Rewriting My Life: Why I Left the Workforce for My Family

I didn’t want to look back in 20 years and wish I were a better mother.

It was Friday afternoon, and as the final bell rang and my high school students bounded out of the classroom, I sat down and exhaled. Relief, satisfaction, and a tinge of pride washed over me. I submitted all my grades, posted the lesson plans for next week, and even managed to place a grocery order and schedule my son’s doctor appointment during my lunch break. Most importantly, my students were safe. That week, I had 2 suicidal students. The first detailed her struggles in a piece of writing she submitted to me. The other just seemed off. When I invited her to stay after class, she quickly revealed her plans to hurt herself, as if all she needed was to askpermission. I was able to get both of them the help they needed.    

I erased my boards and straightened my desk, so I’d have a clean space to greet me on Monday morning. Before heading out, I took one last look at my inbox. That’s when I saw it. The email informed me that I hadn’t completed the final step in my son’s school application; therefore, it would not be officially reviewed, and he would not be considered for enrollment. I completely broke down.      

I often had to leave for work before my kids were even awake. I kissed them in the half-dark, said goodbye to my husband, and walked out the door apologetically, wracked with guilt. Life’s pace felt furious. I rushed to get out of the house in the morning, rushed to pick them up at school after work, rushed through dinner, and bedtime.  

It all felt wrong.

While I wasn’t able to do everything I wanted with my kids, at least I knew I was doing what needed to be done for them. Now I had failed at that. How could I possibly let something as important as my child’s education fall through the cracks? I felt like a failure.

Between my professional life and my personal life – my students and my own children – I didn’t have any rubber balls; they were all glass. I couldn’t let any of them drop. But something had to give.

My husband and I had a serious conversation about my leaving the workforce. While we had mentioned the idea of me taking a leave of absence from time to time, it never really gained traction. But this time, the idea had weight. As we discussed what this could mean for our family, it began to feel real, even imminent. My husband made it clear this was my decision. I realized the only thing harder than going was staying.

I still felt reluctant. I was nervous about what leaving would do to my sense of identity. After completing my master’s degree, I immediately jumped into the classroom and found where I was supposed to be. I co-founded an annual poetry and art show in Chinatown each spring, where students showcased their work and performed original poetry. I spoke at conferences, sharing new approaches that I implemented in my classroom – what worked and what didn’t – so other educators could learn from my experiences. After winning a grant, I flew my students to Kalaupapa on charter planes to tour the sacred grounds after reading the novel, Moloka‘i by Alan Brennert. I hosted a writing retreat in Kalihi Valley for my International Baccalaureate students to give them a break from the rigorous course load, allowing them to simply explore the art of writing. This was more than just a job to me.  

I was also nervous about how my decision would be perceived. What I didn’t anticipate was the overwhelming support, love, and understanding I received from my colleagues. Feelings of projected judgment from others lived only in my mind. A coworker with grown children told me that if she could have, she would have done exactly what I was doing. When I told my students, one said, “We’re going to miss you. But I understand why you’re doing it. I wish my mom werethere more when I was little.” These words washed away the last traces of doubt.

Everything pointed to a single truth: I didn’t want to look back in 20 years and wish I were a better mother.  

So I jumped. And in between taking over morning drop-off duty and the endless list of to-dos that comes with having a family, I found time to quietly pursue my writing. Motherhood is often viewed as a season that requires much sacrifice and even forces you to defer your dreams.  Ironically, it became the doorway to mine. A leave of absence gave me the time and space to experiment without the pressure that comes with changing careers. Knowing my job was still there waiting for me mitigated risk. If I’m honest, I’m not certain that I would’ve had the courage otherwise. Without kids, I might never have even envisioned a different version of myself.

That year offered a rare pause — a chance to see what else might be possible. After having access to the increased flexibility without subscribing to a 9–to–5, and witnessing how it transformed our family life, I knew I couldn’t relinquish it. At the end of my “gap year” I felt prepared to officially leave teaching and transition into freelance writing.

Sometimes the current of life outpaces even the best of intentions. I realized this on that Friday afternoon, crying at my laptop. The moment it all fell apart — when the systems I had in place broke down under the unsustainable weight of what they were carrying — changed everything. Perhaps that’s the real reckoning – in failure, opportunity waits.  When we get back up, it’s amazing what we can put back together. Often it doesn’t look the same — it looks different, sometimes wildly so. Just as in the Japanese art of Kintsugi, which repairs broken bowls into vessels of renewed beauty, what is rebuilt can be more valuable, more meaningful, and more uniquely ours than what existed before.