Teacher Martyrdom

Lee Pace

I recall it vividly. It was Christmas 2002 and I was perched on a table near the front of my classroom. My mixed year 3/4 class were doing some sort of Christmas activity and my hand was sporadically dipping into the quality street tin for my next fix. It’s a memory I have because of the exhaustion I felt in that moment. It was the end of my first term as a teacher and I was struggling just to stay awake. I reflect on this experience as a ‘welcome to teaching’ moment.

I think most teachers can relate to this. That ‘Teacher Tired’ feeling that only teachers know, where falling asleep in front of the TV is the norm. As my career progressed I began to realise, rightly or wrongly that the more hours I put in, the better I would thought of. Or at least that was the impression I gained. This perspective spilled into all aspect of my practice. My lesson plans became more detailed, my marking lengthier and my curriculum planning more extensive. I always made sure I wasn’t the first off the carpark and saw it as a ‘win’ if my car was the last car! I was treading water, working for the sake of it. I had become a martyr, worried other would see me as lazy. I’d become addicted to effort. With every conversation I had, I’d mention my fatigue whether than be inside of school or with family and friends. If I even intimated any aspect of my job was ‘easy’ I’d feel a fraud. Too often, exhaustion is held in high esteem and anyone with energy is to be treated with suspicion.

I think it is a myth that the most devoted teachers are those who simply ‘give everything,’ a narrative that the profession has internalised as a badge of honour. The expectation that long hours are proof of competence is reinforced by school leaders who, often unintentionally, reward presenteeism rather than effectiveness. As a result, many educators find themselves caught on a relentless treadmill: lesson planning that bleeds into evenings, marking that stretches into the night and countless extra‑curricular duties that swallow weekends. Research from the Department for Education shows that a significant proportion of teachers regularly log more than 60 hours a week. This isn’t something to be proud of.

This culture of martyrdom does not merely exhaust the individual; it seeps into the classroom, where tired teachers are less able to innovate, to respond sensitively to pupils’ needs and to model healthy work‑life boundaries. When self‑sacrifice becomes the yardstick of worth, genuine professional growth is sidelined, and the sector’s DNA is warped into a self‑perpetuating cycle of over‑extension and mission creep.

Breaking this pattern requires a shift in values and many schools and trusts across the land are trying shift their perspectives. It’s not easy though. I think it was Dylan Wiliam who said that the best thing about teachers is that they form strong habits and the worst things about teacher is that they form strong habits. It’s a double-edged sword. We normally associate habits with a physical act, however I think a lot of teachers are in the habit of being a martyr where mental attrition is something to aim for rather than avoid. As this martyrdom becomes habitual, its impact spreads well beyond the classroom. Teachers allow work to spill into evenings, weekends where lesson‑planning replaces family time and marking replaces hobbies. The constant pressure to be available for pupils, parents and colleagues erodes boundaries, leaving little time for self‑care. Many report missing meals, sleeping poorly and feeling guilt when they attempt to switch off, which can strain marriages and parent‑child relationships. I spoke to a teacher recently about how they relax at night and they gave this thrift response, ‘I don’t know how to.’  They had a real sense that they are never truly “off‑duty”. Over time, this blurring of professional and personal life fuels burnout, reduces overall wellbeing and perpetuates a culture where sacrifice is seen as the only path to respect.

The pervasive ‘teachers work hard’ trope does more than glorify relentless sacrifice; it subtly de‑values the expertise and professional knowledge that underpin effective teaching. By equating long hours and endless availability with dedication, the narrative encourages schools to measure worth in terms of sheer labour rather than in the quality of pedagogical practice, curriculum design or leadership. Consequently, teachers feel pressured to prioritise exhaustive lesson‑planning, after‑hours marking and endless extra‑curricular commitments at the expense of time for reflective practice, collaborative learning, or targeted professional development. When the focus remains on how many hours are logged rather than on how those hours translate into improved instructional strategies, the profession risks eroding the very skills and subject‑matter mastery that make teachers valuable. In this way, the ‘hard‑working’ myth not only sustains a culture of martyrdom but also distracts from nurturing the deep, specialised knowledge that should be the cornerstone of a high‑quality education system.

How can we break the martyrdom mindset?

I seem to say this a lot, but I know I’m lucky. I work in a trust where exhaustion isn’t a badge of honour, it’s something to be addressed. Where skills and talents are held in esteem and reading about education and research can be justifiably part of our working days. We have clear values and being with our families is important to us. Yes, we show commitment but we’re asked to do this with balance. Am I lazy? No. Do I work 60 hours per week? No. And even now it still feels ‘wrong’ to say that.

If we collectively re‑align the teaching profession with expertise, collaboration and sustainable practice, the myth of the martyr will fade. Teachers will be able to enter the classroom with enthusiasm, not exhaustion; to model healthy work‑life boundaries for their pupils; and to see their worth measured by the quality of learning they facilitate and not by the number of evenings spent alone with a pile of books.

The journey away from martyrdom will be gradual and it will require commitment from every corner of the sector from the classroom door to the revolving ministerial desk. Yet the alternative, a profession drained, disengaged and increasingly unable to meet the needs of its learners is far less palatable.

Don’t be a martyr. Be the change. Make the main thing, the main thing.