“I Thought They Were a Sports Thing”: 25 Years of Teaching, and the Staff Room Conversation That Changed It

Nobody mentions your legs in teacher training. They cover behaviour management, safeguarding, marking loads. Not the fact that you'll spend twenty-five years standing on a hard floor and eventually stop being able to face the stairs at home.

We sat down with a secondary school teacher after the last bell. Coffee in the staff room, chairs still stacked. Lightly edited.

“I genuinely thought it was just what teaching does to you”

You've been teaching how long?

Twenty-five years this September. Same subject, mostly the same building.

When did your legs start being a thing?

That's the thing — I couldn't tell you. There's no moment. It creeps. In my thirties I'd be tired after a full day. By my forties I'd get home, take my shoes off and just stand there for a second because my feet were throbbing. And I genuinely thought: well, that's teaching. Everyone's like this.

Did you mention it to anyone?

No! Why would you? It sounds so pathetic. “My legs hurt.” We've got colleagues dealing with actual illness, restructures, kids going through things you wouldn't believe. My ankles being puffy at four o'clock is not a staff meeting item.

“The stairs at home were the giveaway”

So what changed?

My own stairs. We've got a landing halfway up and I caught myself stopping there. Not out of breath — my legs just felt like they'd had enough. And I remember thinking, I'm forty-eight, I walk everywhere, I'm not unfit. Why is my own staircase a negotiation?

Did you look it up?

I looked up varicose veins because I'd noticed a couple starting, and everything I read was terrifying and about surgery, so I closed the laptop. That's what people do, isn't it. You either get catastrophised at or you get told to “put your feet up” as if I've got a chaise longue in the maths block.

“She just pulled her trouser leg up”

How did it come up in the end?

Complete accident. I was moaning — properly moaning — in the staff room about my feet, and a colleague who's been here longer than me just pulled her trouser leg up and said “welcome to the club, I've worn these for six years.”

And your reaction?

Honestly? “Aren't those a sports thing?” Because that's what I thought compression socks were. Runners in the park. Or my nan.

And she laughed and said something that stuck with me — that half the department wears them, nobody talks about it, and they all found out the same way. By accident, from someone else.

Why do you think nobody mentions it?

Because it sounds like you're complaining about nothing. And because the socks have this image. Nobody wants to be the person who's Started Wearing Compression Socks. It sounds like a step towards something.

“The first three days I thought I'd made a mistake”

What was actually starting them like?

Odd. They're firm — a lot firmer than I expected, especially round the ankle. First morning I thought I'd got the wrong size. My colleague said give it three days and stop thinking about it, so I did.

And?

By about day four I stopped noticing them. That's it, that's the whole sensation. They just become socks.

What about the effect?

This is what I'd want people to know, because it's not what I expected. There was no moment. Nothing switched on. I kept waiting to feel something and I didn't, and around week two I nearly gave up and said to her, look, I don't think these do anything.

What did she say?

She asked me when I'd last stopped on the landing.

And I couldn't remember. I hadn't. I'd been going up my own stairs like a normal person for a fortnight and I hadn't clocked it once, because it just... wasn't happening. There's nothing to notice when a thing stops.

“The worst thing it cost me was the evening”

What difference does it actually make day to day?

Marking. Which sounds unromantic, but hear me out. I used to get in at half four, sit down, and that was me — I'd be too done to get back up, so marking happened at nine at night badly, or at six the next morning worse.

Now I get in and I'm just... still a person. I'll cook properly. I went to my daughter's thing on a Thursday last term and didn't spend the whole time thinking about my feet. That's the actual change. Not my legs — my evenings.

Anything you'd tell someone starting out?

Three things, and I got all three wrong at first.

Put them on in the morning — before you're on your feet. I tried pulling them on at lunchtime once and it was horrible, and that's because by lunchtime your legs are already swollen. It's not the same job.

Measure your calf, not your shoe. I nearly ordered by shoe size like an idiot.

And buy enough of them. One pair is useless. You wear them, you wash them, and then tomorrow you've got nothing. I've got six and it's still occasionally a scramble on a Friday.

What's actually going on, in plain terms

The mechanism behind all of this is unglamorous. Blood has to travel back up your legs to your heart against gravity, and the pump that moves it is your calf muscle — it only works when it contracts.

Standing still barely works it at all. Which is why a teacher at the front of a classroom can be harder on her circulation than a colleague walking corridors on duty. Blood pools low, pressure builds, fluid moves out into the tissue. That's the ache and the puffy ankle.

Graduated compression is firmest at the ankle and eases up the calf, giving that pooled blood a direction. Harvard Health puts it plainly: compression socks help the valves in your blood vessels do their job.

A randomised trial on 108 hairdressers at 15–20 mmHg — another job that's standing in one spot — found reduced pain and heaviness. Notably, the relief held even when swelling hadn't fully dropped.

What we won't claim: that compression treats or cures anything, that it prevents clots, or that it gives you more energy or sharper focus. There's no evidence for that last one and we went looking. What the evidence covers is narrower: less swelling and less end-of-day heaviness for people who stand for a living.

And if you have peripheral artery disease, diabetes with nerve involvement, neuropathy or reduced sensation in your feet — talk to your doctor before wearing compression, not us.

Keep reading: The standing-all-day survival guide · The complete wear guide · Do compression socks actually do anything?

Composite account based on conversations with our customers. Names and identifying details changed.

The Well Socks compression socks are a comfort and wellness product and are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease or condition. This article is general information, not medical advice. If you have circulation problems, diabetes-related foot complications, peripheral artery disease, neuropathy, severe or sudden swelling, skin wounds or infections, or known vascular disease, consult a qualified healthcare professional before use.

Sources: Mayo Clinic · Cleveland Clinic · Harvard Health · NIOSH/CDC · Blazek et al. 2013, Phlebology · Garcia et al. 2021, Human Factors