teaching

On the Clock Again (But Only When I’m Actually Getting Paid)

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I started working again for the first time since October—this time in a chill, part-time job. And wow, it really puts into perspective just how wrong it is that teachers are expected to work endless unpaid hours.

After eight months of not working, I started a part-time job as a receptionist/assistant at my boyfriend’s office. It’s a gentle return to work—low stress, nice environment, no emotional baggage or kids climbing the walls. Honestly, it’s been a pretty smooth transition considering how brutal burnout had me down bad last fall.

But still… I count the minutes until lunch. (One full hour. Non-negotiable. I made that very clear during my “interview” aka casual couch conversation with my boyfriend.) And I definitely count the minutes until the end of the workday too.

Even though I like working here, I’ve realized how fiercely I now guard my time. Like when my boyfriend tries to bring up work stuff at home and I’m immediately like:

“Circle back when I’m on the clock tomorrow. I’m not salaried. I’m not doing unpaid overtime.”

It’s not personal. It’s about boundaries.

And it’s also about reflection—because when I was a teacher, I didn’t even have a clock to punch.

The Job That Followed Me Home (and Into My Dreams, and My Body, and My Burnout)

As a teacher, I spent thousands of hours working outside my contract. Nights. Weekends. Breaks. Summers. All unpaid. All expected. All “just part of the job.”

I stayed up all night working on lesson plans, behavior systems, bulletin boards, PD assignments, data reports, emails, and IEPs. I’d grocery shop while mentally mapping out small group rotations. I’d scroll Pinterest for anchor chart ideas during dinner. I’d dream in read-aloud voices.

Even thinking about it now makes my stomach turn a little. Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared so much and the system took advantage of it. Because no one talks about how teaching seeps into every corner of your life until there’s nothing left but the job and a shell of yourself holding a stack of ungraded spelling tests.

Now That I’m Not a Teacher, I See It Even Clearer

Working this job—calm, structured, low-stakes—makes me realize just how outrageous the teaching workload really was. The fact that unpaid labor wasn’t just normalized but necessary to be “effective”? That’s exploitation.

And I didn’t just pay with my time. I paid with my health.

Burnout took a wrecking ball to my nervous system. Years later, I’m still rebuilding. Still trying to sleep through the night. Still trying to not flinch when I hear a printer jam.

I Work Now. But Only When I’m Being Paid.

So yeah, I work now. I’m easing back in. I’m contributing. But the second I clock out? I’m done. I’m not discussing spreadsheets over spaghetti. I’m not responding to texts at 8 PM. I’m not doing anything work-related unless I’m actively being paid.

Because I’ve been there.
Because I’ve learned the hard way.
Because my time—and my healing—is worth more than that.

Burnout as a Lifestyle (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

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A group of elementary school students gathered around tables in a classroom, with a teacher standing and holding a folder, engaged in an interactive activity.

“Burnout as a Lifestyle”
 An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Three

Things That Have Burned Me Out, In No Particular Order:

  • Student teaching. And then actual teaching. And then quitting. And then going back. And then quitting again.
  • Staying late at school to make the classroom feel like a home, only to be told by administration that I needed to improve my “time management.”
  • Getting COVID and teaching through it. Teaching during BLM. Teaching after Hurricane Sally. Teaching during everything and nothing.
  • Working in schools where we were told to make magic out of trauma. Where we were told to teach kids how to regulate before they’d even been given enough food or safety or sleep.
  • Helping other people regulate their nervous systems while mine was on fire.
  • Every single professional development session about “self-care” while being given fewer resources and more students.
  • Learning to love my students deeply and having to say goodbye over and over again.
  • Law firms that said “we’re like a family” and then made me talk to 90 people a day while smiling through panic attacks.
  • Being autistic and masking for so long I forgot what I actually wanted and who I was doing all this for.
  • Pretending to be okay so convincingly that no one noticed when I wasn’t.

Burnout doesn’t always look like collapse.
 Sometimes it looks like showing up every day with a smile you carved out of your own skin.
Sometimes it looks like organizing the fridge while dissociating.
Sometimes it looks like daydreaming about an illness just bad enough to force a pause.

You don’t just have burnout.
You become it.
You become the shell that keeps moving. The autopilot. The expert in pretending.

The Aftermath

  • The emptiness after quitting. The way silence hums louder when you’re no longer useful to someone else.
  • Staring at walls, wondering who I am without a job to orbit around. Without a crisis to manage. Without a fire to throw myself into.
  • People asking, “So what’s next?” like I didn’t just crawl out of a burning building.
  • The shame spiral of rest. Of stillness. Of needing time and not being able to earn it.
  • Trying to “get better” fast enough to make the burnout worth it. To justify the collapse.
  • Grieving the person I had to be to survive. And also grieving the people who still expect me to be her.
  • Losing access to joy because everything feels like it could become a job again if I’m not careful.
  • Forgetting what it feels like to want something. Not just tolerate it. Not just endure it. Want it.

The aftermath is quiet, but it isn’t peaceful.
It’s disorienting.
Like waking up in a stranger’s house with no memory of how you got there.
Like realizing you’ve been surviving on emergency mode for years, and now you can’t remember your own favorite color.

Recovery isn’t a glow-up.
 It’s crying because you finally feel safe enough to feel anything.
It’s staring at a blank calendar and feeling your nervous system twitch with withdrawal.
It’s learning to rest without bargaining.
It’s mourning all the years you pushed through instead of pausing.

But here’s what I know now:

Burnout is not a personal failure.
It’s not a weakness.
It’s not proof that you weren’t strong enough.

It’s the body’s last attempt at protection.
It’s your spirit throwing a wrench into the machine.
It’s your soul saying: This is not sustainable. This is not love. This is not life.

So no, I don’t have a five-year plan.
I don’t know what my next job title will be.
But I do know I don’t want to live a life that requires me to be exhausted in order to feel valuable.

I want to live slowly.
I want to rest without guilt.
I want softness without scarcity.
I want joy that isn’t mined from pain.

Maybe I won’t have a resume that makes sense.
Maybe I’ll never climb a ladder.
But I’m learning that surviving isn’t the same as living.
And I’m tired of surviving.

I want to build a life where I don’t have to burn out to belong.
Where I am allowed to be whole, even if I’m not productive.
Where warmth isn’t a job requirement—it’s just who I am, freely given, finally kept.

A classroom scene with several children raising their hands, and a teacher standing at the front. The room is decorated with educational materials, and an American flag is visible in the background.