2018… where did that go?

It’s probably a bit late in the month to be writing about resolutions for the new year, but then I realised a few years ago that making new year’s resolutions was not really my bag. I was pretty terrible at maintaining them for any significant length. I just don’t have the willpower or, at the very least I forget about the specifics of them over time and so the resolutions wilt through lack of effort and eventually die off.

However, I have always been a fan of lists and with the luxury of time over my Christmas break I decided to sit down and make a list of the things that I wanted to look back on from 2018. And now a few weeks into a new year, I thought that I would revisit that list and think a bit deeper about what I was going on about in the first place.

In April last year, I celebrated my 35th birthday. I have a memory somewhere at the back of my mind that jumps up to remind me (notably on birthdays and other for celebrations), that I would have accomplished great things by the time I reached my mid-30s.

What do I mean by great things? I am mildly embarrassed by the two things that I write now but during my twenties what seemed paramount to me was to have a house of my own (or with someone else) and also be married.

A little context to add some colour to these perhaps wildly modest ambitions to some, but at 25 I was relatively fresh into my teaching career and I was living with my then boyfriend. The idea of owning my own place and being married somehow settled my busy, chattering mind that also dreamed of other things.

And now? I rent. And I am not married. What would my twenty-something self say?

Probably not much. My plans and priorities have changed. My life is different from what I foresaw. Ask the 25 year old me and the prospect of leaving the UK to travel, work and live would have been an aspiration and a distant one at that.

Also in April, I joined a new gym. Not necessarily a remarkable feat, but one that has made a difference both physically and also emotionally. Old but familiar gremlins had resurfaced over the course of the year, and although I am used to the taunts, by simply moving my body I have managed at times to shut down the jibes. There is a joy in movement that I don’t recall ever experiencing, or perhaps I appreciated before.

By the end of the summer I had completed my first year at my new school and also had visited New York City on a holiday. A city that awoke my senses in a way that some other cities have failed to do so. It was important for me to see New York through the eyes of my boyfriend who had lived there for six years. We wandered for the most part off the tourist trail and, fortunately for him, the city did not disappoint. I am grateful for the opportunity to travel and its ability to open my soul.

I have also made new friends and met some wonderful new people. Two from the gym no less, and another through a book club that I joined about halfway through the year. I am still working my head around how to make friends as an adult. I catch myself drawn to articles from people in a similar-ish age bracket, providing advice about how to make friends as though just joining a new club or striking up conversations with someone in a queue in a shop is the answer. Ta-dah! But it seems that some of the anxiety of making friends is a universal faced by many. Having said that, something clicked when I returned to the UK over Christmas and I saw some of my oldest and dearest friends. Somewhat unconsciously I had been auditioning any prospective new connections with wildly unrealistic expectations, or rather there had just been one, be a mirror version of one of my besties from the UK. Nigh impossible.

In some cases in recent years I have chosen new friends poorly, failing to acknowledge a sense of loneliness and, ultimately craving a meeting of minds so much so that I have found myself acting as a sounding board for their needs and desires (and often as a recipient of their moaning), but when I express my own they have shrunk back. Fearful perhaps of me wanting to create space for myself, or they have simply just not been interested in what I have to say. So I have ignored the feelings of unease that have either precluded or followed meeting someone, and ignored that something needed to change, and that could only come from me.

I am more aware now more than ever that not everyone is going to like me, and this recognition has provided me with a much welcomed if somewhat blinding clarity. For decades the fear of being disliked has driven me to self-flagellate at the slightest hint of criticism from someone, so now I aim to readdress this. Balance. This is the way forward in all my relationships. When my views have been dismissed or met with apathy, I hope to be bolder and speak up or walk away. Either way, accept the differences nonetheless.

I have also become more accepting of the lengthy periods of self-imposed and necessary solitude. My job involves talking and listening, both often at length. And so having the time to be still or just pottering about with silence or a podcast for company is a form of essential nourishment. I enjoy the quiet. I live in a vibrant and loud city but the apartment that I share with my boyfriend is thankfully for the most part, a sanctuary.

