Stepping into the Unknown

by Rachel Pesnell | HR Business Partner

I am a Great Resigner.

That is, I am someone who unintentionally participated in the Great Resignation. That is not to say that I slipped, fell, and—oops!—resigned. 

Instead, in August 2021, I had every intention of finishing my ninth year in the classroom as a secondary English teacher. Yet in all transparency, I was floundering. Like many educators who taught during the COVID pandemic, I was completely exhausted. A normal school year typically left me drained. 

Teaching through a pandemic? It was unimaginable. 

I navigated virtual teaching, hybrid teaching, enforcing mask mandates, scheduling changes for sick students (only for the changes to be reversed once the student returned to campus), missing assignments at double or triple the normal rate, and declining social and emotional well-being with little-to-no training and with the expectation that students would be required to end the year with the state standardized assessment.

However, I taught in a highly-rated district that was also touted as the fastest-growing in the state of Texas. I should have felt lucky to teach there . . . right?

Wrong. Toxic positivity reigned supreme, and my ability to filter through the bullshit was depleted. 

I thought the 2020–2021 school year was the most difficult one of my career, so I spent summer break attempting to relax by doing what normally refreshes me—reading, taking naps, and cuddling with my fur babies. In spite of my best efforts to recharge, seeing the back-to-school items at Target nearly left me in tears.

As the end of summer break approached, I absolutely dreaded returning to the classroom. What made it even worse was being around some of my colleagues who shared how excited they were for the school year. Their joy at welcoming another group of new students left me feeling guilty and ashamed.

That is not to say that all of my fellow educators were performing enthusiastic cheer routines down the hallway with smiles stretched across their faces. Instead, it felt like those who expressed their optimism about the school year were the only voices heard.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and one day I was joined by a colleague in the small teacher’s lounge across from my classroom.   Even sharing that detail now makes me feel guilty since most teachers would love to have access to an adult restroom, copier, refrigerator, and microwave just a few steps away. 

I asked how they were doing and expected the typical response—something of the “I’m good” or “Things are fine” variety. Instead, they admitted to me that they were also struggling. 

Like me, they were still feeling burnt out from the 2020–2021 academic year. This should have made me feel better. I mean, the things that make us feel alone are often the same ones that unite us, right?

My feelings weren’t simply validated by knowing that I wasn’t the only one who was having a tough time. Rather, learning that someone else felt the same way actually compounded my own feelings and left me even more demoralized. I couldn’t imagine how the school year would improve.

Enter my proverbial Achilles heel: I am loyal to a fault. This was my seventh year in the district, and I was in my second year as both a department head and a Gifted & Talented teacher. During the 2020–2021 school year, my GT class was the highlight for me. Unfortunately, that feeling was not enough to keep me positive and forward-thinking in the current academic year.

As the semester progressed, my feelings not only didn’t change but they were also compounded by the death of my beloved grandmother on Halloween. When I returned to the classroom after her funeral, I set my grieving to the side as best I could in order to get through the few days that were left before Thanksgiving break.

After the holiday, I was behind on grading and planning, my patience was running low, and my ability to focus was declining. On November 30, I received an email from a parent that finally pushed me over the edge.

“You haven’t been able to compartmentalize your work, and I just don’t think you should go back,” said Garett, my husband, as I cried at the dinner table that night. 

Starting December 1, I went on leave and spent the next six weeks weighing the pros and cons of permanently leaving the field of education. I experienced even more guilt at the fact that my work now shifted to my colleagues, and my students likely didn’t understand what happened to me. I was there one day and quite literally gone the next.

I used the next six weeks to give myself the space to explore these feelings of resentment, exhaustion, and helplessness. I was almost a decade into the career from which I imagined I would one day retire, and I worried that resigning would create even more stress. Moreover, I doubted my ability to successfully transition into another field.

One day, I decided to join LinkedIn and quickly realized that there were many other educators experiencing similar challenges. For the first time, I felt hopeful that I would be able to start my career over. This hope gave me the confidence and courage to put myself and my well-being first.

I submitted my resignation, effective February 1, 2022.

One Step Forward and Two Steps Back

Using the research I accumulated from LinkedIn, I narrowed down the career fields in which I was most interested, and, like many other educators looking to leave the classroom, I decided on instructional design. 

I thought applying for jobs would be as simple as tweaking my résumé and hitting the “Apply” button, which I started doing by the handful each day. I quickly found out that I was wrong! 

One day, I happened upon a Reddit post discussing how to transition into instructional design. The user explained that the hiring manager for their department wasn’t even looking at any candidates who didn’t have a portfolio. 

