Ms. B kicked out of the school system and banned from Prom

Three years ago, on the last day of the school year, I sat at my desk in Prague, coffee in hand. One click, and an email changed everything: my job was gone. Tears blurred the screen. My body shook with anger, fear, and sadness — yet, beneath it all, a quiet, unexpected relief began to stir. Somewhere deep down, I sensed this ending might set me free.

I was teaching Business, Economics, American and British literature, Career development and graduation preparation classes. I started teaching during covid, at the beginning of the pandemic, I was working for an American start up travel company in Prague, and they went bankrupt within weeks of the outbreak. We had  just expanded to south East Asia and our most popular trips within Europe were to Italy, where covid was spreading like wildfire. I found myself on a trip in Istanbul, walking through the colorful streets full of cats, Mosques, the smell of spices in the air. I tried to enjoy each moment as I watched Grace, one of my closest friends and manager, receive call after call from the CEO detailing the collapse of the company. I remember standing in the street,  frozen as the chaos around me ensued. I couldn't move, it hit me that I wouldn’t have a job when I returned to Prague — everything was about to change. It was a time of fear and uncertainty the world accross. Living in Prague while my entire family was in the U.S. was quite the challenge. 

I lost my job, my routine and the life I had created in Prague — on top of that I found out my mom had Ovarian cancer and would soon start chemotherapy treatments. I questioned my life abroad and the choices I had made. I clung to my yoga practice and dove further into meditation which kept me calm,  positive and in connection with myself. The studio I was visiting offered online classes and secret classes in the studio— this was my lifeline in a dark time. 

Trying to get a job during COVID was a joke, almost every company was experiencing a hiring freeze. After many failed attempts to work in corporate, I decided to go back to teaching—I hadn’t  yet had the opportunity to teach high school, only preschool and Middle School, so I jumped at the opportunity to get back in the classroom, even if it was all online. I took over the job from another teacher who was fed up with teaching for the school. He seemed pretty disillusioned, however  I was eager to connect with young people and work again. In retrospect that should have been my first sign of what was to come. 

 Inside the school

I loved teaching in the Czech Republic. The students were open-minded, curious, and genuinely excited to learn. I could feel a real connection with them—sharing laughs as I stumbled over Czech words, watching smiles spread across their faces when sunlight poured through the classroom windows on Thursdays, and even receiving applause after a speech about the importance of spending time off their phones.  In business class, I introduced concepts like nepotism and the Peter Principle, and I’d bite my tongue when students connected the dots and noticed these patterns unfolding in the school itself. I’m not sharing this as gossip, but as a reflection on the system I was part of—and the lessons it taught me.

Over time, it became painfully clear that the school system was failing its students. We were teaching compliance over curiosity, memorization over critical thinking, and programming young minds to fit into a reality that didn’t serve them. Walking through classrooms, I would see teachers at their desks, reciting material while students copied notes for exams—an echo of the past, disconnected from the world these kids would face.

I tried to bring a different approach to my business class. The students had an idea: to sell products like protein balls within the school, gaining hands-on experience in production, marketing, and sales, with proceeds going to charity in Ukraine. I was excited to support them, but the director crushed it immediately: “Nothing like this will ever happen in the school. If you want to raise money for Ukraine, do it from your own pocket.” I felt blindsided. This idea wasn’t mine—it came from the students themselves.

When I pushed back, she said nothing like it had ever been done before, so why start now? The curriculum was outdated, the students ready for challenge and innovation. But the administration wanted to preserve appearances and maintain control. That’s when I realized: the school wasn’t prioritizing the students’ growth. It was run like a business, focused on numbers and image over real education. The director was more concerned with conformity— hair color, self-expression, what they wore to class—than with curiosity, creativity, or critical thinking. Perhaps her approach mirrored habits instilled during the communist regime, or maybe she was simply emulating what leadership had looked like to her. Either way the students deserved more and she didn't give us the time or consideration.

Why are we so afraid of work—or of things that simply take more time?

Charles Eisenstein captures this beautifully in Sacred Economics:

“In the past we experienced time as abundant. The more monetized a society is, the more anxious and hurried its citizens. Time is life; when we experience time as scarce, we experience life as short and poor.”

Today, we rush around trying to be efficient, afraid to slow down and truly take the time to change, learn, and grow. This fear comes from a sense of scarcity—scarcity of time, scarcity of resources.

