I loved being a teacher. Who am I now that an illness forced me to leave?

This First Person column is written by Lisa Schoeler who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I was sitting in my grandpa's oak glider having coffee, a chihuahua on my lap and another nestled between my ankles, when a text message from a former colleague jolted me from my daydreams. 

"Do you want to come pick up your rocking chair?"

For 17 years, I identified as a teacher and my dreams were tied to that rocking chair. But a worsening bipolar disorder stole that from me and now, I'm trying to forge a new identity. Who am I really if I'm not a teacher?

I was a student teacher when I saw a rocking chair in a classroom for the first time. I thought it was magic. Every day after recess, the class gathered around the teacher sitting in that chair and slipped into the story she was reading. It was intimate, warm and nurturing — like the kids were in the hands of a loving grandparent. 

I knew I wanted to be the kind of teacher who uses a rocking chair. 

After I got my certificate, I taught Grade 1 and 2 and used my rocking chair frequently. With young children, having them close to you while they learn is vital. They sit at your feet for stories, lessons and to practise math concepts. They gather for songs and silly dances. When they're close, they find courage to share their stories, dreams and fears.

The chair was part of my job, part of me.

But I couldn't keep teaching.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in my adolescence. The majority of the time, the medications alone kept me well. I was successful and innovative at work, and earned promotions. I felt respected by my colleagues and the families of my students. 

But eventually the symptoms of my illness built up in waves. In addition to severe depression and mania, I experienced debilitating anxiety — anxiety about work, about parenting, about suicide. The risk for suicide is high for people with bipolar disorder.

Each time the waves crashed down around me, I was forced to go on medical leave. Several times, it became more than my husband could manage at home, and I required the 24-hour care at a locked hospital psychiatric unit. 

The last lesson I tried to deliver from my rocking chair was soaked in these waves. It was an art lesson based on the illustrations in a storybook. As I read, my anxiety built, my mind spinning. I felt frozen, knowing what was coming and helpless to stop it.

Rocking chair or not, my illness took away my job, my purpose. 

I didn't even finish reading the book. My voice slipped away. 

That art lesson, and the two week hospital stay that followed, was almost three years ago. I'm on extended disability and my doctor and therapist are not sure my illness — as it has progressed — will ever allow me a return to the busy and often stressful school setting.

I needed a new trajectory. And I didn't have to look far. 

My husband and I adopted one of my former students in 2017 before one of my recent episodes. The complexity of parenting a child who came to us at nine years old changed our lives in unexpected and joyful ways. It called on the part of me that thrives on being a nurturer. We spent countless hours snuggled up with books, talking and rocking in my grandpa's old glider — healing, bonding, and solidifying our family. 

It gave me a new purpose.

Then I joined a supportive group of Calgary moms led by mental health advocate and coach. For about a year, I met with them online weekly or in-person for walks or coffee when pandemic restrictions allowed. We came together to share with honesty and vulnerability. 

This gave me a new community. I started giving and receiving help — supporting a meal-train to help some of the women with meals and grocery staples. I gave driving practice to a single mom with her learner's license, and received coaching services from the mental health advocate to help build personal routines and goals. In return, I took her son on hikes around the city. Another woman encouraged me to buy a stand-up paddle board and gave me lessons. 

My family, my dogs, finding a new purpose and belonging in a new community— these are fulfilling the sense of self I used to prize as an elementary school teacher. I learned my identity doesn't actually need to change; I'm still honouring those core values whether or not I'm working as a teacher.

And what about that rocking chair? I looked back at the text message. My answer was no, I do not need the chair. I'll let it go to a new teacher.

If you or someone you know is struggling, here's where to get help:

• Talk Suicide Canada: 1-833-456-4566 (phone) | 45645 (text between 4 p.m. and midnight ET).

• Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868 (phone), live chat counselling on the website.

• Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention: Find a 24-hour crisis centre.

• This guide from the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health outlines how to talk about suicide with someone you're worried about.

Telling your story

CBC Calgary is running a series of in-person writing workshops across the city to support community members telling their own stories. This piece came as part of our ongoing partnership with the Calgary Public Library.

To find out more about our writing workshops or to volunteer a community organization to help host, email CBC producer Elise Stolte and visit cbc.ca/albertastories to read more personal essays.