After 15 years of service in public education in one of the nation’s top school districts, I walked away. Not from students. Not from my love of teaching. But from a system that was slowly erasing me. I didn’t leave teaching because I stopped believing in education. I left because I couldn’t keep shrinking to fit roles that were never designed to hold all of who I am—roles that required high performance without the freedom to ask questions, visibility without voice, and loyalty to rules and regulations without room for care.
And I’m not alone. BIPOC educators aren’t walking away because we’re weak or uncommitted. We’re leaving because we’re tired of being celebrated only when our brilliance is convenient and silenced when it challenges comfort. As Forbes reported in 2024, there is a “mass exodus” of Black teachers (Richard-Craven, 2024). This isn’t just about burnout: It’s the accumulation of dismissal, silence, and systemic neglect—what many of us experience as betrayal from the profession we chose and love.
I was a top-performing, nationally recognized teacher and leader. But I was also silenced in meetings, passed over for stipends, and punished for asking questions. My story is deeply personal—but it’s not unique. And I’m telling it to illuminate, not to indict. Because when the brightest lights leave the building, it’s often because the environment can’t hold our brilliance.
The System That Called Me In, Also Shut Me Out
My story began with love—with community, with legacy, with purpose. I started my career in a school that felt like home. I was hired by an administrator who once served as an assistant principal at my own high school, a woman who saw me grow as a student and believed in who I could become as an educator. I taught alongside the very educators who once taught me—serving students from my Miami neighborhood who reminded me of myself. That school wasn’t just where I worked. It’s where I returned. It’s where I rooted. It’s where I learned that teaching was more than standards and strategies; it was trust-building and culture-keeping. I formed deep partnerships with families. I created opportunities where none had been handed to me.
And because leadership trusted me, I was able to lead with integrity and imagination. I was encouraged. Seen. Supported. So, I gave everything I had. I stayed late not out of pressure, but out of purpose. I built programs from scratch. I brought in grants. I had a track record of excellence. My students consistently outperformed district averages. I mentored new teachers, facilitated PD, and earned accolades. I became Rookie Teacher of the Year. I was celebrated—until I wasn’t.
The shift came over several years—quiet, subtle, and hard to name at first. It began when the leadership that once nurtured my growth transitioned out. With each change in administration, the culture shifted. Trust became control. Collaboration became compliance. Decisions were made without transparency. New leaders didn’t know my story, and worse, they didn’t care to learn it.
The erosion came in layers—through microaggressions, unspoken exclusions, meetings I was no longer invited to, and opportunities that vanished without explanation. My voice was welcome—until I asked hard questions. My leadership was praised—until I pushed for instructional equity. My success was celebrated—until I made others uncomfortable. And the more I gave, the less I was seen and supported.
In 2010, I was reassigned to a school with a tight-knit culture that wasn’t made for me. From day one, I felt like an outsider—not because I couldn’t teach, but because I didn’t conform to the school’s entrenched norms. My culturally responsive, student-centered teaching style was welcomed in my pre-AP classes. But in my regular courses, filled with Black and Brown students, there was an unspoken norm—worksheets, scripted instruction, minimal discussion. It wasn’t mandated, but it was modeled. Quietly expected. Rarely challenged.
Too many of us enter this profession with degrees, dreams, and a deep calling—only to leave with wounds.
As a result, I shrank—not in skill, but in spirit. I stopped leading with joy. I started surviving through silence. I did what I had to do to meet expectations. My students still learned and their scores improved. But I knew I wasn’t giving them the fullness of what I could offer—not because I didn’t want to, but because the culture didn’t have room for it.
Yes, the administration noticed my students’ test scores, but they never looked deeper. If they had, they would’ve seen that keeping them high came at the cost of my voice, my joy, and the heart of my teaching. I stopped requesting field trips. I stopped inviting guest speakers. I stopped writing grants. I no longer had the capacity—mentally, emotionally, or spiritually—to keep pouring without being poured into. No one asked why I stopped. No one wondered what shifted. There was no check-in. No invitation. No curiosity. Just data points—disconnected from the person behind them.
