Like so many educators, I love teaching. I say that with a conviction that sits deep in my heart. I truly believe this is what I was meant to do.
I loved the idea of being a teacher from a young age. I would play pretend school with a huge whiteboard and my stuffed animals in my bedroom. When I was in high school, I got to do a field placement in a second-grade classroom and had the chance to help young learners for the first time. Creating positive relationships and helping the students in their learning was even better than I ever imagined. From there, experience after experience deepened my love for the work.
There is nothing more fulfilling than being able to support children in their social, emotional, and academic development. How lucky am I that I get to make a difference in the lives of others? I know what it feels like to live out my dream each day. But I also know what it feels like when that conviction starts to flicker. In the complex landscape of modern education, I did something I never thought possible: I lost my joy.
The leap to third grade
The shift began in 2022. I was finishing my fifth year and felt a restlessness. I was hungry for a change. I loved teaching second grade, but I felt ready to try something new.
I decided to loop with my second graders into third grade. My special education co-teacher and I had worked tirelessly to build a community for a group with diverse, widespread needs. Post COVID, it felt like the perfect plan: keep the momentum, tackle a new grade, and stay with the “work family” I knew.
Little did I know, I was about to lose my compass. What followed was a three-year journey of trying to find my way back to the teacher I used to be—to recapture the joy of teaching.
Losing my way
While I loved my students, third grade felt like being a first-year teacher all over again.
The jump in rigor is as intense as they say, and I quickly felt like a fish out of water. The level up in third grade has students shift from learning to read, to reading to learn—a shift many of our students were not fully equipped for. The pacing of third-grade curriculum also moved rapidly. Whenever it felt like we were getting into a good rhythm with a concept, it was time to move on. It felt like I had no time to craft the memorable learning experiences that brought my kids (and me) joy.
On top of all that, I found myself stuck in a cycle of comparison, mourning my “sweet second graders” while struggling with the complex social dynamics of the upper primary years. Yes, third graders have phones nowadays and, yes, interpersonal drama can be way more intense because of them. My students seemed to suddenly become much more socially aware. They seemed to care more about what their friends thought than about doing their best for themselves. Gone were the good morning hugs and here to stay were the quick head nods and fist bumps. Third grade didn’t feel like my niche.
To add to the pressure, I started grad school that same year. Anyone who has balanced a classroom with their own graduate studies knows the exhaustion. I was pushing myself past my limits, coming home to long philosophy readings when my brain felt at capacity. Then, the final blow: my support system evaporated as close work friends and my co-teacher left my school for other opportunities. Suddenly, I was doing some of the hardest work of my life without many of “my people” in the building.
The breaking point
The following two years, I was just going through the motions: Show up to work. Greet students. Teach. Manage drama. Add more to my to-do list. Repeat.
I was surrounded by amazing coworkers and incredible kids, but I was still missing that deep love for the work. I was physically there, but the heart part of my teaching felt like it was on mute. My joy of teaching hadn’t just faded; it had fizzled out. I was spiraling into questions that kept me up at night: Am I a bad teacher? Why don’t I feel like myself? Is this what burnout looks like?
I did my best to take good care of myself so I could show up more fully for my students. I asked to move back to a lower grade at my school. Unfortunately, there wasn’t an opening for the following year. Then one evening, in a panic-driven spiral, I reached out to a principal who was opening a new school in my county. It was going to be the county’s first and only pre-K to second grade school.
Feeling seen—and scared
The principal was kind enough to schedule a video conference with me. Hearing her speak about her vision for the primary school, I just kept thinking, “Yes. This is it.” It was like she was reading my mind; everything she believed in was exactly what I had been missing. Her philosophy aligned perfectly with mine. For the first time in years, I felt seen.
I later interviewed for a position at her school and was offered a spot in second grade. But I felt conflicted. I had never considered switching schools before. I felt a deep loyalty and comfort at my old school, and every time I thought about leaving, it brought me to tears. Then I thought about having a last semester of grad school to complete. Was I just going to make things more difficult for myself if I took this new job? It didn’t feel like the right time to make a change. I ended up deciding to stick it out one more year in third grade (with my amazing team, luckily), in hopes that I would find reprieve the following school year.
Knowing when to let go
During my third year teaching third grade, there were many moments of joy. There were countless lessons that had my class on the edge of their seats and just as many students who brightened my days with laughter. I loved working with my wonderful coworkers, and I was making intentional efforts to make learning memorable for my students. Unfortunately, the moments of joy couldn’t overpower the daily stressors and underlying unhappiness I was still experiencing at my core.
School morale was low, and troubling student behaviors were at an all-time high. Staff became exhausted from the ever-growing to-do lists that seemed to be a new normal in education. I began experiencing compassion fatigue; difficult behaviors I used to love helping kids manage were draining me of patience and care. Even though I knew I was supported and valued on paper, I didn’t feel it in my classroom. I felt stuck. My heart was breaking because the thing I loved most was feeling like a burden.
As springtime came during that third year, I felt that restlessness again. I found myself checking job postings daily. Then, one afternoon in late April, it appeared: a job posting at the school I had interviewed at the year before. In that moment, I knew. I realized that staying where I was meant settling for a version of myself that was just surviving—and I knew I couldn’t stay in that cycle anymore if I wanted to get back to the “real” me. So after eight years at my first school, I did the unthinkable: I left.
Trading fear for joy
This time, when the job offer came in, I didn’t feel conflicted or unsure. I remembered the buzzing energy in the hallways when I visited the school for my interview. I remembered how good it felt to talk to a principal who shared the same passion for education I felt deep in my heart. I was giddy with excitement for the future.
Change can be scary and, a year prior, I let fear win out. But that extra year of searching for the joy of teaching allowed me to find closure in a place that had given me so much. It also allowed me to lean into the change with a determination and a certainty that I didn’t have the year before.
Today, I am back in second grade. Joy doesn’t just exist here; it spills out of every classroom. I’m collaborating with instructional coaches, trying new teaching practices, and growing again. I am no longer just surviving the day; I am thriving in it.
My message to you
I’m sharing my story for one reason only: if you’ve lost the joy of teaching, I believe you can find it again.
The path to joy isn’t always linear, and it’s rarely easy. I know teachers who have found happiness by leaving the profession entirely, and others who have simply needed a new role. For me, it took a leap of faith into a new building and a step back to the grade that suits me best.
If teaching doesn’t feel the same to you as it once did, ask yourself:
- Am I just going through the motions, or do I feel joy in my daily teaching?
- What small changes could I make in my current role to make each day feel more joyful?
- Would a larger shift help give me purpose?
- Are there learning opportunities available in my school, district, or community that could help reinvigorate my love for teaching?
- Who do I have in my corner? Can I talk to a colleague, my principal, or a friend? Could I reach out to a therapist?
Teaching is hard. It may be harder than it’s ever been before. But if we want to sustain this field and encourage others to pursue it, we can’t let ourselves stay stuck. We cannot settle for anything less than the joy that brought us here.
I would never have ended up where I was meant to be if I hadn’t relentlessly chased my joy. Please, don’t stop chasing yours.
