea in the beginning. I wanted to change the world, improve students’ lives for the better, and instill in them the confidence and critical thinking skills they’d need to navigate the world as adults. And I did – but at a cost.
Very quickly, I became bogged down in all the tiny details fulfilling the role of “teacher” requires – lesson planning, grading, contacting parents, attending meetings, supervising extracurriculars, participating in professional development… the list went on and on. I, like all teachers, was pulled in many different directions at once; my situation was not unique.
Every day, I was just trying to keep my head above water and survive. Every second was focused on continuing to tread water in that very moment – I had no time to look ahead or even think about reaching dry land. Every night at home was dedicated to preparing the next day’s lesson plans and activities; every morning before classes was spent preparing copies for students; every class period was spent presenting, managing student behavior, and facilitating activities; every planning period was interrupted by the need to respond to yet another urgent email; every day after school was spent cleaning up after students, updating classroom websites, and attending meetings… the list went on and on.
Treading water is typical for your first year of teaching, which is equivalent to throwing things at a wall and hoping that something – anything – sticks. When my second and third years of teaching felt the same way and that feeling was worsening (not lessening) over time, I began to open my mind to the possibility that there might be a problem. To return to the hydrangea metaphor, there was no opportunity for me to extend and grow roots – so I started shriveling up. The Covid-19 pandemic certainly didn’t help, but I don’t think the pandemic was the driving factor in my decision to leave teaching – I think I would’ve left even if the pandemic had never occurred. It was just a matter of time.
I was incredibly lucky to be at a phenomenal school – the principal won NC’s Principal of the Year award while I was there, the administrators were responsive and trusted the faculty, and my fellow English teachers were always happy to lend a hand. The reason I left teaching has nothing to do with the school, admin, or my coworkers. It was about the systemic problems with American education in general combined with my own personal struggles.
We're Just Plants
Quinn and I joke we’re just plants that have depression and pay taxes.
I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety when I was in middle school, and the effects of these disorders have ebbed and flowed throughout the various phases of my life. Teaching wreaked havoc on my mental health.
From the very beginning, I was gripped by impostor syndrome. I never felt like I was good enough, or that I was keeping pace with my coworkers. I had no idea what I was doing and felt like a poser. Getting stellar results on my teaching evaluations and positive feedback from students and other teachers somehow didn’t help – inexplicably, I still felt wholly inadequate. My self-esteem tanked.
Perfectionism sapped my time and energy. I wrote extremely detailed lesson plans for every class period. They were so meticulous that another teacher could pick them up and teach the class themselves. I agonized over making the perfect Google Slides presentations and worksheets. I suffered from extreme decision fatigue. I was constantly reinventing the wheel even though I didn’t have to. I knew it was eating up my limited time and energy, but for some incomprehensible reason, I couldn’t NOT do it, no matter how hard I tried.
I had immense trouble balancing lesson planning with grading – lesson plans for tomorrow absolutely HAD to be finished, but grading the assignments from 3 weeks ago? Well, they could wait. And they did. Things piled up so much that I sometimes had 20+ different assignments left to grade. The sheer number paralyzed me, so I kept procrastinating and procrastinating. I used to haul the papers to and from school in a large cardboard filing box. It was a physical manifestation of my crushing workload, lack of self-discipline, and what I saw as my complete failure as a teacher.
I was always either doing schoolwork or feeling guilty that I wasn’t doing school work. I spent less time with my family and friends. Quinn, the wonderful soul that he is, took on all the cooking and cleaning at home. I didn’t enjoy hobbies I used to enjoy, like reading and singing. I began to see “fun” events, like my birthday, as a burden and hassle I had to plan for and acknowledge in some way, but they were merely a distraction pulling me away from what really mattered – working on things for school.
Throughout all of this, I was extremely fortunate to have a strong support system. I had caring family, friends, and coworkers; I attended therapy every other week; I was on medication for both my anxiety and depression. Despite all of this, in October of 2021, during my third year of teaching, my depression and anxiety began manifesting themselves physically.
The Body Keeps the Score
I began getting lightheaded and dizzy – so much so that I had to leave school in the middle of the day several times because I was afraid I would pass out in front of students. It constantly felt like the floor was tilting and I was walking on a boat, or I would start to feel like the world was spinning and revolving around me. I experienced heart palpitations, especially during difficult class periods, where my heartbeat would regularly be above 120 beats per minute.
I’m sure it doesn’t surprise you that I didn’t get much sleep. Towards the end of my teaching career, I was lucky if I got 4 to 5 hours of sleep a night. I got to school at 6:20am and didn’t leave until 4:00pm or later. I would work at home after dinner until 10 or 11 at night when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, then wake up at 3 in the morning to try to finish stringing together the lesson plans for the day. The sleep deprivation worsened my decision fatigue to the point that everything took ten times longer than it should have.
Like the hydrangea, I was, by all accounts, dead. I felt dead inside. I was a zombie walking through life. I’m not sure how much my students and the other teachers picked up on this; unlike the hydrangea, I get the impression that I am pretty good at hiding my struggles. This only worsened my impostor syndrome and low self esteem.
I started talking with my doctors. We added Ativan, a cousin of Xanax, to my medication regimen. It helped a little, but it certainly wasn’t a magic fix. I had bloodwork done – it was all normal. I saw a dietician because I worried I might be developing an eating disorder. I was dropping weight, my appetite was minimal, and I ate little to nothing at school, pushing food aside to focus on work, which I saw as more important than nourishing my body.
I was afraid I had given myself a heart condition. I had an EKG done – it was normal. I was referred to a cardiologist just in case, and she ordered an echocardiogram. Again, everything came back normal. Upon my cardiologist’s recommendation, I removed the heart rate indicator from my FitBit’s home screen so I wouldn’t obsess over my pulse.
It was clear my complete lack of work-life balance was exacerbating my anxiety and depression to the point that my body was physically unable to cope. My symptoms were real – they weren’t “just in my head,” and I was extremely fortunate that all of my medical providers took me seriously. Several of them suggested that if possible, I resign from my teaching job. This was a hard pill for me to swallow.
Reality Check
For the longest time, I maintained I would not quit my job before the end of the school year unless I ended up in a hospital of some sort, whether that was a psychiatric hospital or a regular one. It wasn’t until my mentor teacher and I had a heart-to-heart in November that I realized how absurd this idea was.
“Sam,” she said, “We shouldn’t get to the extreme where we’re even talking about hospitals. Do you need to resign today? After Thanksgiving break? When we go on winter break? You could try to stick it out through the first few weeks of January to get to the end of the semester, but I don’t know if you can make it that long.” I wasn’t sure I could make it that long, either.
She continued: “If you feel like you need someone to give you ‘permission’ to resign (which you don’t), I am giving it to you. You are allowed to resign.” These were the life-changing words I hadn’t even known I needed to hear. But I did need to hear them, because I was never going to give myself permission first.
That conversation was the catalyst that spurred me take steps to preserve my own life. I finally started to carve out some space and time for me to recover, much like I did when I created the garden bed for the hydrangea.
Leaving teaching was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make. I decided to resign at the end of December 2021. That allowed me to say goodbye to the kids before they went on winter break, which made it an easier transition for all of us. I explained I was resigning due to ongoing health issues but didn’t specify further. They took it well and didn’t pry too much, although they did have questions – Who would be their teacher after winter break? Would they have an endless string of substitutes? What about the grades I still had to put in the gradebook? And – was I okay? I was touched by the last question. I took a deep breath and told them: “I don’t know if I’m okay. But I’m working on being okay.”
Winter break started and my time with students came to a close, but I still had things to wrap up before my official last day on December 31st. I removed personal possessions from my classroom, backed up all of my files, transferred ownership of my Google Classrooms, and wrote a 13 page document detailing the norms and procedures I had used thus far so the new teacher wouldn’t be walking in blind. We were lucky enough to secure another teacher before break even ended, so I was able to meet with him virtually several times, answer his questions, and transfer all of my files to him.
As far as the steps of the actual resignation process went – talking to my assistant principal and principal, filling out the resignation form, and passing things on to my successor – it went as smoothly as I could’ve hoped for. I had a lot of emotions about everything, but I did what was necessary (and then some), and things turned out okay.
New Year, New Me?
The new year came around – 2022 – and I was no longer employed. By the end of January, my lightheadedness, dizziness, and heart palpitations had largely disappeared. But just because I left teaching didn’t mean all my problems were magically solved. Like the hydrangea, I had been given space to recuperate, but I still had diseased leaves. Recovery was still a ways off.
