Scores are not everything. After decisively leaving the formal education system, what kind of freedom did the female teacher find?

Standing at the podium, looking at the parents and kids down in the audience whose eyes were shining, I often lose focus and find myself thinking of years ago—sitting in my office, staring blankly at a pile of meeting notes. Back then, I was full of thoughts about education, carrying that eager, warm excitement, and I entered a public school with every intention of doing each class solidly, accompanying the children as they slowly grew up through their textbooks. But what truly made it hard for me to breathe wasn’t the chalk dust on the lectern—it was those never-ending petty matters and all those boxes and constraints.

Every day at 5:30 p.m., the children joyfully sling their backpacks and run out of the classroom. I would just sit down to prepare properly for the next lesson when my phone would go ding. The notifications always arrived so promptly—saying the grade level had an emergency meeting and I had to go to the conference room right away. Once seated, the content I heard would just be the same few things, back and forth: this class’s scores needed to be pushed up again; next week there would be a sanitation inspection, so they had to fight for the mobile red banner; the leaders would come for an inspection tour; the lines and talking points needed to be practiced in advance. Sitting there, I’d feel choked up inside. I was supposed to be a teacher, yet I felt like a record keeper, always ready to handle inspections. These things gradually squeezed out the time I should have spent with students, and little by little wore down the initial love I had for education.

Even the formal assessments made it feel like I couldn’t bring myself to put in real effort. Once collective lesson planning got started, it would take up an entire afternoon. I clearly had my own teaching approach, yet I had to follow someone else’s lesson plan step by step. Writing papers and participating in research-and-teaching competitions—the work I stayed up late for over the course of months to produce—often earned rewards of just 200 yuan. One time, the principal said it plainly: no matter how much effort you put in, if the students’ scores don’t rise, then everything else is just talk. Those words felt like cold water poured over me, leaving me half frozen in an instant. Of course, scores matter—but is education nothing more than a game of adding up marks? The children’s curiosity about knowledge and their feelings about life—aren’t those more worth caring about than those cold, lifeless numbers?

I tried to turn down some extra tasks. I told them I wanted to focus on teaching, that I couldn’t take all these busywork pieces. The leadership responded by saying that young teachers weren’t cooperating well with their work. I also tried talking with parents about my ideas, but I was told I was too young, that I had no experience, and that I couldn’t compare with the other teachers in the class. That kind of feeling of being alone, left out by yourself, surged over you like a wave. To be honest, teachers aren’t afraid of hard work, and it’s not like we only care about money. What everyone cares about is whether our effort can land in a real place; whether that love can receive a response; and whether, in our roles, we can truly do something that helps education.

I did some sums, and the more I added it up, the more it didn’t sit right with me. Is my youth and teaching passion just going to be used up a little at a time by all those old rules—bound to a path set by others, teaching like that for life? The way the days were going made my heart feel uneasy. I couldn’t go on like this anymore. I had to return to the education I truly loved, using my own methods to influence more children. That’s how I made the decision that surprised the people around me: I resigned.

On the day I resigned, surprisingly, there wasn’t too much sadness. Instead, I felt a lot lighter. Finally, I didn’t have to worry about those meaningless meetings anymore. And I no longer had to go against my teaching ideas just to pass inspections.

After leaving the school, I started my own family education studio. I turned the teaching experience I’d accumulated over the years into advice for parents and companionship for children. Now, I can design courses according to my own ideas—helping kids find joy in the sound of music, and learn how to get along with people through conversation. I also went to university classrooms, sharing my ideas about education with future teachers. Every child is different. I can customize the path for growth based on their traits, rather than using a single measuring stick to measure everyone.

The parents who come to my studio—many of them have been touched by these changes. They say that while the school has reduced burdens, at home they still don’t know how to accompany their children. Some kids’ homework time is still over the limit; among the students, more than two out of ten spend more time on homework at home than what’s required. Parents are anxious, and teachers are tired, too. Seeing all this makes me feel even more convinced that my choice back then made sense. Education is supposed to be something schools, families, and society all put their effort into together.

Nowadays, there are more and more parents and children in the studio, and feedback from college students is also becoming more and more positive. I know this choice didn’t go wrong. No matter how long you live, the most worthwhile thing isn’t having a steady, comfortable identity—it’s being able to hold on to that love you have, and live in the way you’ve wanted. I’d rather stand up and go after what I want to do than bend over and grind through the days. That is the most solid answer—to myself, and to education.