Some plants thrive no matter where you put them—cracks in pavements, office windowsills, even in environments laced with just enough toxicity to keep them weak but not quite dead. I am not one of those plants. I need space, proper soil, and an environment that doesn’t make me question my own existence at least once a week.

For a while, I convinced myself I could make do. That I could bend, twist, and strategically prune myself to fit into the pot I’d been given. Sure, it was small. Sure, my roots were getting a bit constricted. But I told myself, This is normal. Everyone feels like this. It’s just part of being a functional adult.

Spoiler: it was not normal.

See, the thing about being in a pot that’s too small is that your roots don’t actually stop growing. They just start doing weird things—circling in on themselves, getting tangled, sending out desperate little tendrils that eventually snap. (Metaphorically speaking, of course. Although my actual nervous system may have been doing something similar.)

And yet, the expectation was to stay. To keep smiling, keep nodding, keep convincing myself that I could make it work. Maybe if I just shrank a little more, clipped a few more leaves, kept my voice that bit softer every time I opened my mouth, shared an opinion, or—heaven forbid—disagreed with someone?

Nah.

I refuse.

I refuse to be a bonsai tree for someone else’s aesthetic. I refuse to keep myself in a container that was clearly labelled not suitable for long-term growth. I refuse to make myself small for the sake of other people’s comfort.

So I’m re-potting myself.

What’s next? No idea. But whatever it is, it’ll have space. Room to stretch out, breathe, and—dare I say—thrive. And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this:

A plant that’s outgrown its pot doesn’t miss the old one. It just gets on with the business of growing.

Of course, through all of this, there has been one silent observer to my slow-motion existential crisis: my ever-patient husband. A man whose endurance levels could put a medieval monk to shame, he has weathered every phase of this decision with the quiet acceptance of someone who knows better than to intervene too soon.

He has listened to every rant. Every “I can’t do this anymore,” followed by “But maybe I should just stick it out,” followed by “No, actually, I really can’t do this anymore.” He has nodded through my TED Talk-length monologues in the kitchen, delivered while brandishing a wooden spoon like an impassioned stateswoman, laying out my case for leaving—only to witness me, the very next day, convince myself that perhaps I am simply being dramatic.

The man deserves an award.

And then, in what can only be described as an act of self-sabotaging spontaneity, I did the most financially reckless thing possible: I booked a holiday.

Then I quit my job.

Yes, in that order.

Did I think this through? No. Do I regret it? Also no. Because if I was going to make a life-changing decision, I figured I might as well do it with a cocktail in hand at a swim-up bar. And honestly, what better way to celebrate re-potting myself than by throwing my newly freed roots into the desert sands, where they can bask in the sun and embrace the chaos?

But before I ride off into the sunset on a metaphorical camel, I have to acknowledge the hardest part of leaving: my students.

Walking away from a job that has drained you is one thing. Walking away from the kids who made it worth it? That’s another. The ones who made me laugh, who showed up every day ready to learn, who reminded me why I started in the first place—I am gutted to leave them. If I could take them all with me, I would. (Though I suspect some parents might object to that.)

As for the rest? Well. Let’s just say that working under a certain kind of leadership requires either total compliance or the ability to function as an emotional sponge—soaking up stress, blame, and shifting goalposts, while being expected to smile through it. Some people thrive in that environment. I do not. And after much reflection (and, let’s be honest, several impassioned WhatsApp rants), I have accepted that the only way to truly grow is to stop standing in the shade of someone else’s ego.

Now that I’ve finally left, my husband—bless him—has been nothing but supportive. Though I suspect he’s relieved to no longer live with a woman whose entire personality had started to resemble a frayed electrical cord. And while I don’t have a neat five-year plan, I do have something better:

• A little more space
• A little more light
• A holiday booked on sheer impulse
• A bar stool in a pool
• And the knowledge that my roots are finally free to grow wherever the hell they want.