Research for Teachers

It was my second month as a teacher when I got sick for the first time during the school year. I lost my voice almost completely. I was exhausted, foggy, and struggling to think clearly. Looking back now, I was in no condition to teach.

But I went to school anyway.

At the time, calling in sick felt impossible. I was new, trying desperately to prove myself, and terrified of appearing weak, unreliable, or unprofessional. So I convinced myself that showing up was the responsible thing to do. I whispered my way through lessons, pushed through the fatigue, and spent the entire day trying to hide how unwell I actually was.

I remember thinking that this was what committed teachers did.

Now, years later, I see that moment very differently.

The problem was not simply my individual decision. It reflected something much larger: the culture surrounding work, vulnerability, and professionalism in schools. Teaching often rewards endurance. There is an unspoken admiration for the teacher who pushes through illness, answers emails late at night, or sacrifices personal wellbeing “for the students.” In many schools, exhaustion quietly becomes a badge of honour.

Early-career teachers absorb these norms quickly. We learn what is praised, even when nobody explicitly says it aloud.

This connects closely to the concept of psychological safety. Edmondson (1999) defines psychological safety as a shared belief that individuals can take interpersonal risks without fear of embarrassment or punishment. In psychologically safe environments, people feel comfortable admitting mistakes, asking for help, and acknowledging limitations. In unsafe environments, people hide vulnerability because they fear negative judgment.

For me, calling in sick felt risky. I worried it would signal incompetence or lack of dedication. That fear overpowered common sense.

The irony, of course, is that teaching while sick did not make me a better teacher. My lessons were weaker. My thinking was slower. My patience was thinner. Most importantly, I was reinforcing an unhealthy professional identity built on self-sacrifice rather than sustainability.

Over time, my understanding of professionalism shifted.

I used to believe:

“Showing up no matter what = commitment.”

Now I believe:

“Sustainability = professionalism.”

That shift matters because burnout in education is not simply about workload. It is also about identity. Many teachers enter the profession because they care deeply about students and learning. That sense of moral purpose is powerful, but it can also become dangerous when teachers feel guilty for setting boundaries or prioritizing their health.

Research on teacher burnout consistently highlights emotional exhaustion, chronic stress, and unsustainable expectations as major contributors to attrition and reduced wellbeing (Maslach & Leiter, 2016). Schools cannot address burnout only through wellness initiatives or mindfulness posters while continuing to normalize unhealthy work practices.

Culture matters.

If schools truly value long-term effectiveness, leaders must actively model healthy boundaries themselves. Teachers notice when leaders work while visibly ill, respond to emails at all hours, or quietly celebrate overwork. Those actions communicate expectations more powerfully than policy statements ever will.

The opposite is also true. When leaders take sick days, protect boundaries, and openly discuss sustainability, they give permission for others to do the same.

That second-month version of myself thought professionalism meant ignoring my own wellbeing. I understand now that professionalism is not about constant sacrifice. It is about building the conditions that allow us to continue doing meaningful work over the long term.

And sometimes, the most professional thing a teacher can do is stay home and recover.

References

Edmondson, A. (1999). Psychological safety and learning behavior in work teams. Administrative Science Quarterly, 44(2), 350–383. https://doi.org/10.2307/2666999

Maslach, C., & Leiter, M. P. (2016). Burnout. Wiley.