The first time I left teaching was in the late nineties. I had a young daughter and one on the way, and it made more financial sense for me to quit than to pay for daycare for two. Leaving a job that I loved was heartbreaking, but I held out hope that someday, I might return.

More than two decades later, I was finally in a position to do just that. I couldn’t have been happier. Unfortunately, within the first three weeks, I was hit, punched and scratched by two “difficult” children. One bit my assistant. I had chairs thrown at me, instructional materials destroyed and whole shelves cleared by children in fits of rage. I was called an idiot, a bitch, and worse. I was threatened, as were my assistant teachers and the other children. I once had to have an assistant gather my children into a corner of the classroom so that they wouldn’t accidentally be injured by their raging classmate.

No, this wasn’t high school; it was PreK. And I wasn’t teaching four and five-year-olds in some run-down facility in an urban setting, as some might assume. This franchised facility is located in the suburbs and stocked with enough toys and educational materials to serve five centers. Nutritious meals and snacks are served daily. Beautiful outdoor play areas are at every teacher’s disposal. Daily yoga instruction is written into the curriculum.

When I went to administration for help, I was met with a shrug and told that nothing could be done. When I suggested that we speak to the children’s parents, perhaps recommend therapeutic intervention, administration recoiled. I was told that the parents had been spoken to numerous times. When I suggested that we speak to them again, I was told that while I certainly could, it probably wouldn’t make any difference. Besides, the children in question were both moving on to kindergarten in the fall; we just had to wait it out.

I was stunned by the apathy of the administration, as well their complete disregard for the wellbeing of the remainder of my children. The stress of being in that classroom every day had some clinging to their parents at morning drop-off. The “difficult” children’s emotional outbursts during mealtimes had some classmates plugging their ears, while others simply dissolved into tears. One student started wetting again during naptime. Others began acting out in kind, mirroring the behavior of their out-of-control classmates. In the end, I knew that I could not be part of an organization that put profits over the well-being of children. I only lasted three weeks before I gave my written notice.

There are educators with advanced degrees who run classrooms that are specifically set up for students with behavioral issues, but we were not. While my “difficult” children were grossly disserved because of this, all of my other children ended up being disserved, as well, as a result of that untenable situation.

I’ve read probably a dozen articles about why so many educators are leaving the classroom. I remember asking myself if it could really be as bad as people were making it out to be. I’m here to tell you that it’s so much worse. There’s not enough money in the world to offer an educator to endure physical and verbal abuse every day, especially after looking at us like we’re asking too much when we seek out remedy. Insufficient parenting is loud. Trauma is louder. Apathy on the part of administrators is loudest of all, and it’s turning into the soundtrack of our swan song.