A stupid walk for my stupid mental health
A guest blog written by Emily Ashton @Emilyjashton.
It’s a lovely misty morning, warm enough for a light jacket and I am going for a short walk before work, as I do most mornings. The idea of going for a walk makes me think of someone casually strolling along, a gentle smile on their lips, relaxed hands in pockets, possibly sipping tea from a reusable cup...
This morning I start off listening to the end of a podcast I started yesterday, about organising my kitchen. I think I have ADHD, but it doesn’t stop me obsessing over the idea that somehow I can fix the clutter by just trying another organisation strategy. But that’s another issue.
Anyway, I listen to the lovely Southern American twang of the speaker who is very non- judgemental and kind about the state of the listener’s cluttered Tupperware drawer. I walk alongside the traffic resisting turning up the volume because it’s bad for my hearing. Out of the corner of my eye there is a young girl, maybe 9 (?) she is wearing Angus Young grey school shorts and is scooting down the path. She catches my eye, gives a really genuine smile as I pass and I start thinking about my daughter and how I hope she is that sweet and cool (the shorts) one day.
I turn left up the narrow snicket (I think its also called an alley, ginnel, path depending where in the country you are from) away from the morning traffic on the road to town. This is in no way a dingy or remotely creepy alley, so I definitely wouldn’t call it an alley. More like a path, anyway, semantics. It is straight out of English country garden-type charm. In fact at one point there is a hanging wisteria or something branching out between the walled gardens either side. Bit different to the ones in Bradford where I grew up. Those were definitely snickets and you didn’t have headphones on walking there, just as a point of safety.
Anyway, I reach the end of the path, podcast still discussing the best way to organise Tupperware (FYI it’s using a drawer instead of a cupboard, which I do, so I feel a bit smug). Over the road and down a private road with massive and gorgeous houses either side. Did I mention I live somewhere really frikking beautiful? There is a house at the end of the road, just on the left that is old. It is higgledy piggledy and has all of those tudor beams but at odd angles and it looks as though it has about 20 ghosts. There is a hot tub in the garden. I cross the final lane and into the place I aim for every time I go for a walk. There is woodland to my right and straight ahead is a view across to Bedfordshire. It is in a very small way, like being home. My own piece of copycat Yorkshire down here. It feels like space and air and breathing. I look out over towards the horizon as I do every day and inhale. My podcast ends and instead of starting a new one I decide to pocket my earbuds and try to walk back without any distractions.
There is a lady out walking her dogs, she has three and they look well trained and healthy. She has a whistle around her neck and I have full confidence in her ability to manage them. So does she, she is relaxed and aware of the surroundings. When one of the bolder dogs growls at another passing pup, she immediately but calmly responds with a whistle and a call diverting all three away from the scene with apparent ease. To me, someone who has never had a dog and has a healthy respect for them (read: I’m a bit scared) this is super impressive. She has likely never considered how easy it is for her. The lanyard and whistle suggests that she either works with dogs or trains them and clearly if I asked her or told her how impressive it was she would think I was weird. I have a tendency to gush at people when I am impressed. It’s usually a bit embarrassing.
I’ve reached the end of the open space now and am heading through another snicket towards another row of houses which curves around to meet the private road again so I can head back home. I start thinking about what to write when I get back and think about the girl on the scooter or the lady with the dogs and how I can formulate some kind of life lesson from them. Maybe I could write about overwhelm, maybe I could not write at all and tidy the kitchen or paint my daughter’s bedroom. ,I feel my heart beat in my chest and start to sense that familiar tightening when there is not a next right answer. Perhaps I could read my book or clear my work inbox or plan for the meeting this afternoon. What problems do I need to solve? How can I make the biggest difference? How am I feeling today? Should I do something for me? Is it time for some self-care? What even is self-care? I could write about that... I keep walking, and take a deep breath the small rational part of my brain desperately suggesting that I try some grounding techniques- what are they again?? erm what can I smell? Damp earth to my left and petrol fumes. Okay, I can see tree branches. Keep breathing, count the breaths.
