After more than 20 years in education, Ofsted has made me want to walk away from the career I love.
I’m writing this anonymously, and I won’t be identifying my school or the area in which I work. I have far too much respect and affection for my colleagues, our students and the families we serve to risk identifying them. But I need to share what happened to me. Because even now, writing these words, I feel physically sick.
I’ve worked in secondary education for over 20 years. I’m a senior leader, and for most of my career I’ve absolutely adored my job. I’ve never been under any illusions about how difficult teaching can be. I’ve worked long hours, dealt with heartbreaking situations, supported children through unimaginable difficulties and carried responsibilities that have sometimes kept me awake at night. But I’ve always loved it. The school I work in serves a community experiencing significant social deprivation and limited social mobility. For many of our children, school is so much more than a place to learn. It’s a safe haven. Somewhere they are cared for, listened to, fed, supported and, above all, valued. We provide food vouchers, toiletries, uniform and countless other things that families sometimes struggle to afford. We deal with complex safeguarding situations, family breakdown, neglect and the consequences of poverty. As the senior leader responsible for safeguarding, there are days when I feel much more like a social worker or family support worker than a deputy headteacher. And do you know what? I love that part of my job. I love knowing that we can make a difference, even when that difference might seem insignificant to someone looking in from the outside. But it is relentless. Attendance and behaviour are ongoing challenges. We work tirelessly to improve both, but sometimes it feels as though we’re swimming against the tide.
Since Covid, engaging some families has become even harder, and the pressures on schools like ours seem to grow year after year. None of this is an excuse for poor standards. We know we have things to improve. We want our children to achieve every bit as much as children attending schools in more affluent communities. But the barriers some of our students face are enormous. And our teachers? They are some of the most dedicated, compassionate and hardworking people you could ever hope to meet.
Then came Ofsted……Our inspection took place after the tragic death of Ruth Perry, but before the introduction of the new inspection framework. I had been through Ofsted inspections before. I’m no shrinking violet. I’ve always considered myself a tough cookie, and after more than two decades in education, I’m certainly no stranger to professional challenge or accountability. But this was different. The 48 hours that followed were, without exaggeration, among the most professionally distressing of my life. I felt that nothing we did was good enough. Nothing we said seemed to matter. The atmosphere was oppressive, and I felt as though we were constantly on the defensive. My own meeting with inspectors felt less like a professional discussion and more like an interrogation. I was talked over, challenged relentlessly and made to feel as though I was being cross-examined rather than given an opportunity to explain the work we were doing. One particular exchange will probably stay with me forever. An inspector became fixated on the attendance of a deeply vulnerable young person. I won’t share their circumstances in detail because they deserve privacy. But suffice to say that this child had experienced significant trauma, instability and loss.their life had been unimaginably difficult, and simply getting through an ordinary school day could be an enormous achievement. We had invested extraordinary amounts of time, care and support in helping them. We knew them. We understood their circumstances. We celebrated the small steps forward that, for them, represented huge progress. The inspector was critical of his attendance and accused us of having low expectations……Low expectations. I can still remember how those words made me feel. I cried. Not because I couldn’t cope with criticism, but because I was so desperately angry and upset that anyone could interpret our compassion, understanding and determination to help this child as having low expectations of them. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
Surely there has to be room within an inspection system to recognise that, for some children, progress cannot always be measured in percentages and spreadsheets? Surely understanding the impact of trauma and disadvantage isn’t the same as accepting failure? After that meeting, I went and sat alone in my car. I needed to get away. I needed to compose myself. I needed a few moments where nobody could see me. In more than 20 years of working in education, I had never done that before. And I wasn’t the only one struggling. During those two days, I saw at least three colleagues reduced to tears. These weren’t people who didn’t care or couldn’t cope with the ordinary pressures of teaching. They were committed professionals who gave everything to the children in their care. Watching them so distressed was heartbreaking. We eventually emerged with a mixture of Good and Requires Improvement judgements. Not a disastrous outcome, particularly given the challenges our school faces. And that’s perhaps what makes everything that followed so difficult to explain. Because it wasn’t really about the grades. It was about what those 48 hours did to us.
Shortly afterwards, an experienced, hardworking head of department resigned and left teaching altogether. And I became very ill. My mental health deteriorated to the point where I was unable to work for three months. Three months. After more than 20 years of loving my job, I found myself unable to do it. My confidence was shattered. I questioned my competence, my judgement and my professional worth. Everything I had spent decades building, everything I had once felt so proud of, suddenly felt tainted. I struggled with some very dark thoughts during that period. I don’t say that lightly, and it’s not something I ever imagined I would be admitting publicly, even anonymously. I had always been the person other people turned to when things became difficult. Now I was struggling to hold myself together. And the really frightening thing is that the effects haven’t gone away.
Even now, I struggle with anxiety. I second-guess myself. The confidence I once had seems to have disappeared. But there’s something else. We know Ofsted is due to return before the end of this academic year. And I am absolutely terrified. I cannot adequately describe the dread I feel at the thought of going through another inspection. Even sitting here writing this post,
remembering what happened and knowing that another inspection is approaching, I feel physically sick. I simply cannot face it again. So, after more than 20 years in a profession I have genuinely adored, I’m now looking for ways to leave education altogether. And that breaks my heart. I don’t want to leave because I’ve stopped caring about children. I haven’t. I don’t want to leave because the job is demanding. It has always been demanding. And I certainly don’t want to leave because I don’t believe schools should be accountable. Of course they should. Children deserve the very best education we can provide, and schools should absolutely be challenged when they need to improve. But surely there is a way to hold schools accountable without destroying the confidence and wellbeing of the people working within them? Surely inspectors can be rigorous without making people feel humiliated? Surely the professionals who spend their lives supporting vulnerable children deserve to be treated with some of the same compassion and humanity that we are expected to show those children every single day? I think about the younger version of myself who entered education full of enthusiasm, optimism and determination to make a difference. I wish I could find that person again. I wish I could walk into school without the anxiety that now follows me around. I wish I could look forward to the future rather than dread what might be coming. And more than anything, I wish I could feel proud of myself again. Because I used to be. I was proud of my career. Proud of the difference I made. Proud of the relationships I’d built with children and families. Proud to be part of a profession that, despite all its difficulties, I genuinely believed was one of the most important in the world. I don’t feel that way about myself anymore. And I find that desperately sad.
I know there will be people who read this and say that inspections are supposed to be challenging, that schools need accountability, or that senior leaders should be resilient enough to cope with scrutiny. I understand those arguments. But I would ask those people to consider something. What does it say about an accountability system when someone who has spent more than 20 years navigating the challenges of education is now so frightened of being inspected that they feel they have no option but to leave the profession they love? What does it say when dedicated teachers are reduced to tears? When experienced colleagues walk away? When a school leader becomes so unwell following an inspection that they cannot work for months? And what does it say when the fear of another inspection is enough to make someone feel physically sick?
I don’t have all the answers. I just know that something has gone terribly wrong when the people who dedicate their lives to helping children feel this way. I also wonder how many others are quietly experiencing the same thing. How many teachers and school leaders are carrying the emotional scars of an inspection long after the inspectors have packed up and left? How many are sitting in their cars trying to compose themselves? How many are lying awake at night, questioning whether they’re good enough? And how many are quietly planning their escape from a profession they once loved? I never thought I would be one of them. But here I am. After more than 20 years, I haven’t fallen out of love with education. I’ve simply reached a point where I’m frightened of what staying in it might do to me. And I cannot begin to tell you how heartbreaking that feels. I’d genuinely like to hear from other teachers and school leaders who have experienced something similar. Because right now, I feel incredibly alone.