Education graduate Ishaanaah Ravi reflects on her path beyond graduation and shares three lessons others can carry into their own journeys of growth.
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24 Sep 2025
8 Min Read
Ishaanaah Ravi (Alumni Writer)
Education graduate Ishaanaah Ravi reflects on her path beyond graduation and shares three lessons others can carry into their own journeys of growth.
I still remember the weight of the scroll in my hands as I ran towards my parents outside the graduation hall. Their smiles stretched from ear to ear, and briefly, I caught a glimpse of my life through their eyes: a life full of pride and possibility. Around me stood my lecturers who had believed in me, and my peers, without whom I couldn’t have survived the course, cheered as loudly as they could. In that moment, I believed it too: I’m gonna make it. I’m gonna become a teacher.
I imagined changing the world with this education degree—or at least starting within the walls of my classroom. I wanted to be the kind of teacher who didn’t just hand out worksheets, but one who made learning feel constructive and inclusive. But no one warned me how hard this was going to be: the long hours, demanding lesson evaluations, endless questions from parents, and unpredictable student behaviours. What used to feel like applause now carried an uneasy blend of pride and panic—like standing at the edge of a cliff you’ve spent years climbing, staring down at the unknown.
Two years later, I’ve realised that life after my degree is lonelier, heavier, and far less certain than I expected. I thought I would enter the field ready to contribute, ready to belong. Instead, I learned that the real lessons began after I walked out of that graduation hall. And it’s taken me this long to understand:
What if I wasn’t meant to have it all figured out the day I graduated—and the degree was only the beginning of discovering who I could become?
With this realisation, I’ve come to embrace three lessons—lessons I wish someone had told me that day and that I now share with my fellow education graduates.
There’s a quiet pressure to be fully prepared when you walk into your first classroom, your first curriculum meeting, or your first parent–teacher conference. Yet with every new document handed to you and every fresh acronym tossed around, your mind feels like a blank page. You can’t help but think, Shouldn’t I already know how to do this?
The truth is, you don’t walk in as the teacher you’re expected to be; the work shapes you. Even teachers with decades of experience still learn and unlearn things based on each new cohort of students. Some days, a lesson unfolds exactly as you imagined: the students lean in, questions spark at just the right moments, and you leave feeling like you’ve unlocked something magical. Other days, the energy is flat, the activity flops, and you find yourself in the staffroom, staring into your laptop, wondering if you’re cut out for this.
What makes it tricky is that growth in this field is often invisible in the moment. You don’t notice that your classroom management is stronger until you calmly handle a situation that would’ve rattled you last year. You don’t realise you’ve improved at giving feedback until a student lights up because you phrased something in a way that finally made sense to them. It’s only when you look back that you see how far you’ve come. That’s the beauty and the challenge of teaching: it isn’t about being a perfect, finished teacher from day one. It’s about staying responsive, tweaking your approach when the energy dips, reframing a concept when you see blank stares, and being willing to admit, Okay, that didn’t work. Let’s try something else.
I recognise that it’s often hard to stay motivated and determined after every class that doesn’t go as planned. If there’s one thing I’d pass on to anyone journeying this same path, it’s this: asking for help isn’t a flaw—it’s part of your strength. Through it all, the friends I graduated with, who now teach in their own corners of the world, have become my lifeline. Our catch-up calls, rants, and shared stories have been the best form of release. Staying close to my placement mentors and talking to my colleagues has been just as important—they’re the best people to have those ‘Is this normal?’ conversations. Remember, you have a support system inside and outside school. Teaching was never meant to be done alone, and it’s the connections you nurture that often make the hard days feel lighter.
Entering the teaching profession often fills you with a quiet, steady sense of purpose, the belief that you’re going to make a difference. And you will. But when that purpose meets the relentless demands of the system, it's easy to feel overwhelmed. I remember hearing colleagues and peers talk about how the workload just kept piling up. What started as staying until 4 pm turned into 5, then 6, then 7, with emails and marking waiting for them at home. Every lesson plan, every meeting, every parent email felt like another weight added to their shoulders. All they can think about is how much their students and communities need them.
The problem is that we often rely on the system for recognition, when it has a history of not supporting teachers' well-being or financial stability. Long hours, high expectations, and constant pressures can quickly turn passion into exhaustion. When you're just starting out, you don't want to disappoint anyone: your students, your colleagues, your mentors. It's easy to feel like you have to give everything you have every day. But feeling overwhelmed isn’t a personal failure—it's a structural reality. Recognising that is the first step in taking care of yourself. The system won’t immediately come to your rescue, so you have to start practising healthy boundaries on your own. Prioritising your well-being before responding to emails on a weekend or taking a much-needed break isn’t selfish; it's necessary.
Setting boundaries looks different for everyone, but small, actionable steps can make a real difference. For me, one of the most effective boundaries has been turning off email notifications on weekends. I still have the liberty to check when I choose, but I’m no longer tethered to the constant ping of work messages. For others, it might mean scheduling non-negotiable time for rest, hobbies, or quiet reflection, learning to say no when your plate’s full, or permitting themselves to leave school at a reasonable hour, knowing the work will still be there tomorrow.
Not every teacher has the privilege to step away completely, but even tiny shifts can help preserve your energy. Protecting your well-being doesn’t mean you care less about your students; it means you care enough to keep showing up for them sustainably. Boundaries sustain your passion because, without them, even the brightest can burn out.
When I first graduated, I thought the only ‘successful’ outcome of my degree was teaching full-time in a classroom of my own. But deep down, I wanted to work in curriculum design, and I quietly beat myself up for not following the traditional path, convinced that anything else was a detour. Hearing my peers share their teaching stories sometimes made me feel like I wasn’t living up to the purpose I’d trained for—as if doing it differently somehow meant doing it wrong.
It took time for me to allow myself to explore. I spent periods volunteering, took a break when I needed to, and eventually started a postgraduate degree that aligned with the direction I wanted to grow in. That choice didn’t make my degree less valuable—it made it more flexible. I learned that an education degree isn’t a contract that locks you into one role; it’s a foundation, a set of skills you can take anywhere. Some of the most inspiring educators I know aren’t in traditional classrooms at all. They’re designing educational content for museums, developing edtech platforms, shaping policies, mentoring in community programmes, researching inclusive curricula, or driving advocacy for systemic change. Others have stepped away, explored new fields, or combined education with entirely different passions.
There isn’t a single predetermined path in education, and moments of uncertainty are normal. When they come, start by exploring your interests. You could volunteer or take internships with organisations such as Teach for Malaysia, SOLS 24/7 Group, or the Educational, Welfare & Research Foundation Malaysia (EWRF). You might also attend events, shadow different roles, or take short-term contracts to test the waters. Try networking too—it’s not just about landing opportunities; it’s a way to learn from others, gain insight into different paths, and better understand where your skills and passions fit. Not seeing yourself in a traditional classroom doesn’t mean you’ve failed; it means you’re finding the place where you can have the greatest impact.
So maybe we were never meant to have it all figured out the day we graduated—and that’s okay. These three lessons remind us that the journey into the education field, or beyond it, is both deeply fulfilling and undeniably demanding. What sustains us is clarity in purpose, a commitment to growth, and the care we give ourselves along the way. Because if the degree was only the beginning, then everything ahead is the real discovery of who we’re meant to become.
Ishaanaah Ravi is a Bachelor of Education (Honours) alumna from Taylor’s University and is currently pursuing a Master of Educational Studies at the University of Queensland. She enjoys breaking down educational topics into bite-sized insights and finds joy in simple pleasures, like volunteering, watching comedy shows, and building Lego sets.
