When my firstborn was six months old, and my maternity leave was only half over, I went back to work—not because I wanted to, but because my career as an elementary school teacher was on the line. I had spent three years chasing teaching’s golden trophy, a permanent contract, and if I didn’t get back in the classroom I’d find myself back at the bottom of the ladder.
But having my son changed everything. When I told the other moms at school that I was struggling with the transition back to work, one woman’s response was “Honey, you’ve just gotta rip off that band-aid.” Well, rip it off I had but it seemed to be taking a long time to heal. My heart was at home with my son and every day I left it there as I walked the few minutes up the road to school.and I woke in the morning with heavy eyes and a sense of dread looming over me.
Sitting in his swivel chair on the other side of that big desk, he went into a long spiel about the importance of hard work, how he learned to make sacrifices in his life and how his ambition enabled him to get where he was today. These were things I used to believe in, things I used to be good at. I had been an A+ student. I went to university on a full scholarship and graduated with honours. I was’t this person who got called to the principal’s office for slacking.I slunk lower and lower into my chair as he spoke, trying to hold back tears, feeling my face burn hot with shame., I thought.