I fell into a deep, existential depression. I felt guilty for leaving my students and coworkers in the middle of the year. I no longer had the all-consuming identity of “teacher,” which had taken over my life and nearly killed me. That was decidedly a good thing. But without that label, I was unmoored. The nagging question of “Who am I?” occupied my waking hours and disrupted my sleep. I was lethargic and napped all the time. I had absolutely no motivation. I still had trouble enjoying my old hobbies, like reading for fun or playing video games. I applied for several jobs, mostly library and EdTech positions, but was either rejected or ghosted.
I kept going to therapy and taking my medication, but the depression continued to spiral. I started to worry there wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel after all. I began believing I was fundamentally broken, that I was somehow deeply flawed all the way to my core and that I would never “get better” no matter how hard I tried.
Blossoming
At the end of May 2022, I began a new treatment for my depression called Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS). It’s an MRI-strength magnet that taps at your head to stimulate activity in a region of the brain that is notoriously underactive in people experiencing clinical depression. It sounds weird, and it kind of is, but it’s been FDA approved for over 10 years and 60% of patients experience complete remission from depression. It’s non-invasive, doesn’t require medication, doesn’t hurt much, you’re fully conscious while it’s happening, and you can return to normal daily activities right after a treatment session. The effects are supposed to be “permanent and beneficial.” Sounds like a dream, right? After being in therapy for years and playing Russian roulette with various psychiatric medications, I figured it was worth a shot. The hydrangea had finally mustered up the courage to put out one tiny little flower.
I had an 18-minute TMS session every weekday for 2 months. It got me out of the house, out of my thoughts, and forced me to interact with the outside world. After a couple of weeks, I (and the people around me) started noticing improvements. I was less stuck in my head and looking more optimistically toward the future. My demeanor was noticeably less cloudy, and I felt less weighed down. Quinn said I was looking more “outward” than “inward.” My mom said she hadn’t seen me this happy since I was in high school. Every day, I wanted to have something positive to report to my TMS tech, whether that was “I did the dishes this morning” or “I went to a dance class last night.” It wasn’t just the tech-savvy TMS treatments that were helping – it was the human connection.
In July, I began working with a career counselor who helps me not only with career stuff but also with life-in-general stuff. She encouraged me to journal, meditate, and exercise regularly. With my newfound motivation, I was able to make some of those habits stick.
I experienced (and still am experiencing) a creative outpouring. The hydrangea rioted into full bloom. It was like a dam erupted after being held back for so long. I’m reading voraciously. I’ve picked up new hobbies: aerial silks, ballet, and church choir. I’m exploring a new career field – User Experience (UX) Design – and am working through a certificate program offered by Google. I started a blog (thank you for reading it) and am beginning to take myself seriously as a writer, as a person with something important to say. One day, I hope to write a memoir.
I am currently in complete remission from depression (!!), and I see TMS as the catalyst that helped me start climbing out of that deep, dark hole. TMS helped me unlock my brain, muster up some motivation, be willing to ask for help, and find the courage to try new things. Everything from there has been me – I just needed a little push (or tap, as it were) to get started.
I’m learning, growing, and connecting in all areas of my life. It has been startling to witness these monumental changes in myself (change of any sort, good or bad, puts me in a tizzy), but in a weirdly good way. I am finally starting to step into myself and discover who I truly am. I am proud of myself and how far I have come.
I am so glad I undertook the “risk[s] it took to blossom,” as Anaïs Nin mentions in her quote. There were many risks – leaving teaching, beginning TMS, reaching out to a career counselor, exploring new hobbies and careers – but it was worth it, because remaining “tight in a bud” had become risky to the point that I was risking my existence.
This isn’t to say that my life has transformed entirely into butterflies and sunshine. I still have moments where I fall into my old depressive thought patterns, but I’m able to pull myself back out of them much more easily. I still get anxious, but not to the degree that I did when I was teaching. I still haven’t found a job yet, but I’m learning new skills and getting excited about the next chapter of my career. Much like I did with the hydrangea, I’m learning to be patient with myself. I’m in full bloom and will continue to grow – this is not the end, but rather a new beginning.
10 Responses
Thank you for sharing! I love your reference to hydrangeas because anyone that has ever tried to grow one knows how temperamental they can be. You were a great teacher but sometimes the external pressures become so toxic. I am so glad you were able to pause your career and take care of yourself.
