Leila

I always knew I'd come back to teaching. That was the plan from the beginning, even when I was studying physics at Imperial. My mum was a teaching assistant at the local primary school in Thornton Heath, and I'd grown up seeing how much difference one good teacher could make. But I wanted to bring something extra to the classroom – real industry experience, the kind that shows kids that physics isn't just textbook equations but something that builds the world around them.

After graduating, I worked for two years at a renewable energy consultancy in Canary Wharf. The work was interesting enough – calculating wind farm efficiency, modeling solar panel arrays – but I felt like I was speaking a different language from my community. Kids I'd grown up with would ask what I did for work, and I'd try to explain photovoltaic systems while they wondered why I wasn't just teaching them physics at the local secondary school. My dad, who drove the 109 bus route through Croydon for twenty-three years, put it perfectly: "You've got the knowledge, Leila. But knowledge sitting in an office doesn't teach anyone."

So in September 2023, I applied for physics teacher training through the School-Centred Initial Teacher Training route at Harris Academy South Norwood. I'd done my research. Physics teachers were desperately needed across South London. The school was ten minutes from where I grew up. Everything seemed to align perfectly.

Then I got the phone call. The training coordinator, Mrs. Chen, sounded genuinely apologetic. "Leila, your application is excellent, and we'd love to have you on the programme. But I need to tell you about the bursary situation. The Department for Education has reduced the physics training bursary from £28,000 to £15,000 this year. Treasury spending constraints, they told us."

£15,000. In London. While training full-time and unable to work. My rent alone was £900 a month. I tried to stay positive. "Could I supplement that with part-time work?" Mrs. Chen explained that the programme structure wouldn't allow it – the teaching practice placements were during school hours, and the university sessions filled most evenings.

I applied to four other London schools offering physics SCITT programmes: Oasis Academy Coulsdon, The BRIT School in Croydon, St. Mary's Catholic High School in Croydon, and Norwood School in West Norwood. Every single response was identical. "Unfortunately, due to reduced government funding for teacher training bursaries..." The exact same phrase, as though they'd all received the same memo.

I contacted the Department for Education directly. After three weeks and multiple phone calls, I spoke to someone in the Initial Teacher Training team. "The recruitment targets are set nationally," he explained. "We cannot make special provisions for London's higher living costs. There is no funding for regional adjustments." I asked why physics teacher recruitment was a national target when the shortage was clearly concentrated in cities. "Budget allocations are determined by the Treasury," he said. "Each department works within their assigned envelope."

I tried to negotiate. Could I defer for a year and save more money? The training coordinator at Harris Academy explained that waiting wouldn't help – the bursary reduction was permanent, not a temporary measure. Could I take out a loan to bridge the gap? I applied for three different career development loans, but was rejected each time because teacher training was classified as education rather than employment.

Finally, I approached Teach First. I'd heard they offered better financial support for graduates entering challenging schools. The recruitment officer, James, was enthusiastic about my background. "Physics graduates are exactly what we need," he said during our phone interview. "Especially ones with your community connections and industry experience."

Then came the familiar phrase: "Unfortunately, we have a waiting list of over 200 physics graduates for London schools, but only 45 funded places this year. The budget has been cut significantly." I asked how this made sense if there was such a critical shortage of physics teachers. "That's the contradiction we're facing," James admitted. "The need is absolutely there, but the Treasury allocation doesn't match the demand."

Something about this conversation stuck with me. I started paying attention to things I'd never noticed before. Walking past Harris Academy South Norwood, I could see empty classrooms during what should have been physics lessons. A friend's younger brother at the school told me they'd had three different temporary physics teachers that term, none of whom lasted more than six weeks.

Then I discovered something that changed how I understood the whole situation. The Institute of Education at University College London had a brand new teacher training facility in Croydon, opened in 2022 with state-of-the-art science labs and lecture theatres. But half the building was locked and unused. When I asked at reception, they told me the Department for Education had approved funding for the facility but not for the training programmes to fill it.

I started to wonder: if the people existed, and the buildings existed, and the desperate need existed, what exactly was it that "there was no money" for? The government that prints every pound note and mints every coin was telling me it couldn't find enough of them to train the people who were standing right there, ready to work.

I used to accept the excuse that "there was no money." I hear it differently now. The government that creates the currency told me it could not locate enough of that currency to train physics teachers for London schools. But the pounds exist because the Treasury created them. The real question was never about money. It was about whether qualified graduates existed (we did), whether training facilities were available (they were), whether students needed physics teachers (they desperately did).

The excuse was not a fact. It was a choice wrapped in the language of impossibility. It is the same logic as a household saying "we cannot afford it," except households do not issue their own currency. The UK government does. The limit was never the money. The limit was the willingness to spend it into the places and people who needed it.

I'm still here, still watching, still ready to teach. But now I understand this isn't just my story. It's happening in every constituency where people want to contribute but are told the cupboard is bare by the very institution that fills it.