I have been active in some more creative pursuits in the past year such as participating in still life drawing classes (a drawer not the model) and doing embroidery, and I am not awful at either as I anticipated, although for the latter my drawings do resemble my ability from when I was about eight years old. I will improve in time but if I don’t, why does it matter? It’s not like I made some resolution or anything.



Between the ages of 14-16, every day after school I delivered a local newspaper around the neighbourhood where I grew up. As much as I can remember bemoaning the prospect of the job to friends, it got me out in the fresh air, earnt me some extra pocket money, as well as giving me the opportunity to listen to the latest cassette mixtape creation on my Walkman. The route was pretty straightforward and after a few months, I perfected it so that it would take no more than 50 minutes and that included the collection of the newspapers themselves and getting back home.

You’d be forgiven for wondering where this little anecdote might be going, but I promise it’s going somewhere. There were a few things that I noticed when I was doing this paper-round, these things were usually completely benign but they did form patterns of association in my mind; I knew which houses had dogs, I was aware of which people were likely to say thank you (usually the elderly), I could recognise which plants to collect from the churchyard to feed my guinea pig and rabbit back home, and I also knew which areas to generally avoid for fear of/to avoid harassment.

Much less benign.

Even as I sit here writing this and think back nearly 20 years, part of me wonders whether I was/am over-reacting, perhaps even my mind is playing tricks on me and that I am exaggerating events that occurred.

Nothing serious happened, right?

Well, perhaps not and for that, I am quite obviously relieved. But it also begs the question of what I define by ‘serious’. Let’s say that the ‘less serious’ incidents of harassment during this time were the catcalls from males teenagers and male drivers as I was walking, and the ‘more serious’ being the small number of occasions where I was followed by a car for part of my route.

I didn’t intend for this post to be about trying to unpick some of the reasons why those events occurred, but more why they left a lasting impression on me or rather a bitter taste in my mouth. As it is these events that have stuck with me and have in some way ultimately shaped some of my perceptions about my agency as a woman.

At the time, I attempted to tackle my discomfort by doing the following; turning the music up on my Walkman, roping in friends to accompany me, adjusting my route to avoid (as much as possible) places where I knew and had experience of being on the receiving end of catcalling, and when it was winter, I would ensure that I completed the quieter, less well-lit roads first so that I could walk in well-lit and busier areas when it was dark.

In short, I had to be the one to change my behaviour.

I’ll admit, the vast majority of the time nothing much happened, aside from me completing the paper-round that is. The vast majority of cars/people passed me by and caused me absolutely no distress or shame, but the events that did, subsequently caused me to second guess myself. In one such incidence, when a group of teenage males passed by me on the other side of the street, one shouted something like ‘show us your tits’ rather than ignore it, which I had grown accustomed to, I turned and scowled in the shouters direction, he then proceeded to shout abuse at me.

As I hurried away, worried he and his group would follow me, I wondered if I had been the one to lead him on somehow? Was it because of something I was wearing (which at the time was usually my school uniform of trousers, a polo shirt, and baggy jumper plus one fluorescent yellow newspaper bag)? Surely, this incident must have been my fault as well as others like it.

This line of thinking has accompanied me right up to adulthood. Two relatively recent incidents stand out, both whilst in the UK. Whilst still living there, I eventually stopped going out for a run in the area that I lived due to the remarks I received from male drivers on a regular basis. It mostly consisted of whistles or the standard ‘show us your tits’ (perhaps the same teenage boy from my youth was haunting me as an adult). And of course I want to prefix this with what was my standard running kit: baggy and not form fitting. And secondly, another incident in the UK last year whilst I was waiting for a bus, a man who was crossing the road proceeded to walk up to me (probably a distance of two metres away), stopped and looked me up and down before walking away. He was quite deliberate, almost methodological in the way he did this. And it most certainly wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. I immediately felt myself flush, embarrassed and looked to the ground. I wasn’t wearing anything remotely revealing, yet, in both of these scenarios, my reaction was to turn inward and consider how my behaviour/my actions (including what I was wearing) somehow was the issue.

None of the events I have written about here were physical in nature, and perhaps to some reading this, they may seem insignificant when compared to women and men who have experienced physical harassment/abuse.

Nothing serious happened to me, right?

