I should be going back to work today. Or really, I should have gone back about ten days ago, for SLT preparation ahead of the A Level results. But I’m not. Because I’ve been awarded early retirement on health grounds. And it’s one of the strangest experiences of my life.
I was brought up with such a strong work ethic. My Mum and Dad set the tone, always working hard, always busy, giving up whatever free time they had to take me to music lessons, orchestra practices, swimming club and all the rest. Even our holidays were busy: no lying on sun-loungers by the pool for us: we were always active, with long walks, swims, museum or gallery visits, or shopping trips where my Mum was most definitely on a mission. I’ve always joked that, as I had a Catholic upbringing but attended a non-Catholic grammar school, I ended up with a marvellous combination of Catholic guilt and a Protestant work ethic. Self-deprecation aside, that combination got me through the rigours of A levels, music grades, university degrees and a 32-year career in teaching. So, it can’t have been all bad. But it’s that very combination which is making not going back to work ever-earlier in August such a challenge.
When I was leaving school as an 18-year-old, my A Level English Literature teacher asked me what I was planning to do once I’d finished university. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I know it won’t be teaching. I’ve had enough of school to last me a lifetime.’ Now that I’ve left school again, so many years on, I’ve never done anything else other than teaching, and I have no regrets, other than having to retire a few years early.
I had my first taste of teaching in France, during the year abroad part of my English and French degree, and absolutely loved it. Post-PGCE, I worked in Mount Lourdes Enniskillen for four years, leaving only because I was persuaded to move up to the north coast to get married. I started in Loreto College Coleraine 28 years ago – spending exactly half of my life as a teacher there. During that time, I spent more-or-less 20 years as Head of English and seven years on SLT. Over various years, I also served as school Press Officer, Social Media Coordinator, Key Skills Coordinator, School Magazine Editor and Literacy Coordinator. Not bad for the LinkedIn profile which I edited earlier this week.
I’ve been trying to recall exactly what was said in the much-too-kind speech made in my honour at the end of June: while listening to it, I was simply concentrating on trying not to cry. Piecing together the words, I think I was known in school for being very organised and diligent; for having an unfailing and deep-seated love of my subject and of learning per se; for being an avid reader with an inexplicable level of love of the work of William Shakespeare; for being a bit eccentric, with an ever-growing collection of rubber ducks in my classroom, many of which I ‘rescued’ before the school year ended, while the others were given away to pupils as souvenirs. Thinking back to what colleagues and successive school Principals said to me at times – I was known for impeccable documentation and epic-length Departmental Reports; for a love of puns and wordplay which made one (now retired) Principal comment that I ‘should really be writing headlines for the Daily Mirror’; for an attention to detail of spelling, grammar and punctuation which led colleagues to phone or email me randomly during school days asking me how to spell a word, phrase a sentence or whether I could possibly proof-read something for them. I’ve had emails and comments from former students which have brought me to the point of not being able to see my phone screen, saying that they’d loved my sense of humour, my reassuring attitude that ‘it would all be all right’, my ability to listen, and my habit of letting them watch episodes of Frasier on the last day of term. On the other hand, I’ve also been asked who do I think I am, the Grammar Police, asked whether I’m really as boring as I seem (to which I replied, even more so), and there was that time last September when I was working in my classroom one afternoon, door propped open for ventilation, enjoying the quiet, when I heard two boys walking along the corridor, one saying to the other, ‘You know: she only has all those ducks because it means she doesn’t have to have a personality’. I managed to hold in my laughter until they had wandered away…
There is simply so much that I’ll miss about teaching, that I couldn’t even begin to make a comprehensive list. Most of all, though: the people. The school buildings in Loreto are in need of a complete overhaul, and I hope I’m invited back to see the new school when it’s eventually been built. It’s the people who bring the tired old classrooms and corridors to life: the colleagues, the pupils, the Loreto Community who visit often, the parents and families who come in to support the pupils in the course of the year. I will miss the hundreds of tiny interactions which each day held, even if this proved exhausting from time to time. I’ll miss the absolute privilege of introducing generations of young people to an academic subject which is one of the great loves of my life. Seeing pupils become more articulate in expressing themselves verbally or in writing, or understanding texts which made little sense at first, or finding something consoling, funny, moving, or even infuriating in a literary text… you cannot put a price on the joy to be found in doing that for a living. Post-primary education can be challenging (one word: teenagers!), but it's magical as well. Next week, first years will arrive, eyes wide with terror, their uniforms bought to grow into and their schoolbags almost as big as themselves. They’ll leave, almost miraculously, either five or seven years later, smiling and confident young adults ready to take exciting new steps as they find their place in the world. I’ll miss standing at the front door with my SLT colleagues, next week, welcoming the new first years, and I’ll miss seeing how the many pupils I taught in the last few years have grown up when they return in September: laughing with the third years that most of them are now taller than me, or having sensible conversations with the new sixth form about what they’ve read, what concerts they ‘ve attended, and what they plan to do next.
