After eight years (or technically, 7 years and 6 months), I left my position as a middle school ELA teacher and instructional coach.

I always knew teaching wasn’t going to be my forever plan—but I never thought I’d walk away mid-year.

Yep. I did what I once swore I’d never do.
I resigned in the middle of the school year.

I used to wonder how or why anyone would leave their students halfway through. Honestly, I thought I’d make it to 10 years, at least. At the start of the 2024–2025 school year, quitting wasn’t even a thought—especially not mid-year.

But then I did.
I submitted my resignation on March 4, 2025.

There are two dates I’ll never forget:

• February 10th, 2025 – the day the straw finally broke the camel’s back
• March 4th, 2025 – the day I officially let go of the career I loved

Let me be clear—I didn’t leave because I was struggling financially. I had just been promoted to Instructional Coach. I was earning more than ever (and I remember what those first-year teacher paychecks looked like).

But on February 10th, after yet another dehumanizing admin meeting, I knew: enough was enough.

Was it the toxic school environment I was in that made me quit?
Absolutely.

But here’s the thing—it wasn’t my first school.
This was my second.

Could I have transferred to a school outside of Title I? Sure.
But what’s the point of leaving the spaces where students need the most advocacy and support?

When I left my first school, my principal told me,

“You know, the grass isn’t greener on the other side.”

At the time, I thought she was just being petty because I was leaving.
But now—I see what she meant.

Because the problem isn’t just the school.
It’s the system.

What do I mean by “enough”?

I mean the weight of eight years of suppressed emotion.
The constant demand to conform.
The moments I watched students in Title I schools be devalued in the name of data and compliance.

I’m talking about the disrespect, the gaslighting, the manipulation, the way this work started to resemble a toxic relationship—except the stakes were the futures of kids I cared about.

At some point, I had to admit it:
I was becoming part of the problem.
Despite my love for this work, I was feeding students into the school-to-prison pipeline for the sake of “data” and “growth.”

All while being rewarded for my “great EVAAS scores.”
But at what cost?

I had to sacrifice parts of myself—my values, my voice, my integrity—just to stay in good standing.

Imagine your own child being discussed in a data meeting—reduced to a number, sorted as a “have” or “have not” based on an EOG score.
I’m sorry, but is that not the school-to-prison pipeline in action?

For eight years, I taught 6th–8th grade ELA with high expectations, research-based instruction, and community at the center.

That’s why my students grew.
That’s why I believed in what I was doing.

But every March through May, testing season hit—and I had to switch gears.
I had to divide my students: those who could “get us our numbers” and those who… couldn’t.

I hated it. Every year.

Could I have done it until retirement?
Sure.
But I chose not to.

Could I have waited until June to resign?
Maybe.
But I chose not to.

For too long, I stayed loyal to a system that wasn’t loyal to me—or my students.
I said yes to every task, every responsibility, even as I burned out.
Because that’s what teachers do.

But what happens when your passion becomes pain?

What happens when you give everything to move middle school readers forward in 10 months—
coach teachers, lead with empathy,
work late, come early, take work home—
and still, you’re berated, disrespected, and targeted by admin…
simply for advocating?

Eventually, I realized:
I was being punished for standing up—for students and for myself.
And I had to make a choice.

So I did.
I quit.

To make it to retirement in this profession, you’re told to be quiet.
To survive, you have to comply.
But I couldn’t keep doing that.

I spent eight years teaching my students to use their voice, to write for freedom, to stand for justice—
and yet, I wasn’t practicing what I preached.

I may not be in the classroom anymore,
but I’m still doing the work.

Today, I’ve transitioned into a new role as the Education Program Coordinator at a community college, where I support teacher prep and residency programs.

And let me tell you—
the work continues.