But what they, and other experiences I have had (like many other women and likewise men), illustrate is how normalised harassment is. We may pass off the catcalls as banter, be encouraged to take it all as a compliment (as one female friend said to me when we were teenagers), or simply, try to ignore it. The latter is what I have usually opted for. However, with the #MeToo campaign it has highlighted to me once again how ingrained sexual harassment is in society and harassment as a whole, yet people are often afraid to speak out for fear of further harassment/abuse.

A hashtag is a good start in raising awareness, but much like other viral trends on the internet/social media, they can quickly fall into the internet abyss as quickly as they arrived. There must be in the first instance, a clear and open discussion of the issue between governments, the media, within family units and amongst social groups, and secondly, it must encourage change.

It’s been a while…

… Well, to be precise, it’s been a little over 11 weeks since my last post. A little longer than I had anticipated when I last wrote.

It’s not as though I haven’t wanted to write, but with starting a new teaching position my attention has been pulled elsewhere and in a number of different directions. I just didn’t have the headspace to write anything outside of either lesson resources or emails to colleagues at work. However, I recently had a week’s holiday and certainly by the end of the break I was feeling suitably rejuvenated, so much so that I wanted to read and write as much as I could, and generally take stock of the previous few months.

The first six weeks or so at my new job were a whirlwind of new policies and procedures, learning new names (for colleagues and students, and I will admit there are many that I still don’t know), understanding new examination structures and specifications, countless online ‘systems’ for things like class registers, reports and for data, and of course, who could forget – the office politics. It gets everywhere.

I felt as though I was getting into my groove just as the holidays arrived and so starting back may take a little getting used to. However, with reports due to this week for a couple of year groups and a parents evening, there is no time like the present to get things moving quickly again.

Whilst visiting family and friends over the break a number did ask me if I am enjoying the role. A straightforward question but requires a multi-layered response. Yes, I am largely enjoying it. From a subject perspective, I enjoy teaching my psychology students and the change in course specification. The students are keen, inquisitive and usually complete most of the work set, providing a perfect combination of analysis and debate.

Furthermore, due to the nature of the position, I am also teaching a number of subjects outside of my subject specialisms, some of which caused me a degree of surprise when I first saw my academic timetable for the year. This, I am finding more difficult to get my head around. Not so much the content at this stage, but more the adjustments in my own mindset that I need to make towards the students I am teaching. I haven’t taught younger students (11-14) year olds for over three years. And as pathetic, irrational or as melodramatic as that may read, I feel as though I am having to re-teach myself on how to actually teach. Even the basics such as setting up routines (getting students to line up outside the classroom for instance) feels a million miles away from where I have been for the past three years.

There are definitely some teething concerns in respect of how ‘things get done’ (in other words: organisation) at the school, but I see these much like teething issues that occur at every single school let alone every company around the world. It takes some time for the dust to settle.

I’ll get there and I am going to try and stop being so hard on myself in the meantime. At least I have been able to go crazy on some new stationary for the new academic year.

Why DO I blog?

I asked myself this very question one morning recently when I realised that in the last few weeks that I had written more for my blog than I had done in the past few months.

It seems that taking a break has reignited my desire to write, which I see as a good thing!

In terms of interest and motivation, like with my most of my hobbies, writing/blogging follows a rough pattern much like a bell curve. I go through periods where I am staring at the laptop screen with a vacant expression on my face, wondering where the words and ideas originate, before hitting a high and churning out either a few blog posts or some fiction writing only to then come back down to earth with a bump and I am left feeling vacant once more. Although I don’t write for a living, I do wonder how productive I could ever be with a career that required this, but then at least right now I don’t rely on writing full-time to pay the bills.

The reasons I blog and the reasons that I write are not necessarily mutually inclusive. I write and have always written for the enjoyment of doing it, the process itself and for the end result. Conjuring ideas in your mind and then seeing an interpretation of them in black font on the screen is something that I do truly get a kick out of, and getting lost in the writing itself, although this occurs less when I write fiction, is something quite powerful. And I believe that the vast majority of fiction writing that I produce will never see the light of day – thank goodness! A lot of it consists of rambling unfinished sentences and paragraphs where an idea sparked and then died just as quickly.