Thank you, Dale! Yes, hydrangeas do require a lot of tender care, don’t they?
Samantha,
Thank you so much for sharing your experience and that your story will help many others dealing with depression or dealing with a loved one or friend with depression. It is such a crippling disorder that keeps churning only hopelessness. I am so glad that your mentor granted you the “permission” to make the decision to leave teaching. I find myself being a permission-granter and now you will too, no doubt, knowing what a relief it is to hear those freeing words. I was not aware of TMS and am so happy to hear that it helped you and that there is hope for those who chose to utilize this treatment. Now all of your flowers are showing, and your roots are in the ground… you are communicating with the earth and all of its biological systems. I know you are taking moments to feel the sunlight on your skin and the wind blowing through your hair and on your face. Writing is in your future and your former English Teacher experience will give you lots of fodder to work from. The only way I made it through teaching without letting it kill me was “letting go” of a lot of expectations I had on myself which was and is a lot easier to do as one gets older. Thank you for releasing your story for the world to see, hence, letting “it” go as much as your nervous system will allow, to free up space to overlay much more nourishing and unique experiences for you.
Thank you, Cathy! I love your comment about communicating with the earth, all of its biological systems, and my own nervous system. All of the experiences I described in the post have definitely brought me closer to the world and myself.
What a beautiful, insightful, and brave piece. I’m so proud of you! Thank you for sharing your journey; I’m so, so, so glad you’re seeing more light than darkness and that you have prioritized your own health and well being. You are talented and have so much to offer. I’m lucky to call you my friend!❤️
Thank you, Babs! I am grateful for the role you have played in my story and I am blessed to have you in my life!
Samantha,
I did not get to know you much when you were dancing at the FCC. You were only one of those kids whose parents loved you enough to put you into my program. But after having exchaged some notes on Facebook and now read your blog, I get to know you a little more.
I don‘t think you need any advice. You are ok as is. I did the same during my life time. I wiggled this way and wiggled that way and finally I wiggled myself out of the bind. From what I have read so far, you are a good wiggler.
The only thing I can suggest is, getting into some ”group“ sports. Be it tennis, volleyball, cycling….some kind of sports that involve groups of people. That helped me tremendously in my lifetime. You won’t develop deep relationship that way. But to have someone to go to weekly and have some fun together is good enough.
Keep on writing. You can write.
Thank you, TC! You’re right – life is all about wiggling until you find your place in life. And that might change over time, which means it’s time to wiggle in another direction. Dancing and aerial silks have been good outlets for me. Like you said, it’s important to have physical activity that’s social and fun. You helped grow my love for dance, and it continues to this day!
Hi, Sam! I finally had a chance to read this. I would love to catch up with you one day. I felt bad that I didn’t get a chance to talk to you much at Anna’s baby shower, and I’d love to hear more about the TMS. I’m keeping this short since we just returned from a weekend at the Outer Banks and I just realized I have several recommendation letters to do. (Yikes!) I’m so glad to hear you’re on the mend. I commend you for finally putting yourself first and doing what you needed to do to get better. There have been so many times I’ve wished–and wished, and wished–that I could walk away from the job. I love the students, but I feel you about the Imposter Syndrome. I often feel like the only person who isn’t able to keep up with the demands of the job. And then I wonder what’s wrong with me. I spent the first few weeks of this year in a bit of a downward spiral where I knew that I was going to end up crying in class at some point. And then it happened. After it happened, I was finally able to get myself together again. The thing is, I’m pretty sure that I shouldn’t have to live in fear of stuff like that happening. But, as you know, the stress level with the job is intense and never seems to let up. And if you’re already coming in with a history of anxiety and depression (something I’ve struggled with off and on my entire life), this job has a way of closing in on you and making you feel incapable of successfully completing simple tasks. Anyway…that’s more than I wanted to say on here! Let’s talk in person one of these days.
Tanya, thank you for your honesty and willingness to share. You are not alone in experiencing the complicated mix of emotions surrounding teaching – there are many, many teachers like the two of us. Teaching is a herculean task even for someone at the top of their A-game; there is nothing wrong with us. I’m glad you were able to achieve some catharsis earlier this year and that it helped you find surer footing. And you’re right – you shouldn’t have to live in fear. I would love to chat with you about TMS (and writing)! I’ll be in touch 😊