I began working for the school district in August 2021, grateful to have a job post-pandemic. After being out of work since Hurricane Harvey, I was thankful this district took a chance on me, even with gaps in my work history. The position had great benefits, and I needed stability. I was optimistic—transitioning from my role as a field technician, where I’d spent years supporting schools all over Houston. The idea of staying in one place, without putting miles on my car or moving equipment around like a U-Haul, felt like a win. And as a teacher, I’d make nearly $20,000 more than before. I truly thought teaching was going to be a better experience.
In October 2022, I started teaching high school computer science at a school 21 miles from home. Teaching was a new world, and I poured myself into it. The school and my students quickly became my priority. I connected with students, my colleagues in the hallway, and even went to Chicago for training, eager to bring back insights to help my students. But over time, I saw things I couldn’t unsee. It wasn’t about educating and supporting students, as I had imagined; it felt like they needed a babysitter more than a teacher. The lack of resources spoke volumes. I constantly found myself scrambling, navigating power outages, no internet, and a shocking scarcity of basic supplies. Imagine teaching a computer science class with only one Chromebook for 23 students—it was almost impossible.
Despite the challenges, I built strong relationships with my colleagues and students. I was a light in a dark environment, they said, and students would often check in on me. But the environment took its toll. There were times when fights broke out in my classroom, placing me on admin’s radar. I was written up for things that seemed small in the grand scheme, like needing a bathroom break, which was hard to get because there was no bathroom on my hallway and no one to cover my class. I even developed health issues because of the stress and lack of access to basic needs—unable to use the restroom for days, I started dehydrating myself just to get through the day. At one point, I had a student attempt self-harm in my classroom, and another was violently attacked by classmates. No amount of professional training prepared me for the weight of what I witnessed and experienced daily.
I tried to create a supportive environment, bringing in supplies like sanitary napkins, deodorant, lotion, snacks, and clean water. But one day, my school leader told me I “didn’t love the kids.” It felt like a punch in the gut, especially given the sacrifices I made to support them every day. I stayed late, used my own money for supplies, and gave every ounce of care I had. To be told I didn’t love them—it was the breaking point.
Teaching taught me so much about resilience, empathy, and my own limits. I’ll never regret the relationships I built or the impact I tried to make. But by January 2024, I knew I couldn’t continue.
To be continued…