I blog for the same reasons but much of the writing that appears on this blog is a manifestation of more immediate thoughts/values that come to my mind, what the American psychologist William James referred to as a “stream of… consciousness”. And much like a stream, I try to catch some of those thoughts and produce something that just about conveys them as best I can. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

When I first started blogging a few years ago, I was all about getting my blog/s out there. I read widely about how to promote one’s writing and how important it was to have ‘an angle’ or purpose to your blog (and if you had a few angles then multiple blogs were better than one). I posted links to recent articles on Facebook for a handful of friends that would take the time to read them, joined various blogging communities (including ones outside of the WordPress sphere) and even entered a small number of blogging competitions (I actually came third in one). And I realised pretty quickly that although I gained a lot from reaching out in some areas, it was also a lot of work. It felt like everyone was blogging and my voice was lost in the crowd, that was, unless I did more and more in terms of marketing. I was on a self-promotion treadmill and I put an increasing amount of pressure on myself to seek followers and likes. But at the end of the day, it just didn’t feel like me. Partly due to laziness and also being pulled in different directions for work and so on, my writing gradually came to a standstill. And when I did sit down to do something, I felt bitter. I realised that I didn’t enjoy writing anymore.

So when I first established this blog nearly two years ago, and even as recently as a few months ago, I made public commitments to write more regularly. I hoped that by making such a bold statement, then not only would my writing improve but I would get past the hurdles I had faced previously, where I lost that loving feeling about writing. But it has dawned on me that I have experienced similar feelings in the past few months once again. I was in effect chasing a similar idea, admittedly on a different treadmill this time, where it was all about getting posts written and published, and less about enjoying the process of writing.

So now I make a different commitment to myself. I will write when I have the time, energy and inspiration/motivation to do so. Sometimes it will come in fits and bursts and other times, it will feel like I am clutching at straws, but I am okay with that. I am taking the pressure off myself. I don’t blog for money or for fame (although let’s be honest, who doesn’t like a ‘like’ or some feedback on a piece, preferably positive and/or constructive). And certainly if these were the two main criterion that I was measuring my blog by, I would have deleted this blog some months ago. Some of my favourite and most honest pieces of writing have received minimal views or certainly ‘likes’. I still sit sometimes with the intention to write with a vacant expression on my face and a brain lacking focus and ideas, but I now enjoy the process of writing much more than I have done in some time.

Friendship in the Making

Prior to moving abroad five years ago, I tended to socialise with friends from outside of the work setting. This wasn’t anything necessarily deliberate and also didn’t mean that I had drawn a thick line in the sand separating work and home life (I still developed friendships with colleagues too!), but it was just the way things worked out at the time. Saying that, since working in the environment that I have in Vietnam, I have become more aware of drawing a line of some sort between my work and home life, if just to avoid some of the anxieties surrounding office social cliques. Something that I feel is heightened when in an environment such as the one I worked in.


It was Friday night and the last day of the formal induction period for the new staff and the school had arranged a social evening on site for all staff to get acquainted. I had been in Vietnam for less than a week and whilst still suffering some of the effects of jet-lag during the week, I had also been busy setting up my classroom, opening a bank account, filling in countless pages of paperwork for work permits and health insurance, and generally finding my feet.

It was the first time that I was going to properly meet many of the existing staff and the event was going to test aspects of the social anxiety I sometimes experience in novel situations. I can remember heading for safety once I arrived into the arms of the group of other newbies, but after a couple of drinks I ventured out to do some meeting and greeting. Alcohol can be good like that.

I managed to chat to a significant proportion of colleagues over the course of the evening, who provided valuable insights into adjusting to life in Vietnam, plus gossip was traded about the underbelly of the school itself, a necessary rite of passage when you start at any organisation. But it was at this time that I also made what turned out to be a classic social faux pas, I chose not to continue the merriment at a club in the city, having turned down the invite from an existing colleague Jane. I was tired from the amount of information that I had absorbed over the course of the week, and also from having to maintain the friendly work face to a heap of new people, so I just wanted to go to bed. At the time I thought little of it.

