I wasn’t a perfect teacher.
Looking back, I can see the moments when I got caught up in the system—when I enforced rules that didn’t make sense, when I prioritized control over curiosity, and when I fell into the trap of compliance because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I didn’t always know better.
But when I did, I couldn’t unsee it.
Over time, I realized that schools don’t reward connection—they reward compliance. Not just from students, but from teachers, too. The more I tried to foster genuine relationships with my students, the more I felt the quiet push to stop asking “why” and start enforcing “because that’s the rule.” The very things that made me love teaching—curiosity, creativity, connection—were the very things the system worked against.
How I saw compliance replace connection. And why I had to walk away.
At first, I didn’t recognize what was happening. I was too focused on my students, too eager to create an environment where they felt safe, seen, and valued. But over time, I started to feel it—the quiet pressure to stop asking “why” and start enforcing “because that’s the rule.” I started to notice when compliance replaced connection. And I started to understand why so many students and teachers felt disconnected from learning itself.
The Moment I Knew Teaching Was What I Was Meant to Do
I still remember my first day as a teacher. One of my students—let’s call him Eddie Haskell—looked me in the eyes and asked, “Why did you decide to be a teacher?” It was an honest question, and I gave him an honest answer:
“Because school wasn’t a great experience for me, and I want to make it better for you.”
That first year, I threw myself into teaching. I loved my students and still remember their names, classroom numbers, and even some of their birthdays. I was the kind of teacher who looked forward to Monday mornings because I was eager to see them again. I wanted to make learning exciting, meaningful, and something they wanted to engage in—not just something they were forced to endure.
Many of my students, like Eddie, were the ones who struggled to connect with other teachers. He was mischievous, quick-witted, and always testing boundaries, but I didn’t see him as a problem—I saw him as a student who needed connection. The kids who sat closest to my desk were often labeled as troublemakers, but I saw something different. They were curious. They wanted to belong. They would fiddle with things on my desk, like my magnifying glass or my stapler (which they once named). These small moments of playfulness were actually proof of trust—an invitation into their world.
For a while, I felt like I was making a difference. Parents who had struggled to find teachers who connected with their children embraced my approach. But my colleagues? That was a different story.
Fitting In With the System Meant Losing What Made Me a Teacher
I never quite fit in with the other teachers. I could feel it from the beginning, but I ignored it. I wanted to believe that passion, connection, and creativity mattered more than conformity.
At my first school, there was a mural of an apple tree in the office. A particular teacher loved to use it as a dismissive metaphor whenever parents or students came in with concerns. She would point to the tree and say in a sarcastic, sing-song tone, “See the apple? See the tree?”—a coded way of reminding everyone that in small communities, nothing ever really changes. It was a quiet, condescending way of telling people that their struggles, their complaints, their individuality didn’t matter.
My first principal, however, was supportive. He told me he struggled to find younger teachers who could communicate effectively with the parents, who were often older. He saw my ability to build those relationships as an asset. But he wasn’t the only one who recognized the value of curiosity-driven teaching. I did connect with a few teachers who shared my passion for creativity and innovation. We formed a small but dedicated group, and together, we worked on the technology committee, exploring ways to integrate digital tools into the classroom.
Technology allowed for different learning levels, curiosity-driven exploration, and engagement that traditional methods didn’t always offer. But at the time, it wasn’t a priority in the curriculum, and it wasn’t fully embraced by the broader school community. While we saw its potential to enhance learning, many of our colleagues viewed it as an unnecessary disruption to traditional teaching methods.
Ironically, we had professional development sessions on creativity, trauma-informed education, and emotional intelligence. These were important subjects—ones that could have genuinely helped students and teachers connect—but they were treated like items on a checklist rather than meaningful changes to implement. We’d sit through well-intended workshops, nodding along, only to return to a system that left no room for creativity or emotional awareness. The message was clear: compliance mattered more than connection, even when the training told us otherwise.
When I lost my job due to state budget cuts after six years, I wasn’t just devastated—I was blindsided. I knew some of my colleagues, especially those I had worked with on the technology committee, felt bad and were supportive. But others, the ones who had resisted change and viewed my approach as disruptive, weren’t exactly sad to see me go. A well-intentioned person later told me that the principal had to ask staff to stop making fun of me behind my back. That was the moment I knew: while I had built meaningful connections with some, I had never truly belonged in that school’s culture. Not because I was a bad teacher, but because I had refused to fully comply.