I have reached the private road now and the thoughts have turned more critical. ‘God I can’t focus on anything for more than a second,’ how do I know which thing is the right one to do first?’ ‘Which should I prioritise?’ ‘How can I live in this mess and clutter?’. Maybe I should make a plan for what to clean on different day’, maybe I should organise the Tupperware drawer, maybe I should make a plan to support my daughter to be as confident as smiling scooter girl when she is 9. Should we get a dog? How about a horse?
I can see what is happening as its happening, its like one side of my brain is doing a massive eye roll at the other and being like ‘ here we go again, not going to get much done today are we?’ It starts to then feel like I can’t get a hold of the runaway train part of my brain, why can’t I control it? Heart is beating really fast now- remember you need to breathe, slow down the walking a bit you’re sort of walking weirdly fast. That thing yesterday what did it say, that other strategy? Okay so...
I take a deep breath and say to myself; in my head (I’m not that weird). ‘Even though I am all over the place right now, I accept myself fully.’
(God this is lame).
I repeat it again, maybe even close my eyes for a second. Thankfully the road is deserted.
Even though I am overwhelmed with simple choices right now I accept myself fully.
(I can hear the birds. It’s beautiful).
Even though I am thinking all the thoughts and winding myself up, I accept myself fully.
(I can feel my chest starting to relax, there has been some sort of release at the top just below my collarbones).
Even though it is going to be hard to focus on work today, I accept myself fully.
By the time I reach the pretty snicket again, my racing thoughts have calmed and I think oh, maybe I could write about this. This walk. The hanging lilac flowers come into view, they are just above head height and I hold one in my hand. Its velvety soft and smells so good. I wonder if I can grow one of those, maybe I should research planting a garden when I get home, maybe I could make the kids their own little patch. I should grow vegetables.
I smile to myself and carry on. Another little girl on another scooter across the road on her way to school. I smile again. My mind quiet. There was a point in my stupid walk I wondered if there was any point in doing this stupid walk.
I think I might have figured it out now.
What’s life for children in Ukraine in May 2022?
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‘Leave your lives at the door’. WHAT TOSH. A rant.
I have been lucky enough to connect with a vast number of UK teachers in the last few years. Of these, a significant minority have been those new to the profession (these are always slightly harder to recruit for research – lots to think about already? I hope it isn’t because they underestimate their importance, because their hopes, their reasons for joining the profession (or indeed not) and their reasons for remaining (or not…) are at the very heart of the teacher crisis.
Yes. We’ve having a teacher crisis. You’d have to have been residing in Narnia for the last decade to be unaware of this. I see it as a crisis on two levels. One is because, although the ‘churn’ of teachers leaving and joining is broadly stable, there aren’t enough teachers in some schools and some parts of the country to meet the needs of the ‘population bubble’, currently in years 5 and 6. More crucially, if statistics like these, which came out of my research for How to Survive in Teaching, don’t make us sit up and take notice, I don’t know what will.
So why, I wonder, are stories of prospective teachers being actively put off the profession by their experiences in training so common? They’ve become too common to be passed of as unfortunate exceptions. Allow me to share three examples.
I met a young lady, sparky and full of energy and moral purpose, working in education but not in the classroom. She described how her experience of poor mentoring led her, at the end of her PGCE (an investment of £9k these days, by the way) to decide not even to bother applying to work in schools. Her mentor was permanently stressed, openly critical of her, and downright unsupportive. Now, I understand school can be stressful. We all do. But it is some bitter achievement to so actively dissuade a young person from continuing with the profession they had, not twelve months before, decided to invest themselves in. Where are the priorities? Where is the quality control?