But who decided we must live this fast? Who sets the pace of life? Can we really afford to rush something as important as education? Isn’t learning about letting ideas sink in slowly, with depth and curiosity?

Think about the timeline to graduation. Does it really serve our children? The rush, the stress, the endless exams—does anyone even have time to truly learn? As the school year ends, students stay up all night cramming facts into their brains, only to forget them by June. That is not learning.

This style of education does not prepare young people to create the better world we all deserve. Instead, it trains them only to keep up in the one we’ve created—one that thrives on busyness, distraction, and compliance. We keep people just busy enough to never question the system. And that’s exactly how it’s designed: a perfect cycle of fear, power, and control.

Of course, this isn’t just about school. It’s woven into our entire way of life. So I invite you to pause and ask yourself: Is this really how life should be? Is this truly all we are capable of as humans?

Maybe I’m a dreamer, but I believe we are capable of more. And it starts with our relationships—especially our relationship to education. That relationship must change if we want to reclaim time, abundance, and the fullness of life.

Something began to shift in me while I was teaching Economics. As I stood in front of my students, explaining the fundamentals, I realized that what I was teaching didn’t actually resonate as true.

Take the very first principle: scarcity. I found myself questioning it deeply. The more I reflected, the more I felt that our entire economic system was built on a lie.

At the time, I didn’t have the courage to speak that truth. I still followed the protocol of my job and taught the curriculum as expected. But the seed  doubt had been planted.

Now, as I study again—this time with a focus on regenerative business—I feel relieved. I’ve discovered I’m not alone. Many others see our economic system for what it truly is. My intuition had been right all along.

Charles Eisenstein captures this perfectly in Sacred Economics:

“Scarcity … is mostly an illusion, a cultural creation. … When something is abundant, no one hesitates to share it. We live in an abundant world, made otherwise through our perceptions, our culture, and our deep invisible stories. Our perception of scarcity is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

The mental health blindspot

What struck me most during that time was the lack of concern for students’ mental health.

During COVID, I connected deeply with my students. I asked them how they were feeling, how they were coping, and how they were getting by in such a tough season. We inspired each other and held each other up. I looked forward to those moments of connection, a reminder that we were all going through this together.

It was a hard time—especially for this age group. Many of my students struggled with self-harm, depression, and even attempted suicide. Yet in my classroom, things felt lighter. We created a space where they could breathe.

When we returned to school, though, there was nothing in place for their mental health. No transition plan. No extra support. Students were simply thrown back into life as if nothing had happened. The hallways buzzed with chatter, but it felt forced. Shoulders slouched, eyes down—they looked defeated.

There were no check-ins, no spaces to talk, just a quiet expectation to “pick up where we left off.” As if the lockdown, the isolation, the fear had been nothing more than a bad dream we’d all agreed to forget.

I was struggling myself, so I could only imagine what was happening internally for them. They didn't have the tools to cope with the weight of the world. We should be teaching them things like nervous system regulation and how to express their emotions. When mental health was brought up to the director, she scoffed. She laughed and asked things like: “What have they really been through?” or “How could they possibly be unhappy?”

From her perspective, growing up under communism had been far worse than anything these students could experience. And perhaps her time was tough. I don’t doubt she carries her own programming, trauma, and mindset from those years. But every generation has its own challenges, and those challenges cut deep in different ways.

Mental health struggles among adolescents are at an all-time high—and they deserve to be taken seriously. This should be one of our highest priorities moving forward.

Appearance over Education

The English department had its own rules, different from the Czech teachers. Our dress code was “business professional.” We were expected to look the part, arrive early, and stand in the halls to greet students and parents. The role came with a higher paycheck too.

The school was run on optics. Everything looked good on the outside—and that’s all the director seemed to care about. There was never a real discussion about what or how we were teaching. The focus was on assigning enough homework, scheduling enough exams, and ensuring students’ grades showed enough variation. Too many 1’s (A’s) were not allowed.

As a result, gifted students often failed—not because they lacked ability, but because they didn’t do the homework or skipped too many classes. The truth was, they were bored. They weren’t challenged or excited by what they were learning. What they needed was something different: to be noticed, to be listened to, to be guided toward their dreams.

I had seen the same problem back in Minnesota. Bright students, the ones who didn’t quite fit the mold, often slipped through the cracks. They thought differently. They resisted playing the game. And maybe that was their gift. Maybe they weren’t afraid to disrupt the system. Perhaps we could learn something from them.

