I haven’t met the new me yet
A few weeks ago, I was given my personal belongings from my old classroom. It has been two years since I taught my last lesson due to my ongoing concussion, and in that time, I had forgotten just how much I had gathered over the years.
I haven’t unpacked the boxes yet. I’ve had a brief sneak peek, but every time I attempt to start, a deep sadness overwhelms me. To me, those boxes are a stark reminder of the consequences this injury has had on my life. They are filled with the usual items you’d expect to find in a classroom, but they aren’t just full of stationery and textbooks; they are full of evidence of why I loved my career.
Inside, there is a folder of thank-you cards, apology letters, and special drawings from students I’ll never forget. There are postcards and magnets that students brought back from their holidays to decorate the room, along with the artefacts, games, and student homework I’d saved for future displays. There are official documents that detail that I was not just a good teacher; I was an outstanding one.
They also contain my teacher planners, a physical record of the immense work I poured into the UK education system. My 2023-2024 planner is still open to the day I was supposed to return from the holidays. That return never happened. By then, my concussion had spiralled into Post-Concussion Syndrome, and I couldn’t cope with work anymore.
In this way, the ribbon page marker unintentionally marks the end of my teaching career. To me, those boxes represent a fossil of my former self: a preserved moment from a life that ended abruptly, now frozen in time.
Since then, the lyrics from Taylor’s happiness have been playing on a loop in my mind.
‘all the years I’ve given
is just shit we’re dividing up
showed you all of my hiding spots
I was dancing when the music stopped
and in the disbelief
I can’t face reinvention
I haven’t met the new me yet.’
These lyrics haunt me because ‘I can’t face reinvention’ either. I didn’t ask for this change, and I’m not sure I want it because I don’t feel finished with my career. It is a terrifying and unfair place to be when the “old me” was someone I was so proud of, someone who was “outstanding.”
Yet, when I talk to teachers still in the system, I realise I need to stop romanticising the past. While I truly loved teaching, it was my entire identity, I know it wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine. Perhaps focusing on the current reality of the profession is my way of using their stress to “logic” my way out of my sadness.
After all, behind the rewards were the relentless hours of marking, planning, and report writing. It was the constant struggle to cram a week’s worth of work into “free” periods just to have a life outside the classroom. Beyond the workload, there was the physical toll of never having time to eat or even use the toilet. Most of all, it was the mental exhaustion of being an educator, a social worker, a data analyst, a therapist, and a behaviour mentor all at once. I was giving every ounce of myself to a school, only to receive zero compassion from management when I developed PCS.
Despite those hardships, I remain incredibly grateful for that chapter of my life. I am proud of the person I became in that room. Teaching expanded my creativity and gave me a sense of joy that built my confidence; I developed leadership skills and became more empathetic and resilient. In the process, I learned to be highly effective with my time management and organisation.
But most importantly, it’s the legacy I left. I helped so many students become independent learners. In doing so, I didn’t just teach them a subject; I gave them the tools to navigate the world and the belief that they could pursue their own dreams, whatever they may be. That legacy lives on in the lives of so many students.
Now, as I look at the boxes that remain unpacked, Taylor’s words resonate with me more than ever:
‘there’ll be happiness after you
but there was happiness because of you, too
both of these things can be true
there is happiness.’
I am beginning to realise that there was deep happiness in my career. My impact on those students is permanent. That history belongs to me, not my employer. In that same way, the skills I mastered are not fossils; I am using that same empathy and resilience to navigate my recovery today, knowing I can carry that strength and those skills into whatever my future holds.
And it’s because of this that I’m learning to disentangle my love for the classroom from the fury I feel toward my employer. Their lack of compassion left me broken, but the way they erased me from the system will never change the success I had in that classroom.
‘I haven’t met the new me yet’, but I am slowly realising there is a “new me” somewhere in there. And whoever she becomes, she will always be grateful for her teaching career. In the meantime, I will continue to cherish those memories, knowing they have shaped the person I am today. It’s just as Taylor sings in New Year’s Day,
‘Hold on to the memories
They will hold on to you
And I will hold on to you.’
With this perspective, I am finally ready to face what is inside those boxes.
The Concussion Girl
- Swift, Taylor. “happiness,” evermore. Taylor Swift, 2020 ↩︎
- Swift, Taylor. “happiness,” evermore. Taylor Swift, 2020 ↩︎
- Swift, Taylor. “New Year’s Day,” Reputation. Taylor Swift, 2017. ↩︎