Catholic School: Where Compliance Was the Curriculum
After leaving my first school, I took a job at a Catholic school in a predominantly Black, economically disadvantaged area. I was hopeful. I thought this school would align with my values—a place that prioritized inclusion, support, and connection. Instead, I found a system even more rigid than the one I had left.
A lot of the students at this school were there because they had struggled in the public school system. Many had been bullied, ignored, or labeled as problems. Their parents enrolled them in Catholic school in search of safety and structure. What they found was assimilation and control.
• Uniforms had to be worn exactly as prescribed—no room for individuality.
• Students lost points for forgetting to write their names on assignments.
• Parishioner students were given more recognition and leniency than non-parishioners.
• Black History Month? Pretty much reduced to a single conversation about Martin Luther King Jr. followed by singing, "I'm Proud to be an American."
Even in a school that presented itself as mission-driven, the pattern repeated itself. Professional development covered the same topics—culturally responsive teaching, emotional intelligence, inclusion—but they weren’t fully supported in practice.
Conversations about diversity never extended beyond surface-level discussions, and real-world issues that impacted our students were glossed over or ignored entirely. The school had a diversity committee, which I was excited to be part of, but when it became known that the leader, appointed by the diocese, had protested during the Ferguson demonstrations, she was quietly let go. The message was clear: diversity was something to acknowledge, not something to act on.
It was compliance over connection in every possible way. The final betrayal came in May 2020 when the school abruptly closed. Catholic schools had received pandemic relief funds, but instead of supporting the students who needed them most, they chose to walk away. And we—teachers, students, parents—found out through the news and texts before we were even officially told.
The system I had spent so many years believing in had abandoned an entire community. That was when I woke up completely.
Middle School: The Moment Schools Stop Seeing Kids as Kids
As a middle school teacher, I noticed something else, too. When students were in elementary school, their curiosity was still encouraged. Teachers still saw them as kids—playful, messy, emotional, but ultimately full of potential.
Then came middle school. And suddenly, the same behaviors that were once acceptable became problems.
• A talkative child in second grade was “enthusiastic.”
• A talkative child in seventh grade was “disrespectful.”
• A second grader who forgot their homework was “still learning responsibility.”
• A seventh grader who forgot their homework was “lazy.”
• A child wearing earbuds in fourth grade was “just doing their own thing.”
• A child wearing earbuds in eighth grade was “defiant.”
It wasn’t the students who changed. It was how we treated them. Somewhere along the way, we stopped asking “why” and started assuming the worst.
Why do students skip class?
Why do they steal food from a fundraiser?
Why do they wear headphones during lessons?
Instead of punishing them, why don’t we ask?
Maybe they’re avoiding a bully.
Maybe they’re hungry.
Maybe they’re overwhelmed.
But most schools don’t lead with curiosity. They don’t reward emotional intelligence. They reward obedience.
Why I Left Teaching—And Why You Might Feel the Same Way
I didn’t leave teaching because I stopped caring—I left because I cared too much. I left because I couldn’t stay in a system that prioritized compliance over connection, order over curiosity. I know I’m not the only one who has felt this.
If you’re a teacher who has ever felt the pressure to value structure over student well-being, to prioritize test scores over true learning, or to trade your creativity for scripted lessons, you are not alone. If you’ve ever felt that gut-wrenching conflict between doing what’s expected and doing what’s right for your students, I see you.
Leaving the classroom was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I know some of you are still there, navigating the same challenges. Maybe you love teaching but feel disillusioned. Maybe you’ve been told you care too much or that your ideas are too different. Maybe you feel like you’re fighting a battle no one else seems to notice.
I want you to know that your work matters. Your ability to see your students as individuals, to lead with curiosity rather than control, to ask why instead of just demanding what—that’s what makes a difference. Whether you choose to stay in the classroom or find a different way to make an impact, you are not failing. The system may not always support teachers like us, but that doesn’t mean we stop being educators.
If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story. Let’s start a conversation—because if more of us speak up, maybe we can start shifting the way we think about education, one connection at a time.
Sources:
• Mehta, J., & Fine, S. (2019). In Search of Deeper Learning: The Quest to Remake the American High School.
• Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed.
• Darling-Hammond, L. (2006). The Flat World and Education.
Comments