I always advise trainees, as well as being reflective, open to learning and ready to work bloody hard – to be pushy – to know and assert their rights to support, feedback and most crucially, time. After all, they or their families are investing half an annual salary, as well as a year plus of their lives…
Example number 2. Another trainee that I met through my research. By the sounds of her, quite competent. Good feedback on lessons so far. Clearly reflective, negotiating a tricky workload, but coping. She contacted me out of the blue in March to say she wouldn’t be returning to the school the next day. I admit, I was shocked. I asked her why on earth and how on earth it had come to this. ‘I’ve fallen in love,’ she said. ‘My mentor told me that I wouldn’t have a life if I became a teacher – so to make this relationship work, I’m quitting.’ Several months on, this story infuriates me to the point of being lost for words. I’m not sure who or what to be most annoyed with.
Finally, the example that led me to this ranty blog. A friend of the family is doing a PGCE. It will be her second career, and she’s thought about it carefully. She’s actually been working in schools for a couple of years, so she knows what to expect. I am hopeful – she appears way calmer, way more confident and way more savvy than I could have hoped to be when I started training. She is clear about why she wants to be in the profession and clearly likes spending time with young people (it amazes me how many teachers I’ve met who don’t, particularly!).
Cut back to her first seminar of the year and a well-known and well-respected institution. ‘There should be a sign above the entrance saying “leave your lives at the door,” said one of the course leaders. I sputtered. I swore. I ranted. I ranted for quite a long time. She smiled wryly and wisely and I realised she had no intention of leaving her life at the door. The last I knew, she was booking a theatre trip for mid-week next week. And it’s not even half term yet.
But why the bloody hell would anyone with any sense be giving new teachers this kind of message?! Maybe, my family friend speculated, it’s for people who aren’t use to the daily grind of getting up every day at 6.00 (I’m 43, and I’m still not used to it!). Maybe it’s based on past experience of flakiness or lazy students. I have met lazy teachers. About 2 in 21 years. They’re quite rare. I have met flaky teachers. A handful. I have, with regret, refused to sign off with QTS because I felt that, on balance, young people deserved better. None of this rant is an excuse for poor practice – nothing is.
Teachers are not – probably never have been – a homogenous group. They’re people. With lives, and friends, and families and children of their own. They’re people whose own passions and interests actively ENRICH their students’ experience. They’re people with a sense of humour, with weaknesses and eccentricities, all of which contribute to their classroom persona. They’re people with challenges in their personal lives, with their health, with histories of excellent or appalling school experiences. Another excuse for my favourite quote of all time to do with teaching:
Three examples of this is too many. It’s unacceptable and it makes crap business sense. We all need to do our bit to ensure we get new teachers who are, yes, committed, but who are also allowed to be ‘humans first’ – because that’s what our young people respond to best.
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Serendipity, audacity… and bloody hard work. Becoming a published author.
Every time I think I’ve responded to all the messages about the book launch, I blink and there are 15 more. I’m realising that, like the messages, the memories of the event warrant a lot more time. Time to linger, to reflect, and to express gratitude, appreciation and sympathies for the broken down cars, the locking out of the house, the horrible germs, the wrong date, the flight to Beirut, and the wounded children. I could quite happily write a book about all the things that prevented people from being at the book launch on Friday – people who I know really wanted to be there, but over whom the gremlins of fate asserted their authority. I could also quite happily write a book about the numerous precious moments during the launch itself. I could also do with a thesaurus with synonyms for ‘thank you’.
So there will be many more blogs to come to reflect on the triumphs celebrated and the tragedies remembers, and the young people I was lucky enough to show off. But for today, I’d like to address one question: ‘How did you do it? And why?’
A while ago, I wrote about what I did – and didn’t – do to complete my doctorate. Exactly the same rules apply. A patient, generous and long-suffering army of friends and family. An absolute dedication to getting plenty of sleep. An inability to do anything productive after 7.30 p.m.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to celebrate the 30th birthday party of Nel Hedayat, one of the former students I’m still proud to be in touch with. ‘This is Emma,’ she said to a colleague of hers. ‘She’s got a PhD!’
