At 4am, the skipper came up on deck to relieve me after my two-hour watch. It was chilly and we were somewhere in the Tyrrhenian Sea with no land or other ships in sight. The skies were clear, with the stars sparkling and the almost-full moon throwing its light across the water. Our 45ft yacht was under sail and there was a satisfying rapping of the canvas and swish of water underneath us as we made around 8 knots.

“What are you thinking about?” asked the skipper.

“Absolutely nothing,” I replied.

It was true. I didn’t mean that I wasn’t alert to my watch duties but, for the first time in my life, I could genuinely say there was nothing buzzing around inside my head. No data, no budget, no safeguarding, no HR, no reports, no brooding Ofsted cloud waiting to pounce … nothing.

I was on deck on a boat in the middle of the night, miles from anywhere and I was just being there.

That cathartic moment was where I started to move away from 33 years of immersion in education. It is etched in my mind. It was at this point, just over three months after retiring early, that I really knew I had made the right decision.

Don’t get me wrong: I loved my job and the positives far outweighed the negatives over the years. The opportunity to have a beneficial effect on young people is so rewarding and gave me a real kick. So, it had taken an enormous amount of soul-searching and not an inconsiderable amount of heartache before I made the decision to step down. I hope my experience helps you if this is something you are considering, too.

I had been a primary headteacher for 15 years but I began to see my time was up. It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision but one that I made over the six months before I handed in my notice.

The job had taken over

I had always had a life outside school: playing and coaching sports for nearly two decades; being heavily involved in charity work as a volunteer and trustee; helping to raise my own family; enjoying travel and the company of friends. But the job had been taking over my life more and more. The demands of meeting higher and higher expectations with fewer and fewer resources, and the relentlessness of it, were draining and increasingly frustrating.

The ever-changing shifts in national policy and the huge increase in workload weren’t helping either.

The resulting lack of sleep, constant worry and a real, tangible fear of Ofsted (despite leading a “good” school) meant that I was becoming someone I didn’t want to be. I was seeing less of my family; they didn’t like it and neither did I.

When the balance shifts like this, when your tolerance wanes and your excuses don’t feel as true, you know you are on the path to letting go.

Whether you continue on that path is a personal and unique decision but there are many factors that all will consider.

What questions did I ask? Countless ones. Did I want to be doing the same thing for another four or five years? Did I have the energy? Would the carefully developed ethos that made the school a great place to learn and work disappear? What would I do afterwards? Could I even afford to retire early? Would my wife want me hanging around the house? Was I still enjoying it?

There was a guilt thing, too: what would children/parents/staff say? Was I letting anyone down, particularly families with whom I’d worked closely? What about projects I had started?

It takes time to work through these issues. You need to give yourself that time. You do not want unanswered questions after you finally make the decision. You cannot separate your obligation to yourself and to your family in these ruminations: it is not selfish to think about your own needs - it is essential.

A second chance

Other factors will come into play as well.

In the preceding 18 months, I had lost four good friends in their fifties, quite suddenly - friends who hadn’t had time to enjoy or even to see their retirement. I had been unwell a decade previously and this resonated strongly with me; it set me thinking that I wanted to make the most of the second chance I had been given.

I was ready to do something else, too. I didn’t want my life to be defined solely by my being a teacher. It was time for new challenges while I was still young enough.

And I also became a little more selfish in my thinking; the guilt of leaving something you have put body and soul into needs to be tempered by the fact that the school doesn’t own you. As a headteacher, you are looking after the school for a period and that time as a custodian will come to an end one day; no one is irreplaceable. I recognised that the school was probably ready for a change with a fresh view and new ideas to keep it moving forward.

But what really tipped the balance for me was the realisation that I wanted to leave while I was still enjoying it and feeling I was making a positive difference; I wanted to go out on my terms. I didn’t want to reach the point where I was going through the motions and was just hanging on with people saying, “Isn’t it time he left?”

After making the decision, telling colleagues and the school community was hugely emotional. It was a shock to most; there were tears.

However, even though I had nothing lined up afterwards and there has been a financial hit, it has been the right decision. I miss the cut and thrust sometimes, and I certainly miss the children and the camaraderie of my colleagues; I don’t miss the paperwork though.

I’m still involved in education in a couple of ways but certainly nowhere near full-time and, although it took me many months to adjust, that now suits me fine.

Richard Bullard is a former headteacher and is part of the team that runs testicular cancer charity It’s In The Bag, itsinthebag.org.uk

Next week: Richard explains how to ensure a smooth transition to the next headteacher

This article originally appeared in the 23 August 2019 issue under the headline “When is the right time to retire from headship?”