Hi {FIRSTNAME],

I didn’t choose teaching because it was the only thing I was capable of.

Looking back almost 20 years, I think my reasons were partly legit, and partly… “I don’t know what else to do?”

I really didn’t know what I wanted to do at the age of 26 (and I already felt “behind”… 🙄 We live in a culture of “hurry up and figure out your whole life!” But that’s another story).

• I knew I loved kids and that I was good with them.
• I knew I didn’t like working in the summer (but naively didn’t understand that “summers off” wasn’t really a thing for most teachers)
• And I had seen enough “dedicated teacher reaches previously ‘unreachable’ student” movies to make me believe that I too could save lives simply with my compassion.

And I did. Or at least I know that I impacted many students’ lives.

What I know now that I can see it all more clearly, is that outside of my super human patience and compassion for kids, I was good at teaching because:

• I’m good at explaining complex ideas in ‘digestible ways’
• I care about impact
• And I know how to think about people, motivation, and outcomes

And I’m betting that’s at least part of why you ended up in classrooms too.

In fact, that’s a big part of what your degree and all of your experience has trained you to do.

Somewhere along the way, though, it’s possible that you (or those around you) began to interpret your training as a “limitation” instead of an asset.

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​Limitation in the form of:

“I spent years and money on this degree—I should stay in the classroom.” (this was me. I was STILL paying those student load debts)
“If I leave, it means I am wasting what I worked really hard for.”
“This is the only thing my teaching degree qualifies me to do.”

But here’s the truth many teachers never hear:

Staying somewhere that no longer fits because of your degree doesn’t honor your experience…

Instead it begins to shrink what you believe you are capable of.

Your education degree didn’t lock you into a classroom for the rest of your life.
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It taught you how to:

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– design learning experiences
– communicate clearly
– influence behavior
– adapt on the fly when something isn’t working

Those skills don’t disappear when you step outside a school building.

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Instead, they finally get to stretch. They get to seep into the corners of your life you never knew or thought about.

And no—wanting to use them differently doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful, flaky, or giving up.

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​It just means you’re noticing that you’ve outgrown the container you learned them in.

And honestly? Stretching and growing is a REALLY NORMAL part of living. A necessary part I’d argue.

What would happen, for example, if we never repotted that growing plant? Never gave it a new container to continue to grow in?

When you think of it this way, it might feel more natural to allow yourself to wonder about what else is out there.

And that’s OK.
​Because you don’t need a perfect plan yet.

But you do need to stop telling yourself that your degree is the reason you can’t explore what else is possible.

And maybe some curiosity about what that means for you. (I promise it wasn’t curiosity that killed the cat.)
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So for now, just know this (maybe even say it out loud!):

You CAN grow out of teaching and STILL USE the skills that make you good at teaching.

If this is resonating, hit reply and let me know (an AMEN! will suffice 😂).

If it’s not resonating, I’d also love to hear why!

Hit reply and tell me what your biggest gripe is right now—where you’re feeling most stuck.

My goal is to make these emails as helpful as possible to you all!

Signing off from the Icy Tundras of Maryland (seriously is this ice ever going away??!),

Meredith

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📖Turn the Page📖

{ I just want to acknowledge that this SHOULD have gone out yesterday, but we are being held hostage by a foot of snow which is under an inch of ice. Life is a little wacky this week. Thank you for understanding!}

Hi Reader,
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I sat next to him as his eyes drooped, drool formed at the corners of his mouth, and his body slumped in the chair.

Our instructor looked at me, with a face that said, SERIOUSLY??

I shrugged and poked him. He sat up, alarmed, eyes wide.

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I took a creative writing class in the fall semester of my sophomore year. It became an anchor during a rough time in my 19 year old life—the first break up that truly shook me.

My boyfriend at the time (you know the first love kind) was pledging a fraternity. Sleeping in class was just one of the totally awesome side effects. Our unraveling relationship was another.

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We had decided to take the class together—I was (a 19-year-old hopeless romantic) probably dreaming of all the love notes we’d write. (LOL. Hindsight amiright?)

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Our instructor was young and inspired something in me I desperately needed at the time—permission to FEEL my huge range of feelings through my writing.

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And while this was something writing had always offered in me small ways, it came roaring back as the months grew colder in the year 2000 (yes, folks, I just typed that. I went to college with no cell phone and no real computer of my own. 😳)

It’s true that this space served an incredible purpose in my life that year. But something else also slowly happened—I drifted further and further towards this (silly and really limiting) belief:

“My writing is only for me.”

Raise your hand { subscriber.first_name }} if you hold even an ounce of these beliefs:

• That you like or even love writing, but would never (GASP) actually show it to anyone
• That you know deep down that your writing is really good, but have never considered you could be paid for it
• That getting paid (well) to write is only possible if you’ve walked a “specific path” or went to “journalism school” (I came so close to going to journalism school and then went to Mexico to work at Club Med instead. A story for another day, lol)​
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These ideas sat so squarely in my belief vault that I never even considered trying to put myself out there as a “Writer.”