‘Oh no,’ said I. ‘It’s not a PhD – not a proper doctorate. It’s a Doctorate in Education, a bit like the BTEC equivalent of a GCSE.’ She gave me the biggest rollicking I’ve had in a long time. ‘Don’t you dare say that!’ she said. ‘How can you not be proud of what you’ve achieved?’
This particular rollicking is not the first of its kind, but coming from someone who I saw through the turmoils of adolescence, it had an ice-bucket effect. I thought about the book as well. I generally don’t talk about it at work – and this is as it should be. When I’m at work, my entire energies are focused on the job in hand. So, having the launch there involved some quite tricky merging of boundaries.
Q: Will my colleagues imagine I’m profiting from selling the book in their midst?
A: Bloomsbury and I funded and organised the launch and all preparations were done outside school time. I was meticulous in ensuring that my day job was done to the best of my ability throughout
Q: Will my colleagues imagine I’m not committed, with an eye on fame and glamour and an innate sense of superiority?
A: Hang on a second. I don’t need to justify myself. Watch me do my job. Watch me apologise when I mess up, resolve issues as they arise, and commit myself to our young people.
And then there’s the question of working hours. If teachers are already snowed under, what on earth am I doing spending precious weekend marking time indulging myself with writing a book?
Here’s the why:
It’s been about giving voice, something I read a lot about for my doctorate. Giving voice to the wounded, the disaffected and those who have turned their back on teaching because they Just Couldn’t Cope Any More.
Giving voice to the visionaries, the optimists, the teach-meet organisers, the champions of women and minority group, the researchers who seek the very best for our young people.
If almost 4,000 had given their time up to share their stories with you, would you not have felt a duty to make them heard?
The words privilege and responsibility feature heavily in the introduction of the book, and I still rate these very highly.
And here’s the how:
AUDACITY
When I joined Twitter, I wanted something out of it. Namely, parent-teachers to complete my survey for my doctorate. Guided by my journalist husband, I was wildly cheeky and audacious, seeking retweets and support from anyone high profile who I imagined might support my cause: Stephen Fry, Ken Robinson, Gordon Brown, and Vic Goddard, who I am proud to say has since become a valued friend. It worked. I ended up with a really exciting range of responses.
SERENDIPITY
This one’s up there with moments I’ll never forget. I was in the car park of the surgery after a check up at the doctor’s when this message popped into my inbox:
Like any sensible human being, I assumed it was a wind-up and immediately forwarded it to Rav to find out who was getting a rise out of my gullibility this time… And then I said YES.
SHEER BLOODY HARD WORK
This is a bit like when someone says they like your dress and you tel them it was only five quid from Asda. It’s one of my Mum’s pet hates (sorry, Mum – I still do it).
You see, I have a confession to make. I worked VERY, VERY hard on How to Survive in Teaching. I organised holidays with military precision, blocking out chunks of time in which to distance myself from all distractions and write for a few hours. In 2016, I gave myself Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve off and worked most other days. I drafted and redrafted, cut and shaped, reviewed and rewrote. I experienced frustration, was frequently overwhelmed and more than a dozen times concluded that I wasn’t up to the task. I was lucky: my editor, Holly, was wise and emotionally intelligent – she knew when the best times were to get me on the phone (usually mid-holiday or around 11 on a Sunday); when to be strict with me and when I needed a boost. But there were many, many hours of very hard work – of rejected social events, of time away from the family or locked behind a door, of 8 a.m alarms on a Sunday.
‘Was it worth it, Miss?’ asked one of my students on Thursday. We’d talked about my 20 years in teaching and the book, and I wasn’t sure quite which one he was referring to. Either way: the answer was, and remains:
‘Without a doubt. Every second of it.’
The practical bit: you can buy the book here: https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/how-to-survive-in-teaching-9781472941688/. If you like it or want to discuss the issues (healthy debate welcome) you can write a review on Amazon. Alternatively, join us on Twitter, @thosethatcan.
Thanks for all the support.
Vertigo, Valiance and Vin: a leap into the unknown
It’s a while since I’ve blogged about myself. I’m so used to having a goal, an audience and an aim, but the wonderful Georgia Holleran suggested it might be a good idea, so here I am.