It was only a few weeks later at a birthday celebration for a colleague who had arranged afternoon tea when I noticed something was up. I joined a group of female staff on the taxi ride as we all lived in the same staff accommodation. After making a few attempts at small talk, I realised that I wasn’t gaining any ground, and in particular, Jane appeared to actively excluding me from participating in any conversation, with chat focusing quite deliberately on their activities over the weekend. I tried to push down the feelings of discomfort and hold onto the fact that I was 31 and not 14 years old. Surely, I wasn’t getting blanked?

Well, it turned out my intuition was correct and I was getting blanked because as soon as we arrived at the venue, the group scuttled to the last remaining seats at the table leaving myself and one other colleague who had also arrived in the same taxi without a place to sit. Heather had been sat up front on the journey and so although we had been introduced and chatted before on a few occasions, we didn’t know each other very well.

The woman who’s birthday we were celebrating immediately came over for a chat before apologising about the lack of space on the main table. Subsequently, the cafe owner sat Heather and me together with another late-comer to the gathering on a table a few metres away, where, aside from a few people passing to stop and chat over the course of the afternoon on their way to the bathroom, we were largely on the periphery of the action.

It was a strange and memorable afternoon for a number of reasons, but two things stand out now that I look back. Firstly and most importantly, I discovered a wonderful connection with Heather that day and we are still incredibly good friends, and secondly, it transpired that the reason for the cold shoulders from the rest of the group was due to the fact that they saw me as ‘boring’, because I hadn’t hit the clubs with them a few weeks previously. It was, in fact, Heather who told me this, and at the time, her admission upset me. I couldn’t even see past how ridiculous the whole thing was for a long time afterwards. But perhaps the craziest thing in all of this was that Jane didn’t appear to see past this too, and she would barely exchange two words with me when we passed in a corridor at work during the entire academic year, although she did seem happy enough to glare at me instead. I felt like a teenager again who had been refused a seat at the popular kid’s table (quite literally in the case of this particular birthday party).

The events at the birthday party and other situations that followed involving Jane and this particular group of women were reminiscent of the film of ‘Mean Girls’, and as much as I tried to ignore the feelings of inadequacy that tended to bubble up after yet another awkward encounter, things only became easier when she left at the end of that academic year. Looking on the bright side, at least I wouldn’t have to see her again.


Part of me wonders if it is the nature of working abroad and moving in a transient foreigner/expat (I am not a particular fan of the latter term) bubble that means relationships develop out of necessity to connect in the first instance than any real, true bond. I would partly agree with this sentiment because as humans we all have a desire (more like biological need) to connect with others and much like dating, you may have to look around and dig deep to find people who you share common interests with. However, saying this I did make some wonderful friends in my (now) previous teaching position, and many of whom I worked with fairly closely at a curriculum level.

As much as I found aspects of the above experience and others difficult and confusing during my time at the school, it taught me a number of things (as life is all about looking for those lessons when looking in the rear mirror, right?). Firstly, good friends are hard to come by and this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I have reached a point in my life where I don’t have the energy to deal with friends who are continually flaky with their time for me or friends that want only a superficial connection. It’s those friends that have your back during the good and the bad (and hopefully assume that you’re not boring because you don’t want to attend a social event), that make a friendship worthwhile.

Secondly, I have finally realised that not everyone is going to like me. Gosh, this has been one of the hardest lessons to learn! As a fully paid up member of the people pleaser club and having spent a significant chunk of my teens, twenties and dare I say it, my thirties too worrying about what someone else thinks of me, it makes me want to scream. That’s not to say that the mental energy was all completely wasted, it is sometimes important to at least consider another person’s viewpoint of something you may have said or done but when it verges on obsession (as it has at times with me), it becomes thoroughly exhausting. That mental energy could have been better spent elsewhere.

To that end, I am going to be more self-aware of the bonds I create and particularly the ones I actively foster with colleagues when I start my new position.

  • Names have been changed

Why Vietnam?

I was asked this question many (many) times when I found out I was moving to Vietnam for work and in the first year or so of living there. Admittedly, the majority of people who were asking me were loved ones and so the thought of a few thousand miles between me and them was probably at the forefront of their minds. It was, in fact, an uncle and aunt on my mother’s side who both said to me separately that they could ‘see’ me there. I know that they didn’t necessarily mean in Vietnam per se but just somewhere outside of the UK and probably Europe as well.

