Still Teaching, Just Without a Bell: My Dream Job

Still Teaching, Just Without a Bell: My Dream Job

If someone were to ask me, “What is your dream job?” I would not point to a corner office, a fat pay cheque, or a designation that needs a visiting card to explain itself. My dream job is far quieter, far humbler, and far more demanding. It is a job where I continue to teach, guide, listen, and learn—without the tyranny of timetables, the anxiety of inspections, or the pressure of pleasing systems that often forget people.
In my imagination, my dream job begins early in the morning, not with an alarm clock barking orders, but with purpose gently nudging me awake. The day starts with reading—sometimes a book, sometimes the newspaper, sometimes a line of poetry that refuses to leave my mind. Then comes writing: reflections on life, education, faith, science, leadership, or simply the small ironies of daily living that make us smile and think at the same time. Words, after all, are my preferred tools; they heal, question, and connect.
At the heart of this dream job is mentoring. Not the kind that happens in air-conditioned boardrooms with PowerPoint slides and jargon, but the kind that happens over a cup of tea, a slow walk, or a patient conversation. I see myself working with young teachers who are enthusiastic but unsure, principals who are capable but exhausted, parents who are anxious about their children’s future, and students who are bright yet burdened by expectations. No marks, no ranks—just clarity, courage, and common sense.
What makes this job “dream-like” is freedom: the freedom to speak honestly without fear of offending a policy, the freedom to suggest without imposing, and the freedom to walk away when my work is done. There is dignity in being useful without being indispensable. In this role, experience is not dismissed as “outdated” but respected as distilled wisdom—earned through mistakes, failures, recoveries, and resilience.
My dream job also has a strong human element. It allows me to listen more than I speak and to ask better questions rather than offer ready-made answers. In today’s noisy world, where everyone is broadcasting and very few are receiving, listening itself has become a rare skill. I would like my work to restore that balance—to remind people that silence is not emptiness and patience is not weakness.
There is, of course, a spiritual undertone to this dream. Not loud, not preachy, but quietly anchored. A belief that work should nourish the soul as much as it feeds the body. A belief that mercy, gratitude, and humility still have a place in professional life. Whether one draws strength from scripture, philosophy, or simple kindness, my dream job allows space for inner growth alongside outer contribution.
Unlike conventional employment, this job does not retire me at a certain age. It matures me. Each year adds depth rather than redundancy. Each interaction becomes a shared journey rather than a transaction. Payment, if it comes, is fair and sufficient—but not the sole measure of worth. The real salary is relevance, respect, and the satisfaction of having made someone’s path a little clearer.
Importantly, my dream job has room for joy. There is laughter, gentle humour, and the ability to see life’s absurdities without bitterness. It allows me to travel occasionally, to meet people from different cultures and contexts, to keep learning new ideas while unlearning old prejudices. It also leaves me enough time to be a husband, a grandfather, a reader, a music lover, and a quiet observer of life’s passing seasons.
Some may say this is not a “job” at all, but a calling disguised as work. Perhaps they are right. But if a job is something you would happily do even if no one forced you to, then this surely qualifies. It is work that feels less like labour and more like legacy.
So, my dream job is not about climbing ladders; it is about extending hands. It is not about building empires; it is about building people. And if, at the end of the day, I can sleep with a clear conscience, a tired body, and a grateful heart, I will know that I have been perfectly employed—even without a bell to signal the end of the period.