A Step Away: My Classroom-to-Copywriter Journey

If you’d handed me a crystal ball five years ago and told me I’d no longer be teaching, I would’ve leaned in, curious. Not surprised—but completely unprepared for the path ahead. Would I be organizing? Working in higher ed? A stay-at-home mom? Maybe writing? I could’ve imagined leaving the classroom. But copywriting? I would’ve had to Google it.

The truth is, I thought about leaving for five years before I actually did. Not because I lacked the desire, but because the leap felt massive. The plan? Fuzzy at best. And I’ve never been a leap-before-you-look kind of person. I like maps. I like safety. I like knowing the plan. So, I stayed… five years longer than I probably should have.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t walk away empty-handed. Teaching shaped me. It sharpened how I communicate, connect, and see people. Long before I considered writing stories for others, I was crafting them in the classroom—ones that broke down tough ideas, sparked curiosity, or simply kept kids with me on a Tuesday afternoon (no small feat in a world full of distractions).

Turns out, those storytelling muscles can stretch well beyond classroom walls.

Writing has always been my thing—the thread that has run through every stage of my life.

In high school, I wrote for the school paper and filled journals like it was my job. Friends came to me when they needed help editing papers, crafting eulogies, or finding the right words for hard moments. If I trace my passions back to their roots, they all lead to the same place: language. Storytelling. Words.

But when it came time to make the “big life decisions”—you know, the ones you're expected to make when you're barely old enough to vote—I didn’t know writing could be a career outside of becoming of a reporter (Can we pause for a second and acknowledge how wild it is that we ask teenagers to choose their future at 17?)

I chose elementary education, and for a while, it felt right. But about halfway through college, a course changed everything. As part of a project, I worked closely with a family navigating life with special needs, and it shifted my entire perspective. That experience led me to pivot toward special education without hesitation.

My student teaching was split between general and special education classrooms, a contrast that made it crystal clear where I was meant to be. Before I even graduated, I was offered a job teaching in a self-contained, cross-categorical classroom. That’s where my career—and a huge piece of my personal story—truly began.

That first class? Unforgettable.

Some of my happiest, soul-shaping moments happened in that room—with those students, those support staff, and an inspiring administrator. It was there I learned something life-altering: my heart could hold a deep, unwavering love for kids I didn’t share blood with. It’s a gift many teachers carry—fiercely and quietly—but it’s also a responsibility that can feel impossibly heavy.

For years, I poured every ounce of my energy, creativity, and care into that classroom. I built connections that mattered, adjusted on the fly, and worked relentlessly to make learning feel alive in a world full of distractions. Teaching was never just a job. It was craft. It was art. It demanded heart, grit, and the ability to pivot a dozen times before lunch.

So, I stayed.

I loved parts of it—the lightbulb moments, the relationships, the sense that what I was doing mattered. Strangely enough, I even loved the paperwork. I know, it sounds odd, but I loved writing IEPs, emails, and newsletters. Over time, though, teaching started demanding more than it gave back. The relentless pressure to be everything for everyone—without the time to breathe, let alone grow, slowly began to wear me down. Each year, more was piled onto my plate, with fewer resources and less support. I felt increasingly boxed in by rigid systems, mounting expectations, and a growing sense of disillusionment that I couldn’t ignore. Still, I stayed. Because that’s what we do when the work is familiar, when the people matter, and when the alternative is a giant, uncertain question mark. But eventually, a question grew too loud: What if staying was the bigger risk to my happiness than stepping into the unknown?

The copywriting course ads I kept clicking on felt like they were written just for me—a burned-out teacher with stacks of notebooks filled with dreams of work that felt like freedom instead of endurance. Those clicks and scribbled hopes weren’t just idle moments. They were a persistent story I’d been telling myself all along: I wanted out.

But the truth is, I wasn’t just waiting for the right opportunity. I was waiting for permission—for a sign, a perfectly mapped plan, something to make the leap feel safe instead of terrifying. But that plan never came, and that proverbial leap was much too scary to take…

So, I stepped.

That first step came in the form of a decision: I chose to take one year off. I told my administrators I’d be stepping away to support my husband in his new role at work, and, with a deep breath, I declined my contract renewal.

For years, I had imagined how I’d write that resignation letter (of course I did, it’s writing!). In my daydreams, the story always ended with something concrete: a move to higher ed, a new job with better pay, a clear next chapter that made the exit feel justified and triumphant.

But when the moment finally came, it didn’t look or feel like a career move. It looked like uncertainty.

Nevertheless, I stepped that first step, and slowly and quietly, things have been falling into place ever since.

When I look back, teaching was one long masterclass in storytelling.

Every day, I had to earn attention. I had to make dry content come alive. I had to connect ideas to real life, make content meaningful, guide students through confusion and keep them curious. That’s not so different from writing copy that works.

Teaching taught me how to meet people where they are, not where I wish they were. It taught me how to break big concepts into bite-sized pieces and how to adjust my tone, pace, and approach depending on who was in front of me. Those same instincts serve me now. But more than anything, teaching taught me how to listen. To what people say, and to what they mean. In copywriting, that skill is everything. Before I ever write a word, I tune into the heart of the brand—their values, their voice, and their vision—what makes them one-of-a-kind. Then, I weave a story that speaks that truth.

So, no, I’m not in a classroom anymore, but I’m still teaching. I’m still helping people understand and connect.

The journey wasn’t easy and I still face doubts like anyone does when they step into an unknown. But I’ve learned that not knowing is a part of the process. I didn’t have to have it all figured out to take the first step. I just had to start.

So, if you’re standing on the edge of something new—whether it’s a career shift, a creative project, or a life change—my advice is simple: Don’t wait for the perfect plan. Don’t wait for permission, because you don’t have to know exactly where you’re going to start getting there.

It can just be a step away.