When an opportunity opened at a tech-forward school focused on innovation, I saw a way out and took a leap of faith. I became a founding teacher-leader in a space that gave me something I hadn’t had in years—freedom. The principal at this school saw me. He recognized the full picture of who I was—not just as an educator, but as a mother, a wife, a whole person with a life outside work. He trusted me and my colleagues. He shielded us from the district’s noise and let us lead. He didn’t micromanage. He didn’t question my voice. He simply created the conditions for us to thrive.
That soil helped me bloom—and from that bloom came my next leap: a district-level leadership role (my dream job). And my new supervisor? A model of mentorship. She valued my ideas and gave me space to lead with integrity. But when she left, so did the care. My next supervisor was dismissive, punitive, and unwell with power. Micromanaging. Culturally disconnected. I was the only Black woman on the team—and the silence around that was loud. I was punished for being clear. Sidelined for speaking up. And when you’re a Black woman striving for excellence, you don’t expect ease, but you do expect dignity. Fairness. Humanity. When even those disappear, you know this is not a place you can stay.
The breaking point was not quiet; it was humiliating. I was made to sit outside the instructional supervisor’s office, my manager, for several hours—disciplined publicly for being late, despite having previously shared the realities of my long commute and my responsibilities as a mother. There was no conversation, no flexibility, no context considered.
Soon, a colleague and friend passed by and saw me sitting there, stunned. She reminded me that what was happening was unacceptable and walked me right to the superintendent’s office. The superintendent listened and was supportive and said something I’ll never forget: “Don’t ever let someone else’s insecurity dim your light.”
In that moment, I truly realized how much I’d been carrying—not just the workload, but the emotional labor of constantly self-monitoring, the mental gymnastics of navigating power dynamics, the spiritual toll of shrinking myself to make others comfortable. I was managing district initiatives, mentoring colleagues, advocating for equity, and still trying to be fully present as a mother. And I was also carrying the silence of every microaggression I internalized, every slight I brushed off, every meeting where I bit my tongue to stay “professional.” I was holding it all and pretending it didn’t hurt.
I knew I could no longer survive, let alone thrive, in a system that treated my well-being, boundaries, leadership, values, and humanity as negotiable. Staying meant sacrificing too much of myself. And when a system won’t protect you, you have to protect yourself.
Leaving Wasn’t Easy—But It Was Necessary
Too many of us enter this profession with degrees, dreams, and a deep calling—only to leave with wounds. Not from lack of skill, but from being unheard, undervalued, and overextended. We give everything and are often asked to give more, while receiving less of what truly sustains us: trust, care, and belonging.
In my district role, I had arrived. But I was emotionally unstable. Spiritually worn down. Professionally stifled. I silenced parts of myself daily just to get through it. It took me years to learn that leaving wasn’t failure—it was freedom. Still, I often wondered: Would I have stayed if things had been different? Maybe—if someone had done more than check a box. If leaders had created conditions where I didn’t have to shrink to survive. If my mental health, identity, and leadership were respected—not just managed.
What School Leaders Can Do
Retention requires more than good intentions. It requires transformation. If leaders want to keep BIPOC educators, they must stop asking why we leave and start asking what it would take for us to stay and thrive.
Here are five ways to begin this work:
1. Create environments worthy of staying in, not just clocking into.
Retention is about building environments where BIPOC educators can breathe deeply, show up fully, and lead freely. When we’re forced to dim our light, silence our voice, or compromise our values just to stay, that’s harmful. Leaders must shift from performative inclusion to protective action. Restorative systems, accountability, and attention to psychological and cultural safety looks like addressing harm, not meeting it with silence and “business as usual” while the harmed party carries the weight alone. When bias or exclusion happens, leaders must name it clearly, affirm those affected, and take visible, specific action to repair trust.
