I have always been a grafter. Born in the mid-80s, fuelled by an adolescence of Spice Girl empowerment and a shiny Record of Achievement to show off my certificates, I wasn’t worldly—but I knew two things for certain: 1) I wanted to be a PE teacher, and 2) there was no backup plan. I locked in early on teaching as a career and worked hard to get the grades to join the tribe of the ‘African Violets’ at Loughborough University (IYKYK). I qualified and started full-time teaching just ten days after my 22nd birthday, spots that rivalled my students, but with an intrinsic belief that I was going to change children’s lives, one PE lesson at a time.
That was 2006, and I lived my dream for nine glorious years. During this time, I met my husband, Chris, who was also a PE teacher, and I really believed I had it all mapped out. We married in 2014, and shortly after I became pregnant. I was thrilled for us as a couple, but I sobbed as I told my department I would be going on maternity leave. Naively, I thought I was indispensable to the school—that I’d just have the baby and come back to work. Mic drop… that’s not how it went down.