21 days ago, I resigned from my teaching post at my much-loved school of three years, after 21 years living as part of the fibre and fabric of the school day. Schools will run in my blood always, and will still of course by the focus of everything I do, professionally, but, from September, no longer will I dependent on an external bell, timetable, schedule or calendar. I’m taking charge of my own career, going freelance, have set up a company, have a wealth of possibilities and a stomach which feels almost constantly as if the lift has just descended suddenly or the car has gone too fast over a hump in the road.
Those around me have been remarkably supportive, from the amazing leadership coach who first pointed out how much I have to offer, and that the world of education is so much bigger than I might have imagined, to my long-suffering husband and parents who have worked valiantly to disguise their anxiety. My kids are bereft at the thought of never seeing my students again – they get rather attached, you see – but excited at the prospect that I might be able to do a few more drop-offs and sports’ days than I already do.
And me? I’m riddled with germs, constantly exhausted, and going through such a kaleidoscope of emotions from minute-to-minute that I’m as exhausting to be around as I feel. I’m constantly distracted at home, still making sure I put in 100% at school, my brain never stops plotting and projecting and there are lists everywhere, from well-intentioned colour-coded apps on my phone to the back of my hand to the backs of the receipts which make the kitchen top (always) invisible. [Adding to the list: need to find a way of keeping receipts rather than letting them disintegrate at the bottom of my handbag].
So, what am I going to do? The flippant answer to this, and the one I’m frequently falling back on is, ‘erm – not sure, really’ followed by a rather unhinged, wild, ‘hell to the wind’ giggle. Whilst there is a little truth in this – I don’t know how the shape of my days will pan out, how exactly I’ll schedule all the conferences and the articles and the school visits – I have worked REALLY HARD to work out my ‘niche’ (why can’t I type or say that word without thinking Ann Summers?), to address the doubts and the reservations, to plot out the mortgage payments and set up calendars and systems… I’ve even organised the folders on my phone. I’ve had inspirational conversations with top influencers and people who’ve inspired me for years, who have done everything rom play devil’s advocate to offer an array of generous and invaluable advice. I even have an accountant. How grown-up is that?
I’m going to build on my research and reputation as a writer and speaker to support teachers, particularly those earlier in the career, to feel supported to stay in their careers for a long as possible. I’m also going to build on my new project to directly support young people and their parents to thrive at secondary school.
What’s harder to pin down is the tumult of varying thoughts which are currently dominating my mind, from the crucial to the utterly illogical; the minor-but-important to the wild dreams. I have deliberately put no particular order to the list below.
Teachers’ pension – what to do?
- How do I keep my hand in in the classroom? I want to be teaching, call myself a teacher, but need to find a way of doing so which works for both me and the school
- How do I keep the thing I’ve always valued the most: my integrity? I know how teachers feel about the kinds of ‘consultant’ who haven’t taught for yonks and are parachuted in to tell them how to do their jobs. How do I avoid being perceived as any way as falling into the bracket?
- How the hell am I going to say goodbye to the students and colleagues to whom I continue to be utterly devoted?
- How do I organise the 3000 different disparate thoughts and ideas in my mind at any one time? Trello, thanks @teachertoolkit, is proving a great start.
- How, who, where and when do I approach the myriad organisations, from schools to conference organisers, I’d love to work with? Do I wait for introductions or be thoroughly audacious?
- How do I keep as much contact as possible with young people. I’m going to miss them so much!
- How much do I take on pro bono?
- How do I ensure I stick to my stubborn promise to keep MY 50% coming into the household?
- WHAT IF I JUST LET EVERYBODY DOWN?!
You get the drift. At the moment, I’m either going at 1000mph or, basically, asleep. Things will find a rhythm, won’t they? Midlife crisis, you say? Pah. I’m quite stubborn. I’ll make this work. Watch me. But I’m going to need a hell of a lot of help along the way!
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