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Even though I knew I was good at it.

Even though people had always told me how impactful my words were.

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What I didn’t realize then is that truly, if you spend time writing…

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YOU ARE A WRITER.

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If you enjoy explaining things in written words, love figuring out how to construct the clearest, cleverest, or simplest way to say the thing you need or want to say, you are already primed for this work.

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And there are companies that will be excited to pay you (quite well) to use that skill + your knowledge and experience about teaching to write for them.

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That creative writing class (although coinciding with a difficult time in my life) has such a soft spot in my heart that I still have THE RATTY 26 YEAR OLD BLUE FOLDER WITH PRINTED OUT COPIES (AND THE “DISK,” LOL I’M SO OLD.) OF WORK I CREATED DURING THAT SEMESTER.

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If any of this sounds or feels familiar (not the floppy disk let’s be real), know that writing isn’t this murky, “certification-needed” career path.

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It can be a “decision, followed by some learning, practice and guts” type of thing.

In fact when I finally shook myself loose of the “no one would pay for me that” mindset, I committed to opening my computer and writing for 15 minutes a day.

Some days I stared at the blinking cursor for 14 of those minutes. Other days, I felt like the words poured out of me. But the point was…

I got myself over that hump by turning off the voice that said I couldn’t and just doing the damn thing.

Just actually working on it.

And you know what? It worked.

I remembered that I was entirely capable.

Those 15 minutes really mattered on this journey. Even on the difficult days.

Especially on the difficult days.

Interest piqued?

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Reply and I’ll send you bits of my sad 25-year old heartbreak poetry.

(JK. I would never subject anyone to that.)

Seriously, hit reply and tell me—have you ever wanted to try writing as your work?

Stay tuned…it’s going to heat up around here in the next few weeks—with the best info about how to take some steps in the direction of something new.

Stay warm out there 🥶,

Meredith

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📖Turn the Page📖

Hey-o and Happy Friday, Reader!

My husband and I used to play a game when we first met.

Would you rather… [literally any awful thing]… OR Have an entire year of Februaries?

(You really learn a lot about a person this way).

I always, without fail, chose whatever option didn’t involve February.

For some reason—as a teacher—February was always the month that broke me.

• One year it was a terrible parent saga with ZERO admin support. 🚍 (Yes, I was under that bus)
• My final year teaching, it was my head of school casually telling me that I owed the school money because I had missed so many days due to my 3 year old’s constant sickness. ☠️
• Most recently, I got the news that my teeny teacher salary had been audited. From a tax year 8 years before.

(You can’t make this $hit up, Reader.)

Even if nothing catastrophic happens in February, it tends to be a rough month.

With only 28 days (and yes some years a ghastly 29th sneaks in there), somehow it drags on and on.

You should be in a groove with your students, but (where I live anyway) there’s been far too much cold, dark and indoor recess and everyone’s mood is sitting somewhere between a sugared up toddler and those creepy twins in the Shining.

Look familiar?

So I just want you to know, if you’re feeling grim (or cabin fever-like) it’s not you, Reader…

It’s just February.

It’s the part of the school year where the adrenaline has worn off, the finish line still feels far away, and the question you’ve been deftly avoiding starts tapping you on the shoulder, (with a hammer):

Is this really what I want the next 20-25 years of my career to look like??

• The long days juggling behavior plans and lesson plans just trying to squeeze in the actual teaching part I signed up for
• The hard (unsupported) conversations I am having almost daily with parents or colleagues or administrators
• The extra, unpaid work that keeps me so stretched thin and worn out that weekends are spent recovering instead of relaxing

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Because this time of year is just a magnifying glass for what we as teachers experience all school year, every school year.

And I don’t know about you, but I got to a point (17 years in to be exact), where I realized there was more I wanted for myself:

🌻 More freedom in my day (and life!) to take care of myself the way I knew I needed to

💫 More creativity and excitement for the work I would be doing day in and day out for so many more years

💰 And yes. More money so I would finally feel compensated for all of the hard work and education I had invested in over the years.

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And as soon as I realized that, I knew I needed to make some hard choices.

That I needed to make a change—because it’s so easy as teachers to push those changes off until:

• After testing season
• After the school year ends
• After summer gives them space to breathe.

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But let’s be honest here: There is literally always something “coming up.”

So I knew as soon as I had that feeling that I wanted to make a change, I needed to start learning how.

And that’s what allowed me go from a stressed, underpaid and undervalued literacy specialist to a well-paid writer for education companies desperately looking to hire teachers.

