I Might Fail, but Time Won’t Just Pass Me By

“It’s not about time, it’s about choices. How are you spending your choices?” ~Beverly Adamo

You hit a point in life after which choices seem to become less and less reversible. As if they were engraved in stone.

No matter how many motivational posts about following your own timeline and going at your own pace cross your Instagram wall.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself that it’s never too late to start a new career, move into a new house, or find the right person. It’s not that you don’t believe it—it just does not work for you. It’s okay for other people to follow their dreams and dance to their own rhythm. But not for you.

You feel like you’re in school again, falling behind.

The more you tell yourself that you don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations, the more you realize the only person you’re afraid to disappoint is the one looking back at you in the mirror.

I used to listen to this song that goes,

I wake up in the middle of night

It’s like I can feel time moving

And I did. I did wake up at 3:00 a.m., haunted by question marks.

And to think that I was doing everything right! I had graduated, moved in with my boyfriend, and started working as a teacher. I had a spotless resume.

Still, I was obsessed with the idea of time moving. Of time unstoppably reaching the point after which I simply would’ve had no choice but to stop seeing my situation as temporary and resign to the fact that no greater idea had come to my mind—and that I was stuck with that.

With my daily life in the classroom.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those people who ended up teaching because they couldn’t get a better job. On the contrary, teaching has always been my passion. It still is.

The classroom, on the other hand…

There was not a single day in my four years as a teacher during which I really thought this could be a good fit for me in the long run. Not once.

There were bad days, good days. “Easy” classes, tough classes. Small victories, daily failures. Parents who wanted to sue me and students who wanted me to adopt them—one of those end-of-the-school-year letters still hangs on my fridge. But each and every one of those days, I knew I wanted this to be temporary.

I didn’t want to stay in the classroom forever.

It’s hard to pin it down. All I wanted to do was to be myself and teach something I love. But, as a teacher, you and your students don’t exist in a bubble. You’re very much intertwined with the complicated, emotionally loaded context of the classroom. So, you’re forced to impersonate the role of the Teacher.

Unlike me, the Teacher was able to come to terms with the pressing matter of relevance. I knew that most of the curriculum I had to teach, and the way in which I had to teach it, was so far removed from the reality of my students that no amount of interactive lesson plans and student-centered methodologies could help me get the point across.

As the Teacher, I was supposed to feel comfortable in the role, to identify myself with it rather than question it every step of the way. I just didn’t feel at ease. As a facilitator, as a guide, as a tutor, I’d always felt whole—not as a teacher. As much as I admired and respected those who did, I couldn’t do the same.

I really, really did everything I could to solve my issues.

I tried to fake it ‘til I made it. I read all the books. Attended all the courses. Shared my thoughts.

Every time I told someone how I felt, they would reply with all the right things.

That it’s just the first few years, until you get used to it, and I’m sure it is true—for me.

That you’re actually really doing something for the kids, that you’re making a difference—and I don’t doubt that teachers do make a difference. Just not me.

That you need to come to terms with the fact that, no matter what your job is, it is not supposed to be fun or fulfilling. But, as whiny as it might sound, that’s what I needed it to be.

Maybe not perfect, maybe not idyllic, but please, please, please not meaningless.

And then the intruding thought: “What, ‘cause you’re special? ‘Cause you’re too good to just get by, day in and day out, like everyone does?”

I’ve always worried about being difficult, and I really wanted it to work, so that sensation of having to crawl into someone else’s skin every day when I got into the classroom—I just tried to push it aside. To swallow it down and get myself together.

Still, it was there, and the only way to stop it was to think that it could be temporary after all.

Just until you find a better job.

Just until you come up with something else.

Just until you find out what the hell is wrong with you.

The only thing that managed to distract me was studying. I would come home and study, trying to keep my mind alive, trying to keep it dreaming, trying to keep it learning.

I invested time and money, draining all my energies. I was constantly tired from the effort of basically being a full-time student on top of a full-time job. Luckily, I had the support of my boyfriend—later, husband—who had no idea what it all would amount to but could see that I needed it.

It’s not like I had a project, though. I ached for meaning. I needed to learn something that felt real to me.

That’s how I started to dig into languages. Here was something that felt relevant, immediate. You could learn it and use it straight away. You could communicate—something I just wasn’t able to do in my classroom teaching.

I passed exams. I passed more exams. I kept piling up certificates and prayed that one day it would all start to sort of look like a plan. Before it was too late, before I had to admit to just being an overachieving, overqualified teacher.

I knew the danger—some people, when they’re unhappy, just give up and become passive. Others, like me, do the opposite. They keep spinning their wheels because, as long as you’re busy, you don’t have to face the reality of how you feel.

That’s what hit me every time I woke up at three am. How much time did I still have to change tracks? How long before it was too late for me?

It’s like I can feel time moving…

I wish I could tell you that I finally found my way and that this is a story of success. The truth is, I don’t know if it will ever be.

Last Christmas I suddenly realized my personal hourglass had run out of sand. I just knew that if I set foot again in the classroom in September, it would no longer be temporary. I felt this was my last chance to try and do something different before giving up for good.

I stopped waiting for the universe to reveal its mysterious plans and took my fate into my own hands. Teaching outside the classroom was something I had always vaguely dreamed of doing but never dared to.

What if I’m not good enough?

What if I don’t earn enough?

What if it feels even worse than in the classroom—and would that mean that the problem was really just me all along, no matter what I do and where I do it?

What if I messed up my plan B, too? What then?

I just finally said, “To hell with it.” There must be a bit of truth in all those Instagram motivational posts, right?

As of now, I am trying to build a career as a tutor and language teacher for adults, and I have no idea if I am going to make it.

I closed my eyes and jumped right in, expecting the water to be icy cold, but it wasn’t. I braced myself for the anxiety this new uncertainty would bring with it, just to find that I actually feel at peace.

There are plans to make, problems to solve, no financial stability, and no guarantee of success—something my perfectionist self can hardly manage. And still, it feels far less daunting and menacing than time slowly gnawing at me.

I wish I could tell you that this story has a moral.

That you should stop listening to good advice and common sense and just follow your guts, and that you may be surprised by how much unexpected support you receive or how little you need.

That you shouldn’t try so hard to be something you’re not at all costs.

That there are many ways to find meaning, and no one can tell you how to do it for yourself.

That sometimes giving up takes more courage than sticking with something until it becomes routine.

But, to tell the truth, I don’t feel like it was brave of me to change paths. It wasn’t about choosing the easiest or the hardest thing—it was about choosing the honest thing.

I wish I could tell you I no longer wake up in the middle of the night, but the truth is, I do, because I’m so caught up in this new adventure that I really can’t stop jotting down ideas and looking for job opportunities.

I know I don’t have to prove myself to anyone, and I also know that I can’t help but feel like I should, and that’s okay too.

I know I might fail, and I’m not so bold as to plainly say I don’t care if I do. I actually do care, a lot.

But one thing’s for sure—I no longer live in the fear of time passing me by.