Let me start by assuring you that this article is not to persuade anyone to leave the profession, nor is it a criticism or reflection of any specific individuals or institutions with whom or in which I have worked. Perhaps that's what made my burnout all the more difficult to acknowledge, accept and embrace. Having read countless books and articles on burnout, I have come to realise that it is something which will be unique to everyone, and for me, there have been many contributing factors. My hope for any reader in a similar position is that they don't feel alone and perhaps will be able to seek support after reading.
‘My calling and duty’
I was a teacher for 19 years and had been a head of department for seven of them, before stepping down to have my first son. During my time in charge, I built up the department and it gained an enviable reputation both locally and nationally. I was joined by an NQT in 2010, who then took over as head of department in 2014. Together, our vision and passion for music education took the department in many exciting directions, both in and out of the classroom. The department, and the two of us as music educators, became quite well-known in UK music education. We received unending support from the headteacher and SLT, who trusted us implicitly.
I have always believed that every child is entitled to a rigorous and exciting music curriculum, and should be provided with as many opportunities to make and discover music as possible. It's what drove me to work long hours, planning and collaborating, providing numerous extracurricular groups, and looking for performing opportunities in the wider community.
I felt it was my calling and duty to bring this to my students; and, while it was exhausting, provided that I could see the benefits of it all, I believed the hard work was worth it, every time. The sense of achievement and pride I felt in this community that I had created and continued to build with someone who also became a close friend was something very special. On top of this, working with colleagues and friends was brilliant. I felt valued and that I was living the true definition of vocation.
I had never entertained an alternative status quo in my life and career. I was able to balance work, motherhood and family life well and was grateful for what I had. I sometimes wonder if all of this was already unknowingly affecting me and was perhaps sped up by the following experiences.
Chipping away at reserves
In the summer of 2018, I had a miscarriage at 15 weeks. The details of it are too complex and traumatic to tell here but this experience definitely triggered new behaviours and a new outlook in me. As someone who has always gritted my teeth and pushed on with life, I found that I couldn't do this anymore. Months of immediate and intense new struggles presented themselves to me, including anxiety in many forms and a slowing down of processing skills. Plus, I didn't sleep very well.
I had nothing but overwhelming support from family, friends and colleagues – they, along with professional support, helped me navigate the period, but the experience has undeniably changed me in the longer term. The most noticeable professional change is probably that I can't fire from all cylinders like before and am easily overwhelmed. I still enjoyed working, but found that everything took more energy than it used to. I didn't realise that this was steadily chipping away at my reserves.
When music-making as we knew it disappeared in March 2020, we had to manage new personal and professional pressures. The music world exploded with online rehearsals, countless multi-screen videos and admirable attempts to stay connected to each other. I was unable to engage in much beyond the provision of online learning, but surprised myself at how little it affected me. I didn't feel the loss of the department like so many others did, particularly on social media. If anything, I was relieved and grateful for the respite from the daily grind; perhaps this was a sign of things to come.
© MARY LONG/ADOBESTOCK
Crippling guilt
The challenges of returning to school in September 2020 were immense. Huge limitations placed on music-making demanded depths of energy and optimism, which I tried to sustain; we would come through this as a community, and I wanted to make a difference. The job was much harder, but every teacher was going through it, and it wouldn't be forever. At least I got to do it in a wonderful school with supportive colleagues and friends – things could be much worse.
I felt I owed it to the school and the profession to keep going and do what I could. Bubbles and staggered lunchtimes limited provision, and trying to re-establish even a mere semblance of our previous extra-curricular programme began to take its toll. I'll admit now that it was quite soul-destroying to put everything I had into lessons and clubs, for it not to look anything like it had done in my previous 18 years of teaching. This was no one's fault, so I ignored it and just hoped it would go away.
I think I hoped that returning to the music classroom would herald a renewed energy and enjoyment. I tried to convince myself of this and always felt that any negativity I was feeling towards the profession would be short-lived and that the benefits of working in a wonderful place outweighed how I felt. I certainly didn't hate every moment; I think I had lost the love and was exhausted but was reluctant and scared to admit it. When you've declared music education as your calling from the age of 22, to say that this has changed 20 years later and that you can't really hack it anymore feels like some kind of admission of personal failure.
My colleague deciding to move abroad made me face up to how I really felt about teaching. Having spent 15 years at this school, 11 of those working as a partnership, the thought of forging new relationships on top of the growing exhaustion was something I couldn't face in the next academic year and beyond. The guilt was crippling. Finding the courage to admit this to myself and to my wonderful headteacher and SLT was one of the hardest things I have done. I was met with nothing but compassion and understanding.
Time to address it
Leaving my school and the profession in July 2021 was heartbreaking for so many reasons, but it was undeniably the right thing to do. I spent most of September sleeping and resting, with a weird blank square in my mind about my career. Any kind of ‘mental stimulation’ required a huge amount of rest afterwards. I realise now that I had to stop in order to even contemplate any kind of recovery. Three months on and I am certainly a lot better and can think more clearly, but there's still a way to go. I appreciate that I am very lucky to be able to make such a break.
There are clear contributing factors to my burnout, but I am sure that this exhaustion could present itself to anyone at any time, and that just because there is no recognisable trigger, it doesn't mean it can't happen. Mental health and wellbeing are constantly evolving states, but perhaps if we are somewhere we don't like for longer than normal, it's time to address it.
An achievement in itself
Burnout crept up on me with the triggers exposing what was already happening. Leaving was the right thing to do for me but there are plenty of other options too. Talking to someone will help you realise that it's okay to feel like this and that it's no reflection on you. As I write this, I still find it hard to convince myself that I was still good at my job until the very last day, but that I needed the break.
Regardless of any personal experiences, we have been and still are going through a nationwide trauma. It will have affected us in different ways. I miss the school community, sharing experiences and having an impact on the students. I have no idea if I'll go back, and I think that's okay. Facing up to the burnout has been an achievement in itself, and I am sure that one day I'll be grateful for the time.
For more information on burnout, or general mental health guidance and support, visit:
