Why Teachers Without Kids Need Somewhere to Vent
By the time I got to the car on Thursday, I had already lost an argument with a nine-year-old about whether a pencil is a writing tool or a “sneaky snake.” I had mediated two disputes about who touched whose shoulder first. I had reminded a child for the sixth time that his library book would not, in fact, be eaten by the guinea pig in the corner. And I had smiled when a student told me I was the “meanest teacher in the world” because I insisted he put his name on his paper.
I sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, and let out a long breath. I wanted to tell someone about it. Not to get advice. Not to problem-solve. Just to say, “Here is what my day was like,” and have someone nod.
My partner doesn’t work with kids. He works in an office with adults who use words like “quarterly deliverable.” When I try to explain the pencil incident, he listens, but I can see his eyes glaze over. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never had to keep twelve tap-dancing hamsters inside four walls while also teaching fractions.
My friends who are parents have the opposite reaction. I remember mentioning a tough day to my sister, who has two kids. She sighed and said, “Yeah, try doing that at home. All day. Without a break.” It wasn’t mean. It was just true for her. But it made me shut down. I learned quickly that being a teacher without kids means your tiredness is often a punchline. You’re treated like someone who has merely danced around the ring, not taken the real hits.
So I started venting into the void.
At first, the void was a note in my phone. After a rough class, I’d write a short paragraph—not polished, just raw. “Liam cried because someone looked at him. Olivia said she hates me. I forgot to eat lunch.” Then I’d close the note and move on. It helped a little, but it also felt lonely. I was saying words no one would ever hear.
I tried a group chat with some college friends who don’t have kids. They were supportive, but they didn’t get it. One of them replied with a laughing emoji and said, “Kids are feral, lol.” That wasn’t what I needed. I wasn’t looking for jokes. I was looking for someone to understand the specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being emotionally responsible for twenty-five humans for seven hours. It’s not the same as an office job. It’s not the same as raising your own kids. It’s its own thing.
The turning point happened by accident. I was sitting in the teachers’ lounge during lunch break, staring at my sandwich without eating it. My colleague Marta, a seventh-grade science teacher who also doesn’t have children, sat down and asked, “You okay?”
I did the thing I always do. “Oh, yeah, just a busy morning.”
Marta said, “That’s a lie. Tell me the worst part.”
And I did. I told her about the pencil. About the meanest teacher comment. About how I nearly cried because a student finally understood fractions and said, “Oh, so it’s like sharing food?” It was that moment of break-through that actually made the day good, but I was too spent to feel it.
Marta nodded. She said, “I had a kid call me stupid today. In Spanish. Which I understand.”
We laughed. Not a big laugh. A tired one. But something loosened in my chest. Marta didn’t tell me I was strong. She didn’t say “that sounds hard” in a therapy-voice. She just mirrored my reality. That was enough.
After that, Marta and I started a weekly ritual. On Fridays, after the last bell, we go to a tiny coffee shop two blocks from school. We sit in the corner booth. We order the same thing—she gets hot tea, I get an iced latte. For the first fifteen minutes, we only complain. No solutions. No “you should try…” No “at least you don’t have to…” Just venting into an ear that doesn’t judge.
Then, if we need to, we brainstorm. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we just sit and watch other people in the coffee shop. It sounds small, but it’s the most grounding part of my week.
The rules we made up are simple. No tiptoeing around feelings. No saying “it’s for the kids” or “you do it for the right reasons.” Just honest words about a job that is genuinely hard, even if you love it. Because I do love teaching. I love the moment when a quiet student gets a joke in class and looks up, eyes bright. I love when a kid says “thank you” at the end of the day and means it. But love doesn’t erase the fact that it takes a toll.
If you’re a teacher without kids—or a nanny, a therapist, a pediatric nurse, a coach—you need to find your Marta. You need someone who is in the same boat, not a different ocean. Here is what I’ve learned:
First, get specific with your venting. Instead of saying “I had a bad day,” say “I had to stop a fight over a glue stick and then miss recess duty to call a parent.” Specificity makes it real. It also helps you identify what actually drained you. Is it the constant interruptions? The lack of control? The emotional weight of a child who is struggling at home? Say the exact thing out loud.
Second, create a structured venting time. It sounds silly, but scheduling it makes it safer. Marta and I have our Friday coffee. It’s on the calendar. If one of us is especially worn out, we have a backup—a voice memo we send to each other, with a rule: the other person has to listen but doesn’t have to reply. That way, I can ramble into the void and know someone will receive it. No fixing required.
Third, set a boundary around venting with parents. This is tricky. Many of my friends are parents, and I respect them. But when I bring up a school issue, they often equate it to parenting. The valid point gets lost in a comparison game. So now, I separate my audiences. Parents get to hear about the cute moments. Marta gets to hear about the glue-stick fight. My partner gets to hear the broad strokes but not every detail. It’s not dishonest. It’s just matching the need to the right listener.
Finally, be okay with the void. Some days, there is no one available. There are afternoons when I sit in my car for ten minutes, watching the back of my eyelids, and let the day drain out. I’ve started keeping a small notebook in the glove compartment. When I’m too tired to talk, I write one sentence. It doesn’t need a response. It just needs to exist outside my head. “Today, I held three students’ pain and delivered them safely home. No one processed it with me. That’s okay.”
It isn’t a perfect system. Marta and I both get busier some weeks. The note in the glove compartment turns into a crumpled napkin. The coffee shop gets crowded and loud, and we can’t talk. But the point isn’t to have it all figured out. The point is to keep trying to be heard, even when the ears aren’t always there.
I still don’t have kids. I don’t know if I will. But I know that my exhaustion as a teacher is real. It’s not the same as a parent’s exhaustion, and it’s not less. It’s just different. And different needs to have somewhere to go.
Today, I had a student tell me I was “okay-ish” at teaching. That’s a four-star rating from a nine-year-old. I’m going to tell Marta. She’ll get it.
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