I remember thinking to myself: A portfolio?! Who would be interested in learning the difference between compound, complex, and compound-complex sentences?! This was the only type of content I had readily available to go into a portfolio, and I knew that my application would be judged alongside those of people who had actual experience in this field.

Pause.

That’s what I did—I made myself pause and reflect. From there, I quickly realized that I needed to step back from applying and step towards building relevant skills that I could then use to create a portfolio that wouldn’t induce eye rolls and sighs.

My life then became a blur of both unfamiliar and re-purposed terms and/or acronyms: Upskilling, re-skilling, ADDIE, Articulate, instructor-led training, Camtasia, SMEs, stakeholders, storyboarding, etc. 

When I wasn’t spending time on LinkedIn Learning, I was either networking or actually applying the new skills I had learned. I taught myself how to use Adobe InDesign and Illustrator. I created an infographic on neurodivergence at work. I started researching instructional design programs that would help me further my skills.

One day, I received a Connect request on LinkedIn from Jesse Lee Eller, the Founder and CEO of Studio 5. I clicked on his profile which led me to Studio 5’s website.

My first thought: Everyone looks genuinely happy. No stuffy corporate headshots here!

My second thought: There’s a VP (Vice Pooch) of Fun?!

I then accepted Jesse’s request to Connect and sent him a brief message to say that while I didn’t believe I had enough experience at that moment to apply for Studio 5’s then-open position, I would love to be considered for future roles.

To my pleasant surprise, he not only responded, but he also asked for my résumé. That email led to a meeting with Jesse and Marcus Hollan, the Chief People Officer, on March 3, and by March 11, I had accepted and signed an offer letter. . . for a role in human resources.

Wait. What?! Queue the record scratch!

The steps of my interview process were the same as the ones for our Learning Experience Designers and Learning Program Managers, but I was hired to help Marcus develop Studio 5’s internal team.

I never thought I would work in human resources, but I absolutely love it. 

Some might say that this role cannot be as rewarding as teaching young people and helping them to achieve their goals. I would argue that it is just as rewarding to work alongside individuals who help thousands of other people grow by learning new skills.

Furthermore, my decision to leave teaching continues to be validated: I now work in a place that encourages me to ask questions, provides me with consistent feedback, invites me into the conversation, and supports my development.

I am now able to take care of my health, which was often shoved to the side until summer break. I no longer carry resentment towards my work since I can actually enjoy my evenings and weekends. I love that my work commute now consists of a brief jaunt to my office at the front of the house. I enjoy the extra time I am able to spend with my fur babies during my work day.

Most importantly, I feel appreciated, and I love that my vulnerability is celebrated at Studio 5.

My Advice

So, to others—both educators and non-educators alike—who may be experiencing similar feelings of frustration and hopelessness as I was, I want to offer the following advice:

1. Trust your gut.

My body signaled that something was wrong, and I ignored it for months, if not years. If you are someone who struggles in this same way and if you are financially able to, I highly recommend working with a therapist to discuss these feelings and to help you come to a decision. I can admit that I am in a position of privilege where I can afford therapy, but if you are not, discuss these feelings with a friend or loved one who will be honest and upfront with you.

2. Give yourself the space to explore other options.

Reflect on the parts of your current job that you most enjoy and create a list of the skills needed for those aspects. Use LinkedIn, Indeed, etc. to research positions that match those skills. 

3. Learn something (or multiple somethings) new!

When you find a role that piques your interest, spend some time taking introductory courses for that role using resources like Udemy, LinkedIn Learning, etc. This way, you can begin to gauge whether or not those roles will be a good fit for you.

4. Reach out and connect with others.

Identify people in your network who may be able to provide you with guidance and feedback. If you know someone who transitioned careers, take them out for coffee and speak with them about their experience. 

Another option is to start building a network on LinkedIn. As a teacher, I never used LinkedIn, but once I started my new career search, I found that having a LinkedIn profile was a necessary step. However, this means you will need to spend time engaging with other people’s content, and I’d also recommend posting your own. 

5. Be your most authentic self.

In your job search, identify organizations whose values align with your own. I know that Studio 5’s belief in valuing people resonated with me. I felt comfortable being transparent, which was further reinforced by the fact that my initial interview with Jesse and Marcus felt more like an easy conversation.

The Leap of Faith

I recognize that my career transition cannot be simply copied and pasted by another person. However, I hope that by sharing my own story, I can help others who may feel discouraged and overwhelmed at the thought of starting over. 

We all deserve to work in a place that values us, our skills, and our well-being. In order to do this, though, you have to be willing to step towards the unknown. My own experience was not easy, but I chose to bet on myself by taking that initial leap of faith.

I encourage you to take a chance on yourself.