Close friends were also more in line with the view presented by my aunt and uncle, they knew that I had wanted to work abroad for some time, and some were, probably frankly sick of me talking about it but with no action (although I was living in Spain at the time). And for me, prior to seeing the job advertisement, I had never thought to myself, ‘I must simply go to Vietnam’. It seemed exotic and too far away to even comprehend. And if I am honest, all I knew about Vietnam was related to the war.

My previous knowledge of the war was extremely limited and focused primarily on the ‘American angle’, i.e., it was seen as a war that they had lost. One of the first museums that I visited upon arriving in Ho Chi Minh City was that of the War Remnants Museum located near the heart of the city. The museum had been previously called the ‘Museum of Chinese and American War Crimes’, so this gives you an indication that the curators wanted to provide the ‘Vietnamese angle’ to the effects of this devastating conflict, of which some effects are still evident. To illustrate this, the Vietnamese generally refer to the war as the American War rather than the Vietnam War, this not so subtle change of country indicates, at least to me, that the Vietnamese wanted to ‘own’ the war. Perhaps to act as a reminder that it was the Americans who invaded their country (in an act to prevent the spread of communism), and not the other way round.

Once I had visited the museum as well as explore much more that the city had to offer, I found myself understanding a great deal more about the country and a little about its people. And I found myself asking ‘Why not Vietnam?’

A Love Letter to Vietnam

There is an undeniable spirit about Vietnam, whether you are in one of the sprawling fast-paced cities, trekking in a rural wilderness or relaxing on one of the many stunning beaches that the country has to offer. In the three years I lived in Vietnam, I witnessed this spirit within its people and their approach to everyday life, but I would also argue that I only scratched the surface with what the country has to offer. To that end, it would be utterly impossible for me to condense three years of living in this remarkable country to one post, so, I have summarised a few of my experiences here and I hope to write more in the future.

If I had to describe Vietnam in a few words; aspiration, vitality and warmth (and not just in terms of the tropical climate) would be some of the words that first spring to my mind.

In contrast, it took me a few months to warm to Vietnam when I first moved to Ho Chi Minh City back in the summer of 2014. It wasn’t as though I hated my initial impressions by any means, but I had completely underestimated the culture shock I would experience. I had gone from living in the UK, then Spain and then upping sticks to move to the other side of the world. To a large extent, the culture shock stemmed from fear. When I initially moved to Spain, it felt ‘safe’, what with relatively quick and cheapish flights to and from the UK and additional comfort provided in that many locals (at least where I was living) and amenities provided assistance in English. I hasten to add here, it was a priority of mine to integrate into the local community and so I did take Spanish lessons both in the UK prior to the move and once I arrived.

In comparison, moving to Vietnam meant that I was required to stand on my own two feet and here I was, an early 30-something-year-old woman who had actively chosen to leave her then partner for a job pretty much on the other side of the world. Part of me wonders if perhaps consciously or not, many of my decisions up till this point had largely been based on what was deemed ‘safe’ or not.

For the first few months, I found myself conflicted about the move to Vietnam. Work was busy, having received a promotion early into my contract together with planning new courses. I was also struggling to establish and foster new friendships (partly because I was stressed from work), my then partner was based in another country and I was miles and miles away from family and friends. I was lonely and felt as though I had made a terrible decision.

However, much like my initial feelings about when I went to university where everything is SO BIG and SO SCARY at first (well, that might have just have been me), once I started getting out there and exploring, I began to find my feet. Thrown together through the same circumstances, I connected pretty quickly with another newbie at the school and we would regularly explore restaurants and coffee shops at weekends with her partner. Slowly, other new friendships formed and, although I enjoyed being able to investigate on my own, sharing these experiences helped provide me with the grounding that I needed to feel more at home.

It was only when I opened my eyes and started to look outside of the walls of the school and head into the metropolis that is Ho Chi Minh City, that I felt drawn in by the vitality and warmth of the Vietnamese people and its culture.

