Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Six
I never chased a big salary.
My dream job was to be a teacher.
Not because it paid well. Not because it impressed anyone.
But because I thought I could make a difference.
That was the dream.
To show up, to help kids feel seen, to give them the kind of care and structure I knew they deserved.
To build something meaningful, day by day, even if it was exhausting.
Even if it wasn’t glamorous.
I wasn’t trying to “make it.”
I just wanted to make meaning.
But what I didn’t realize is that even meaning has to be system-approved.
Even passion has a breaking point.
Because in the real world, meaning doesn’t pay the bills.
And trying to make a difference inside a broken system is a fast track to burnout.
Because it turns out, loving the kids isn’t enough.
Being passionate isn’t enough.
Wanting to make a difference doesn’t matter if the system is designed to break both the kids and the people trying to help them.
I gave everything I had to teaching.
My time. My creativity. My nervous system.
I stayed late decorating classrooms, writing notes, buying snacks, calling parents, calming meltdowns, sitting with kids through grief and chaos and hunger.
And for what?
For admin walkthroughs that never saw what really mattered.
For PDs that told me to “self-care” my way out of burnout while doubling my caseload.
For salaries that barely covered my bills.
For the constant feeling that I was never doing enough, even when I was doing everything.
I thought I’d feel good making a difference.
But most of the time, I felt like I was drowning.
And even worse, I started to feel like it was my fault.
Like I was too sensitive. Too tired. Too bad at boundaries.
Like maybe if I were stronger, I could survive a system built on scarcity and still keep my softness intact.
But I wasn’t too weak.
The system was too cruel.
So I left.
Not because I stopped caring.
But because I cared too much to keep breaking myself for a job that didn’t care back.
I didn’t leave because I gave up on making a difference.
I left because I finally realized I couldn’t do it like that.
I’m still not sure what comes next.
But I know it’s not going to be about “making it.”
I don’t want a dream job if it costs me my health.
I don’t want a six-figure salary if it means I lose my softness.
I don’t want to keep proving my worth by how much of myself I’m willing to sacrifice.
Now, I just want to make meaning.
Real meaning.
In the quiet, slow, unglamorous ways.
Through the essays I write.
Through the art I make.
Through the conversations where someone feels just a little more seen.
Through healing—not just for me, but for the people I used to burn out trying to save.
It’s not profitable.
It’s not tidy.
It’s not something you can put on a résumé.
But it’s mine.
And it matters.
Even if I never “make it.”
Even if I just make meaning.