"...it was difficult watching life carry on while I felt as though mine had been put on hold." A Teacher's Perspective on Living & Teaching with POTS

Teaching has always been something I've loved. Building relationships with my pupils, celebrating their achievements and being part of their everyday lives is something I have always found so rewarding. But what people don't see is what it takes to get through a school day when you're living with a chronic illness.

My journey with POTS wasn't something I ever expected. Before my diagnosis, I knew something wasn't right, but getting someone to listen was a challenge in itself.

I was experiencing symptoms that were becoming difficult to manage, but whenever I tried to explain what was happening, I felt dismissed. My local GP repeatedly attributed my symptoms to anxiety and my weight. Rather than investigating why I was feeling so unwell, I was made to feel as though these were the reasons I was struggling.

I knew my body wasn't right. I knew what I was experiencing wasn't normal. Yet I was left questioning myself and wondering whether I was somehow making it all up.

Eventually, things reached a point where I fainted in front of my class.

I was there to teach, support and look after my pupils, but suddenly I was the one who needed help. That moment really highlighted how much my health was affecting my ability to work, and how desperately I needed answers.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS). Having a name for what was happening was a huge moment. It meant there was finally an explanation for so much of what I had been experiencing.

But a diagnosis doesn't magically make you better.

I ended up having to take six months off work. Although I knew I needed the time to focus on my health, being away from the classroom had a much bigger impact on me mentally than I had anticipated.

I constantly felt like I was letting my children down. I worried about them, wondered how they were getting on and felt guilty that I wasn't there for them. Teaching isn't just my job; it is a huge part of my identity. Suddenly, I had lost the routine, purpose and relationships that had previously made up such a big part of my life.

I also felt incredibly alone.

I didn't know anybody else living with POTS. I couldn't easily explain what I was going through to people around me, and it was difficult watching life carry on while I felt as though mine had been put on hold.

One of the things that genuinely helped me through this time was social media. I found the POTS community on Instagram, particularly accounts like @mypotsjourney. For the first time, I was seeing people who understood the things I was experiencing without me having to explain every little detail. Seeing other people navigating life with the same condition reminded me that I wasn't alone.

It might seem like a small thing, but finding people who understood made such a difference to my mental health. It gave me a sense of connection during a time when I felt completely isolated.

Eventually, I was able to return to the classroom, but I quickly realised that returning to work didn't mean returning to the way things were before.

Teaching with POTS has meant completely adapting the way I work. I now teach sitting down, and I've had to reduce my hours and move to part-time working. Things that were once a normal part of teaching, like going on school trips, are no longer something I can easily do.

There is also a constant level of anxiety that comes with being in the classroom. Having fainted in front of my pupils before, I am always conscious of the possibility that it could happen again. When you're responsible for a room full of children, that fear can be difficult to switch off.

I think one of the hardest things about chronic illness is that you can understand your limitations logically but still struggle to accept them.

I constantly question whether I am the right person to be teaching the children I care so deeply about. I worry about whether my health affects them, whether I'm doing enough and whether I can be the teacher I always wanted to be. But something I have come to realise is that living with POTS has also changed the kind of teacher I am.

I have so much more understanding of the fact that you never really know what somebody is dealing with behind closed doors. I know what it feels like to struggle with something invisible and to wish that someone would simply believe you.

That has made me even more conscious of the children in my classroom. I want every pupil to feel listened to and understood. I want them to know that they don't have to be visibly struggling for their feelings to matter.

I care so deeply about my pupils, sometimes to the point where I put their needs above my own. The relationships I build with them are incredibly important to me, and I think they know how much I genuinely care. I hope that the trust we build allows them to feel safe, supported and confident that I am always in their corner.

I can't do everything I used to, I have to be much more careful with my energy, and there are things I sometimes have to miss out on. I still have difficult days, and I still struggle with the feeling that I'm not doing enough.

POTS has changed the way I teach, the way I work and the way I see myself. It has forced me to reconsider what I am capable of and to find a different way of doing something I love.

I think people often assume that when someone with a chronic illness returns to work, goes out with friends or manages to do something they enjoy, they must be better. But being back in the classroom doesn't mean I'm no longer unwell. It means I've had to find ways to make a life around my illness.

My illness might be invisible to the children sitting in front of me, but that doesn't mean it isn't there. And behind the teacher who turns up every day, adapts her lessons and does everything she can for her pupils, there is someone navigating a chronic illness that most people will never seem to understand.

Kind Regards,

Katie Lewis-Hall

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Clinical definitions will never capture the full weight of living with these conditions.

But we can.

Chronically Me.