I have read in a few travel guidebooks that Thailand is known as the country of smiles, but I would argue that Vietnam is a strong contender for that crown. One of my lasting memories will be the kindness of the vast majority of people I met. Even if words failed both parties (I did learn some basic Vietnamese, but gave up after six weeks as I found it incredibly hard to get to grips with the different tones…), a smile, a brief nod together with various hand gestures and my basic Vietnamese, usually meant we could all be understood, plus a great deal of patience from my Vietnamese counterpart.

I recall thinking early on about how different my previous life had been in Spain to that of being in Vietnam (as if I thought they could in any way similar!). When I had first moved to Spain it was still suffering the effects of the economic crash in 2008; such as high unemployment rates and a high demand of people seeking social support. Another noticeable facet of this in the coastal area where I lived, were the countless abandoned building sites in which companies had either gone bust or had chosen to cut their loses. Concrete shells dotted the landscape that originally had been intended for residential use but now acted as a graffiti artist’s paradise.

In contrast, the building sites I saw in Vietnam were enormous and appeared never ending. High-rise luxury apartments cover swathes of land, and in the south, these are predominantly built on swampland. A concern certainly for the future if sea levels rise as they are expected to with climate change. And of course, with an average Vietnamese person receiving a salary of less than USD$7000 a year, I wonder who is going to be living in these luxury apartments… but despite this, I can’t shake the feeling that Vietnam has ambitions to ‘go somewhere’ after nearly a century marred by war and conflict, and this boom in construction is one way of illustrating this.


Depression is a strange beast. It fascinates me as much as it frightens me with its ability to influence my life.

As my last post indicated, I have recently moved countries for work and to live with my partner, so you’d think that I would be over the moon. That’s inaccurate as I am over the moon; having gone from seeing one another every four to six weeks to every day is wonderful and I am truly happy with the move.

But the transition with moving countries, soon to be work and settling in generally has meant that somehow and somewhere along the line I managed to slip into a period of blackness that I cannot wholly understand or explain.

When I have gone through periods like this before there are rough indicators that have led me to recognise what I am experiencing, so I am able to put some things into perspective. For instance, if work is particularly stressful I will ask myself if deadlines need to be met at a particular time, and if there is some slack I make the most of them. Simply, I have some things in place for when/if shit hits the fan.

Although a part of me feels that this particular bout of melancholy has come from nowhere, the one thing I do realise now with experience is that this isn’t really the case. Depression seems to enjoy creeping up on you. I recently said goodbye to a country that I have lived in for three years and to people who I have formed strong bonds with. The final week or so of being there I had this almost constant nagging feeling that I had forgotten something, but I couldn’t pinpoint indeed what ‘it’ was that I was forgetting or why I was experiencing that sensation. It was only when I was literally leaving the country a little over a week ago when it dawned on me; I was leaving something behind, a part of me. I know that sounds terribly silly and even a little pretentious but recognising this caused me nearly to cry in front of the poor taxi driver as he drove me to the airport.

I know that my experiences of depression are nothing like those what some other people experience, where they require daily medication, regular therapy or in the more extreme cases, hospitalisation. But I would argue that, as much as depression exists on a spectrum, I am on the thin end of the wedge, i.e., depression in its ‘mild form’. I am not rendered debilitated by its grip, but when it does pass by and stop for a while I am a shadow of who I believe I really am. It is as though I am wearing glasses or better yet, contact lenses that are permanently smudged. I am observing life part squinting and part physically and emotionally drained from the energy trying to interpret the world around me. And no matter how much I try to clean them, the effort is pointless.

I am fortunate, for the next few weeks I am able to rest and recuperate until the term begins for my new position. At least for now, I am going to spend some time exploring my new home and rekindle the enjoyment I have with some of my hobbies such as photography, travel and writing. And just the mere thought of being able doing these things is stoking a fire in my belly to get started.

Where do I go from here?

I finished work last week after what has at least felt like a long term since Easter. So much so, that I sank into a period of what I can only describe as utter exhaustion once the final bell rang for the school day and for my career at the school.

The last few days of work were a whirlwind of events; including graduation and award ceremonies, talent shows and also farewell assemblies for those who were leaving this year. I was one of those members of staff leaving for pastures new.