Even now, I feel a tightness in my chest wishing I had done more. But at the time, I was afraid of losing my job. My non-traditional style already drew too much attention.

Still, Fridays gave me hope. Those afternoons, the students dragged their chairs into a circle, laughing as metal legs scraped across the floor. We’d settle in, swapping stories about everything—from emotions to ideas for saving the planet. Their eyes lit up in a way I rarely saw during regular lessons. In those circles, they were alive, engaged, fully present.

One Friday, the door creaked open. The head of the English department lingered in the doorway, scanning the circle. He smirked, let out a short, sharp laugh, and said: “What is this, an AA meeting?”

I forced a smile, but inside, my stomach dropped. To me, that circle was not a joke—it was sacred. It was the one place my students felt free to speak. Even the shyest among them opened up. Those circles mattered. In fact they were the inspiration for the Women's Circles I now lead. 

Toxic vibes in the teachers office

By the end of the year, I began to dread walking into the teachers’ office. The air felt heavy, charged, as if everyone was waiting for something to drop. In the corner, the director and his so-called “mean girls” — though, ironically, all grown men — would gossip. Listening to them pick apart students and other teachers made my skin crawl.

It was, in its own way, a form of bonding. I think everyone was just seeking connection, but under the constant pressure of the administration, there wasn’t much energy left for true connection. We talked about doing team-building activities or something uplifting together, but no one had the time or energy to organize it. Every moment of our schedules was capitalized on.

So gossip became the release. Venting helped with the stress. And honestly, I can’t blame my colleagues. Teachers everywhere deserve immense praise — it’s the job of three people in one: educator, administrator, and emotional support therapist. Most are underpaid, overstretched, and given little to no support. My colleagues were good people simply pushed to their limits.

Still, I needed to protect my own sanity. Each lunch break, I would bolt out of the school and head to a café or a quiet church to soak in some peace and positive energy. I started seeing a therapist and began life coaching with my good friend Karina. Slowly, I realized what I had been avoiding: I was in a deeply toxic environment.

At first, I had planned to keep teaching until my freshman class graduated. But the more honest I became with myself, the more impossible that timeline felt. It was simply too far away.

The breaking point

One afternoon in June, the director stopped me in the hallway. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. She wanted to ask about my visa.

They had just hired a new American to replace the teacher the “mean girls” had pushed out, and she thought I might know how to help him. I explained that my visa was connected to my Živnostenský list—my business license—which is how I’d been working at the school.

Her face went white. “That can’t be,” she said flatly. “You’re not allowed to work on a zivno here.”

I reminded her that her daughter, the so-called “assistant director,” had handled the paperwork herself. That only made her look more concerned.

Earlier that year, I had worried that something might be wrong with my visa and contract. I emailed the assistant director, and she confirmed everything was fine. I wasn’t fully confident in her answer, but I accepted it, trusting my intuition to leave it be.

Sure enough, there was something wrong. On July 3rd, the last day of school for teachers, I sat in my office chair, dreading what I might find. No knock on the staff room door. No conversation. Just an email with a subject line that made my stomach twist: Current Work Contract.

I clicked. Three short sentences.

I was not allowed to work at the school on my zivno. My contract papers were “incomplete,” and I was instructed to speak to the head of the English department, hand over all my preparation materials, pack my things, and leave.

I stared at the screen, reading the words over and over. The hum of the paper shredder filled the silence. My coffee had gone cold. Tears rolled down my face.

They let me go just like that—no summer pay, no conversation. Two years of my hard work were swept under the rug. Fear and scarcity ruled the day. I don’t believe the director or assistant director are inherently bad people; their actions were a product of the system. When fear and a sense of scarcity dominate, we turn on each other. We act defensively, prioritizing protection over compassion. Hurt before being hurt—or, in this case, remove the perceived threat before it becomes a problem. They were afraid the government would find out and they would pay. 

When I went to speak with the head of the English department, I was in tears. He looked at me and said, “Well, this is going to make my job a lot harder. I thought I’d have a free summer; now I’ll have to replace you.” My body shook with anger. This moment was not about him, but strangely, a bit of relief washed over me. I could finally step away from these people and this system.