2. Reframe support as trust, not control.
Support isn’t micromanagement dressed as mentorship. True support means trusting us to lead authentically. Ask BIPOC educators what we need and believe us. Back our leadership with funding, flexibility, time, autonomy, and follow-through. I had a principal who nurtured my vision. He said yes with no red tape, no surveilling, no hoops. That freedom created space for students to explore, for me to lead boldly, and for our team to build something that felt affirming, alive, and real. That trust helped me grow into a stronger teacher, department chair, and mentor. But I’ve also lived on the other side where I felt punished for having vision. Meetings became minefields. Ideas blocked without consideration. This is the cost of performative support.
The principal at this school *saw* me. He recognized the full picture of who I was—not just as an educator, but as a mother, a wife, a whole person with a life outside work.
3. Build leadership pathways that center identity, not assimilation.
For too many BIPOC educators, leadership has meant shrinking, shape-shifting, or diluting our truth to be seen as “professional.” We’ve been expected to adjust our tone, soften our language, and silence our natural ways of showing up—our culturally rooted ways of being, our communication style, our boldness, our rhythms of expression—just to be deemed acceptable. I’ve sat in rooms where I second-guessed my passion so I wouldn’t be labeled “too intense.” I’ve rewritten emails to avoid sounding “aggressive.” I’ve watched culturally responsive, effective strategies get shut down—not because they didn’t work, but because they challenged tradition. I’ve been advised by various leaders against wearing culturally significant hairstyles or clothing, because it didn’t align with unwritten norms. And I’ve seen colleagues with less experience promoted because they fit a more comfortable image of leadership.
Leadership development must be redesigned. That starts with recognizing cultural competence, emotional intelligence, and authenticity as assets, not liabilities. And it means making leadership pathways visible, supported, and rooted in belonging, so no one has to erase themselves to rise.
4. Encourage external professional networks without questioning loyalty.
Many BIPOC educators I know find affirmation, growth, and safety in spaces beyond their school buildings. And most of us pay for those experiences out of pocket—just like I did. These professional networks offer culturally affirming learning, mentorship, and truth-telling. But instead of being celebrated, our participation is too often met with suspicion. I’ve been questioned about my commitment simply for attending conferences or joining communities. One former supervisor even refused to sign off on a free conference because it wasn’t “district aligned.” Leaders must stop treating professional networking outside the building as a betrayal. Fund our growth. Trust our instincts. Support our participation in coaching cohorts and learning communities that nourish our identity and sharpen our leadership.
5. Redefine success to go beyond metrics and mandates.
Success for teachers, especially BIPOC teachers, isn’t just about test scores, rubrics, or walkthrough checklists. It’s about whether they feel safe enough to speak and seen enough to stay. BIPOC educators carry invisible labor every day. This emotional, cultural, and relational work rarely shows up in evaluations, but it profoundly shapes school culture. If schools can track hallway noise and tardies, they can track wellness and belonging. Use anonymous feedback tools, peer-to-leader loops, and opt-in listening sessions to gather real-time insight into teacher well-being and belonging. And when educators leave, bring in third-party facilitators of color to conduct trauma-informed exit interviews that center racial identity and psychological safety. Use those insights to create action plans that transform the system, not defend it.
Find Where You Can Thrive
Let me be clear—this piece isn’t a call to leave. It’s a call to make staying possible. So, if you’re a leader, start with reflection, not reaction. Audit your culture. Examine your gaps in awareness. Build systems that honor voice, protect dignity, and cultivate belonging, not just performance. Staying becomes possible when leadership isn’t rooted in power, but in partnership.
And if you’re a BIPOC educator wondering if you can stay: You don’t have to perform to be worthy. You don’t have to be perfect to be powerful. If you’re shrinking, enduring, doubting, you don’t have to betray yourself to keep pushing through. Because staying isn’t the goal. Thriving is. And if the space you’re in won’t honor you, you can still be whole enough to find (or build) one that will.