I wrote in my previous post about some of the wonderful students who I have had the privilege of working with over the past three years. But I have also worked with some colleagues who have opened my eyes to new experiences and caused me to challenge some of my own preconceptions in the teaching bubble and outside of it.

So in my next post, I am going to explore some of those experiences, now that I have the energy and space to reflect on the ride that has been living and working in Vietnam for the past three years.

A Letter to my Students

Some years ago I recall watching the first series of Channel 4’s Educating Essex, and in one particular episode, the wonderful Mr Drew says whilst chatting to his GCSE History class, “You have no idea how much I like teaching you”.

The pleasure in how he expresses this remarkably simple statement of affection is tangible to see. The students kick back in their chairs laughing, but they are not laughing at Mr Drew, as you can see on their faces that they are thinking something similar, perhaps “But Mr Drew, you have no idea how much we like being taught by you!”

The scene has always stuck with me because I have felt the same about particular students in the past, but this year I am incredibly lucky to have an entire class that I feel that way about.

I know that it could be described as unprofessional to have a ‘favourite class’ and when I was training this was described as a definite no-no, but on a day-to-day basis, I firmly believe that this labelling does not interfere with my other classes, all of whom I equally enjoy teaching. But there is something about this class; it could be down to the expressive joy in how you approach your learning, your individual inquisitive natures, the camaraderie that you express to one another in the class, or all of the above. But I look forward to each and every single lesson. There is something truly magical about it.

Some of you have asked about my reasons for leaving the school at the end of this academic year; why couldn’t I stay? At least to see you through until you head off into the big, wide world next year. I can assure you that my decision has nothing to do with you or any of the students that I teach.

I have been teaching for nearly a decade and worked in a variety of schools and over the years I have seen so much change. In many respects I thought that I had evolved along with the changes rung in by successive governments and school leadership teams; I have always done what has been required and more in most cases, I have put in the hours and have been rewarded by receiving additional responsibilities.

As the years have rolled by, I have become more confident in my own value as a teacher and as an individual; I have always been keen to develop professionally and have supported my teams in doing the same. I also found my voice and will speak up when I have felt it necessary, occasionally ruffling a few management feathers as a result. I don’t speak up to deliberately throw things off balance, but to hopefully provide some healthy dialogue about the rationale behind the purpose and practicality of some school initiatives even if I am left dissatisfied with the end result.

But then I moved to our school and found that the management did not appreciate or even tolerate questions being asked. By anyone. To them, asking questions is a direct challenge to their authority.

Last year when I submitted a formal complaint about a member of the senior leadership team about how he had failed to deal with what should have been a simple department related issue, and his subsequent insulting manner in how he spoke to a colleague and myself, I had hoped that by following a formal process that I was protected to some extent from any backlash. I was wrong and naive. As well as being ‘encouraged’ to retract the complaint, otherwise ensuring a significant blemish on any future references, I was also reminded that my management responsibility could be taken away at any point. In the end, I backed down, I didn’t want to potentially ruin the years I had put into my career and I quickly learnt not to question the management again.

The irony of this, of course, is that we wish to encourage our students to do just that – to ask questions. As teachers we want students to develop skills of analysis and evaluation, yet as adults, if you question the legitimacy of certain actions you are vilified for it. Therefore, over a few short years of working at the school and with a drip-drip effect of what has felt like my actions and those of colleagues being constantly undermined that is also supported by a culture of blame, and in some cases blatant sexism and racism, it has meant that I have become another passive member of the teaching body. I don’t speak up even to protect my colleagues and students by what appears to be bullying tactics from some of the management team. I am not only angry at myself because of this but I have gradually lost the passion that I once had for teaching, at least in this school.

My decision to leave the school has not been an easy one. However, in the past year or so the periods of depression that I have experienced, I believe can be at least partly attributed to burnout from the job and I have slowly come to accept that my mental health is more important than attempting to please any manager who sees the staff as mere commodities and students just as figures on spreadsheets. None of the management has thought to reflect on the reasons why over a third of the teaching faculty are leaving this summer because surely, it can’t be anything to do with them.

You’ve also asked if I will cry on my last day – I most definitely will! You genuinely have no idea how much I have enjoyed teaching you and so I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Ps. Ask questions. Ask lots of them.