entry fifteen

 Tuesday, March 25, 2025 

    Spring break has been an unexpected eye-opener—finally giving me space to feel just how deeply exhaustion has seeped into my life. For the first time in months, I’ve had the luxury of sleeping past 8:00am instead of the usual 6:00am alarm. I didn’t realize how transformative those extra two hours could be. It’s not just physical rest—it’s mental relief. My brain, usually spinning through lesson plans, assessments, IEPs, and constant classroom problem-solving, finally feels like it’s exhaled.

    

    Those mornings have made me wonder: If I feel this much better after just a few extra hours of sleep, why am I not prioritizing rest during the school year? Should I be winding down by 7:00pm instead of pushing through until 9:00 or 10:00pm? And yet—there’s always one more task, one more email, one more thing to prep. There’s never a clean cut-off point. The day just bleeds into the night.

    

    This week, even the act of cleaning—sorting through clothes, organizing my car—has felt strangely restorative. It wasn’t about productivity; it was about reclaiming space. Clearing out physical clutter gave me mental clarity I didn’t know I was missing. I felt lighter. But the question remains: How do I find the time for this kind of care when school is in full swing?

    

    The pace I keep during the year isn’t sustainable. I know this. Spring break has shown me the stark contrast between who I am when I’m rested and who I become when I’m running on fumes. The burnout isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. It’s mental. And it doesn’t just go away because I love my students or care deeply about my work. That love doesn’t refill an empty cup. I’ve been reflecting on how to carry this sense of relief into my daily routine. If I can feel this grounded after just a few days, then clearly I’ve been shortchanging myself for months. I keep telling myself that I don’t have time for rest, but maybe it’s time to stop treating it like a luxury. Because it’s not. It’s essential.

    

    One line keeps playing in my mind: “You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy dirt,” from the song Buy Dirt by Jordan Davis. It makes sense to me now in a new way. I can’t purchase rest or peace. But I can create space for it. The “dirt” in my life isn’t fancy or flashy—it’s extra sleep, a clean car, a quiet afternoon to myself. It’s carving out room to breathe. And maybe that’s the real work—learning to prioritize the things that ground me, even when they don’t show up on a to-do list.

    No, I can’t buy happiness. But I can choose to protect my energy, create boundaries, and let rest matter just as much as the lesson plans. Maybe I can’t always control the demands of teaching—but I can control how I care for myself within it. Maybe I can’t buy dirt. But I can make room for what grounds me.