His response may seem heartless, but the truth is the system had shaped him. After ten years there, he had lost his fire. Bullied by the director and worn down by the pressures of the job, he had become what the system demanded: tired, overworked, just following the script. He was surviving, providing for his family, but no longer leading with passion. I saw my own potential future in him if I stayed. That realization—thankfully—pushed me toward freedom.

I am grateful for that “mistake.” Choosing to ignore the feeling that something may be wrong with my contract ultimately saved me from a life of conforming to a system that keeps people stuck in outdated ways of thinking, learning, and leading. I would have never made the choice to quit that job because I cared about the students so deeply. 

I desire to make real change, and I could never have done it there. I had to experience it firsthand to understand what’s happening in schools worldwide, to know what truly needs to change. We must do better for ourselves and our children. As Charlotte Perkins Gilman, whom my students read in my American Literature class, wrote: “It is the duty of youth to bring its fresh new powers to bear on social progress. Each generation of young people should be to the world like a vast reserve force to a tired army. They should lift the world forward. That is what they are for.”

We must listen to youth, guide them to their own power, and learn from them. They have lessons to teach us—if we only take the time to listen. Rather than continue to teach them our own worn out ways of being. 

I don’t believe the school tried very hard to keep me. I didn’t fit into their system. I asked questions they didn’t want answered. I cared about students in ways that made their checklists meaningless. I didn’t play politics, gossip, or put on false smiles. In their world, that made me dangerous.

Fast forward to 2025: the students invited me to prom. It should have been a joyful affirmation of the connections I had built, but the director herself banned me from attending. In her eyes, the influence I had with the students was a threat she couldn’t allow.

The Mirrors

Each relationship we have is a mirror. When we are triggered by someone, they reflect back what we haven’t yet accepted in ourselves. My time at the school gave me many mirrors—lessons I didn’t fully see at the time but continue to integrate today.

The head of the English department showed me that pleasing people is not the same as helping them. Too often, we act from fear—fear of conflict, fear of being truly seen. I had spent much of my life trying to be the “good girl,” silencing my voice to avoid trouble. But that silence is self-abandonment, and it can hurt others when I don’t stand for what I know is right. At the school, I could have done more to defend the students—just as he could have stood up to the director. We were both afraid of challenging the administration and the school system.

The director mirrored my own tendency to cling to “the way things have always been,” it's a program that is challenging to let go of. I now try to look at the bigger picture and constantly ask “why?”, just as a 3 year old does. We must question our reality and the systems we have in place, we must not be afraid to let those younger than us show us the way forward. She viewed her seniority as her power,  she missed the wisdom that the youth had for her. Had she listened to the students, she could have created an innovative learning environment which in turn would bring her the prestige she desired at the school. Instead she has a school with high turnover and disappointed parents and students. 

The assistant director reflected the part of me that wants to sweep mistakes under the rug, instead of owning them. I accept that honesty is not always easy, but it is the only path to real growth. I am not afraid to admit my own mistakes, both in this scenario and during my time teaching.

I am grateful for these mirrors, even the painful ones. They brought me closer to myself and my truth. I am proud of how I handled things with the knowledge I had then, and even more grateful that I now live with greater honesty, less fear, and a loosened grip on control—allowing life to guide me. I hold love and compassion for all the people in this story, recognizing them as parts of myself and my journey, shaped by a broken system I hope to transform. I am not a victim of my experience; I take full responsibility for my life and choices, and that gives me power.

Now, as I sit in a sunny cafe on a Thursday afternoon, sipping a matcha latte and writing my story, I feel free—free to teach my truth, free to follow my path, and free to embrace the life I was always meant to live. My students taught me as much as I taught them. I realized that real learning wasn’t about memorizing facts or passing exams—it was about curiosity, connection, and courage. Those circles were alive, messy, human, and deeply necessary. They reminded me that education is more than a system; it’s a relationship, a trust, a space for growth.

My journey through teaching, loss, and uncertainty wasn’t just about a job or a career—it was about discovering what truly matters. About noticing when a system no longer serves its people, questioning the rules we inherit, and daring to imagine something different. The courage I found in myself then has stayed with me, guiding the way I teach, the way I create spaces for others, and the way I live.

Because ultimately, whether in classrooms, in workplaces, or in life, we must listen to our body, trust ourselves and release the fear we carry. Daring to express ourselves and live in our truth in each precious moment. The true lesson is learning to be yourself, without fear of how you'll be perceived by others.