And since then, so much good has come into my life:

• Slow mornings with that extra cup of hot coffee
• Taking my dog for long walks because I don’t have that first meeting until 10am
• Realizing that “work” can be so many things: creatively fulfilling, ever expanding and growth oriented, mission- and values-aligned, AND can pay you what you’re worth.

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Not to mention, not ever experiencing another teacher February again 😉

Curious to learn more about how I did this?

Keep watching for my emails because I’m going to share it all with you over the next couple of weeks.

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If February is looming and you need a cheerleader, hit reply with the world ME!

🥶 Stay warm out there,

Meredith
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📖Turn the Page📖

Hey hey, Reader,

I know it’s Monday. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am showing up a little more often in your inbox these days. It’s because the thing I’m talking about is super important to me (and I hope to you if you made it onto this happy little list!).

Here’s what I want to chat about today—

Most teachers don’t struggle because they don’t know enough.

They struggle because they’re trying to figure out a transition alone, in the margins of an already exhausting life.

(I know I was. 2 year old, Check. Full time job, Check. No family nearby for easy childcare— + Covid, Check, Check.)

Here’s what’s real:

If information alone worked, teachers would have left the classroom in droves by now.

But instead, what usually happens looks like this:

• You save resources for later. (aka the google drive graveyard of saved PDFs and courses you never finished—ahem, started—I see you, Reader).
• You start something… then stall.
• You make a little progress, then lose momentum.

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And eventually, you quietly assume the problem is you.

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Accept, it’s actually not.

The real issue is that transitions aren’t meant to happen in isolation.

They require:

• structure
• feedback
• accountability
• and a protected space to actually apply what you already know

That’s the difference between content you consume and a container you step into.

Content assumes motivation or “self-discipline” will carry you.

(At which point we blame ourselves if we can’t make it happen.)

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Containers are designed to carry you when motivation dips—which it inevitably does.

And for teachers especially—people who are already excellent learners—people who could learn their way just about anywhere…this distinction matters.

What most teachers don’t need is more information.
They need a place to practice becoming something new, without doing it alone.

Alongside others doing the same thing, and with someone to guide them along the path.

If you’ve taken courses, saved links, or tried to “figure it out” before and still felt stuck, hit reply and tell me:

What kind of support would actually help you right now?

I’m reading (and responding to!) every reply.

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💫 Meredith

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📖Turn the Page📖

Hi Reader,

I looked at the clock. 12:11.

4 long minutes to go.

Sitting in my car, Zoom open on my computer, hot spot on, armpits sweating (sorry but 🤷‍♀️).

What can I say? Nervous doesn’t begin to describe this scene ya’ll.

(I promise this story is Safe for Work, LOL).

I took my first sales calls sitting in my car, parked as far away from the school building as I could manage.

I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing.
Not because it was a secret—it wasn’t honestly—but because I wasn’t ready to explain it yet.

You might think that until you’re ready to fully quit, you can’t do anything else.

If I’m honest, there were many days I dreamt about quitting teaching in the most satisfying ways…

… Not signing my contract in March with loud, confident, indignance

… Pulling the old “Irish goodbye” and leaving on the last day and just not coming back

… I even considered not giving notice just to be spiteful to those I felt unsupported by

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(Cue the scene where we get to say ALL THE THINGS to all the people)
​

In the end, I knew I wouldn’t do any of these things. And I’m betting you feel the same way.

So then I was left with what felt like an impossible choice:
stay exactly where I was—or blow everything up and leave.

And because blowing up my life wasn’t an option, I stayed. And stayed…

And STAYED.

(Is any of this familiar, Reader?)

I admit. It kept me stuck for a long time. Way longer than it needed to (like YEARS LONGER).

What I didn’t realize yet was that there was a third path:
​starting quietly. One small step at a time.

Because here is the reality:

It’s very possible to take small, intentional steps towards the next version of your life… while you still have one foot in your old life.

For me this looked like:

➡️ Waking up as early as possible to research, learn and write. Could I do this every day? Nope. Did I do it whenever I could? Yup.

➡️ Eventually taking prospective client calls in my car or during a prep period (and I personally know at least a few other teachers who did the same when they were starting their copywriting businesses)

➡️ Using those weekend nap times (my daughter was only 2!) to work on up-skilling—and eventually to do some client work

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Here’s what I want you know:

If you feel the nudge towards something different, it’s because there is already a version of yourself that knows you can do it.

It doesn’t matter how, exactly.

Or what your timeline is.

What matters is that with intentional action, you can step into it, now.

For me, just starting quietly, while still teaching full time, step by step:

Skills turned into momentum—which turned into clients, confidence, and eventually my exit.

And this is possible for YOU TOO.

If you started quietly this month, Reader, what would that look like?

What’s the smallest step you could take without blowing up your life?

Hit reply and tell me.

More soon,

Meredith