Of course, there are most definitely things I won’t miss at all. In-house exam marking and reports… wrangling over exam board mark appeals in August and September… meetings which could have been emails, or emails which would have worked better as chats… bus duty in the rain… seven-minute lunch breaks and three-minute coffee breaks… struggling to organise personal appointments to fit in with the calendar… having no phone signal in my classroom and no time to look at my phone anyway…
But most of all, I will not miss being off sick.
The last five years of my career were marked by absences, which were much more frequent than I wanted. That Catholic guilt/ Protestant work ethic thing certainly made itself felt. I’ve suffered from chronic pain since I was about 30, but it’s worsened significantly in the last few years. For so long, nobody would have guessed that there was anything wrong, and I often forgot about it myself, other than often being more than normally tired during evenings, weekends and holidays. As an only child, I had huge caring responsibilities for my Mum and Dad in the last years of their lives, and the travelling involved, as well as the worry and, eventually, the grief at losing them, weakened my reserves. In October 2021, I got Covid and bronchitis simultaneously, leading into a six-month period of Long Covid when I really was quite seriously ill. I returned to work after a lengthy absence, but never recovered my full energy, which was deeply frustrating, because I certainly recovered full enthusiasm. I balanced caring for Dad and working full time for another two years, again missing school for a couple of months during and after Dad’s final weeks. Again, I returned. Again, I felt worse. And worse. And worse. Some days I was in pain which sometimes reduced me to tears in my storeroom between lessons. Worst of all was the guilt when I was off: seeing my name on the cover rota email every day, sending in work, hoping that the sub teacher was coping, and that everyone was behaving and achieving; feeling that I’d let everybody down. My GP and I reached the decision, in late January, that I should apply for ill-health retirement, and that I should begin my retirement unofficially by being signed off until the end of the school year. I knew it was the right call, but I felt my heart breaking as I processed what was happening, filled in the forms, attended the appointments, heard about my pupils completing the year without me. Right now, what I’m looking forward to most about retirement is accepting that I’ve left. I’m not phoning in sick. I’m not setting cover work. There isn’t a sub teacher in my classroom. I’ve left. Somebody else is running the English Department, and she’s moved into EN4. It’s sorted. I don’t need to feel guilty anymore. Everything is going to be all right.
So, when people kindly ask me whether I’ve made any plans: I really haven’t. My only plan is this: to live. My days will probably centre around exercise, keeping healthy(-ish), keeping those painful bones and muscles moving, so a walk, a swim, or an easy gym session will probably be the heart of my day. I’ll continue to read, and read, and read. I might do some study or research. I hope to write, and I hope to write things that are much better than this: this is just a starting point. I want to recover my enjoyment of music: play the piano, maybe even attempt the violin, after many years. I want to enjoy the simple tasks that make up a day: looking after the house, the garden, the laundry… challenging myself to beat the odds in daily word puzzles. I hope to keep in touch with family, friends and former colleagues- maybe there will be laughter and telling of old tales over cups of coffee which we’ll give ourselves time to finish. I love my coastal home: I remarked during a walk earlier this month that, for 28 years, I could have been living almost anywhere, as I didn’t have time to enjoy the scenery or explore the coastline – ‘I feel as if I’ve retired to Portrush’, I said, even though I’ve lived here for long enough to count as an adopted local. I’m not booking that world cruise, taking up golf, planning to spend the winter months on the French Riviera, or aiming to become a social media influencer. Not yet anyway. And probably not ever. To that pupil who asked, last November: yes, I really am that boring.
Retiring early, and unexpectedly, simply going off sick and never coming back, is strange. I didn’t know that that lesson with my Lower Sixth Literature class, that freezing December afternoon, which I’d really enjoyed, would be my last one. I didn’t know that trip to the Grand Opera House with my GCSE Literature class in October would be my last school trip - I had two more daytrips booked for the Spring Term! But after all- we don’t know when the last time is, ever, in life. School terms create reliable, comforting structures, where it’s clear when years begin and end, when new arrivals appear, and when leavers say goodbye. Life isn’t always that predictable: certainly not mine. I am so thankful to have worked in two marvellous schools, with the most wonderful colleagues and pupils. Whereas I won’t miss the 6.11am weekday alarm, I will miss that bubble of excitement of a new year, new uniforms, new books, new plans, and the thrill of new learning.
2025-2026 is the first academic year when I’m not involved in education: I've found it strange not preparing a diary or planner for the year ahead. All those years have been measured out in red pen ticks and formative feedback. Gazing around my study as I search for a good last line, my eyes fall on the brass plaque gifted by a very dear colleague when she retired, bearing the Michelangelo quotation, ‘I am still learning’. My colleague felt that summed me up, and she was right.
I’m not going back to work today. And, although there are tears in my eyes as I think of it, I know that the decision was correct. 2025-2026 is my new year of learning new ways to live. Looking back fondly at the richness of those memories. Looking forward to new adventures – new books – new seascapes. Letting the guilt slip away.
Finding a new bubble of excitement to light up the promise and opportunity in the days ahead.
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