I’ve wanted to be a teacher since I was ten years old. I’ve wanted to be an English teacher since I was about fourteen. That’s a pretty specific life goal and I did a lot to ensure that I had the necessary credentials.
I spent countless hours volunteering as a teacher’s assistant when I was doing my A-Levels. I went to university and got a degree in Literature and Writing.
The year that I go to apply, I’m tired. I’m leaning towards taking a year out and so I dally before sending my application in. I don’t get onto the course. Fair enough, whatever. I look (unsuccessfully) for a job. I apply again, this time early enough to be considered. I volunteer at a children’s centre and re-do my work experience at a secondary school.
I go to an interview. I don’t get it.
Now I’m certain it’s too late to get in this September. Another year without my goal.
My only problem now is… am I sure, absolutely 100% sure, that I even want it anymore? I’m LOVING my volunteering at the children’s centre; working with little kids, being amazed by their adorableness and their affection for me, by their willingness to try anything, by their shyness and boldness.
I start to think… would I be better as a primary school teacher? My love for literature, for writing, is all well and good, but is it a private passion? Is it something I want to do on my own? Would working with children, covering all the subjects, surrounded by the innocent and the naughty, be better for me?
Or, should I get a “real” job and leave trying to teach for a while? Should I spend time in the world? What if the road I’ve never thought to travel is actually better for me? What if I get that real job and it’s wonderful and perfect and I love it? And what if I don’t?
I’ve wanted to be a teacher since I was ten. I’ve never questioned that, never had questions about what I’d do otherwise.
Now I do. What am I supposed to do?
