I’m sure I felt a bit of relief when the official job offer arrived in my inbox — I needed the money — but my memory is that anxiety hit me almost immediately after.
I had sought out this opportunity to tutor local elementary school students, but now that it was a reality, I felt sick. It was more than just the usual new-job tension. I feared that taking on the job would damage my already fragile mental state.
In the fall of 2022, I was in crisis. After enduring years of back-to-back traumas—living alone while teaching virtually during quarantine, the deaths of several students, the death of my beloved brother in a car accident, and the sudden death of my grandmother shortly thereafter—I was barely functioning.
Up until then, I had a good life. I was nurtured by relationships with my students, or as I call them, my “loves,” and I cherished the daily opportunities to read, discuss, and write literature with Baltimore’s talented and kind-hearted teens. Outside the classroom, I ran multiple half marathons, had my work published in dozens of literary journals and outlets, edited books by local artists, and earned a 4.0 in graduate school at Johns Hopkins University. I bought my own row home and maintained countless meaningful relationships.
But at the start of the 2022-23 school year, my 12th year as a high school English teacher, I felt myself rapidly falling apart. I couldn’t prepare meals or do laundry. I was getting by with unsustainable efforts, none of which had an end in sight. The fear, loneliness, and grief had piled up and become too much of a burden, and I no longer had a choice. I had to prioritize my health above all else.
I took emergency medical leave and ended up leaving a career that had brought me so much joy.
For months, I committed to doing only what made me feel good. A combination of good sleep, a supportive family, patient friends, and good books soothed my exhausted nervous system. Twice-weekly therapy appointments allowed me to process my feelings, cry, rage, and grow.
When I applied for this tutoring position in early 2024, I still had more questions than answers about my life, but thankfully I also had hope. Thanks to my struggle with recovery and the encouragement I received during the interview (“I know you have a background in working with teenagers, but you have this amazing childlike energy”), I knew it was time to try and rejoin the so-called real world.
But I wondered if school was the right place to take this step. It was only after I left teaching that I realized that throughout my career, I had been constantly at risk for disaster. I never knew when I might lose another loved one or have another school shooting. I had worked so hard to get my energy back, but even if I did, it seemed reckless to go back to the place that had made me feel so bad.
I started tutoring without any idea how long I would be able to continue, having promised myself that I would quit as soon as I felt it was necessary. Although I realized early on that I probably wouldn’t need to quit, my mental health was unstable by the end of the school year.
While tutoring is a lot less demanding than teaching, I still felt overwhelmed and even helpless at first. Just because I’ve taught high school English doesn’t mean I’m ready to teach elementary school math, and kindergarteners, in particular, were doing cartwheels and squealing all through class at first.
With the money I was making easing my financial worries and my adorable kids captivating me, I accepted jobs from two more schools. At the same time, the rest of my life was in shambles. New writing-related opportunities felt more like chores than accomplishments. I stopped doing the small but important things that brought me joy: reading, walking with friends, listening to podcasts. I went weeks without seeing loved ones, and even managing a basic to-do list quickly became overwhelming. Stress skyrocketed, and the doubts returned.
Tutoring sometimes made me feel vulnerable, but every day I felt valued. Cute kids fought over who would hold my hand, and my tutoring friends became my best friends. Some days I received drawings as gifts, others faculty thanked me for my efforts. Every week, students’ faces lit up and their arms were open as I walked into the classroom.
These affectionate gestures didn’t make up for my struggles this semester. Every time I looked back at my life—assessing my stress and satisfaction, checking in on what made me feel better and worse—I wondered if this was the best I could hope for: a stable, secure life where I was treated well, or a pretentious, professional life while everything else suffered in ways big and small.
Sometimes I worry that I may never be able to go back to “normal” again.
In moments of discouragement or despair, I often turn to people I trust for advice: What if I never regain my ability to work full time? How do I manage my health while working? I’ve already invested so much time and energy into recovery, so why is it still so difficult?
Thankfully, at every turn, they remind me of something I know but still have a hard time believing: healing isn’t a straight line. It’s complicated and confusing.
It also shows how much I’ve grown. It’s easy to forget when the hard days are rolling, but I feel better and am more active now than I was 18, 12, or even 6 months ago.
This tutoring position was temporary. Next up, I will be tutoring writers, a career that will allow me to have a flexible schedule while still pursuing my passion. I wish things had gone more smoothly when I was tutoring, but I’m beginning to realize that disruptions are inevitable. Transitions are difficult at the best of times, but not for me. The difficulties I’ve experienced this spring are not an indictment on me or my progress; they’re simply part of the process of taking a step forward and trying to figure out the next right thing.
