entry sixty-one

Wednesday, June 18, 2025

    It’s quiet now. Not just around me—but inside me, too. Today was one of many of my asthma infusion appointments. The kind of thing I often tack on at the end of a long school day - the endless cycle of “just one more thing” that teaching demands. Today, I arrived calm and on time. Nothing pressing was pulling at me. Just me and my breath—something I so often forget to pay attention to unless it’s struggling.

    The nurse took my pulse. Oxygen level. Blood pressure. All normal. For once. She looked at me and said, “You seem relaxed.” I laughed—almost startled by the unfamiliar word. Relaxed? *Me?* It’s summer break, yes, but maybe something deeper is happening. Maybe the stress is finally leaking out of me instead of pooling in my chest. I can’t help but wonder: was it the job? Or the amount of pressure I’ve grown used to carrying that wore me down? Is teaching inherently harmful to my health ? Or is it the way I’ve been asked to teach—with urgency, scarcity, and martyrdom—that’s the real danger? My numbers were good today. My lungs moved the way they’re supposed to. My heart didn’t race. My body didn’t feel like it was bracing for impact. It makes me think that maybe this—this version of me, unhurried and intentional—isn’t a luxury. Maybe it’s who I’m meant to be.

    Summer gives me the space to remember: I’m more than what I produce. I’m allowed to heal. Keeping up with my care isn’t selfish—it’s survival. So today, I keep my next appointment on the calendar. I take my next breath slowly and I listen to my body like it’s someone I love.

Unwritten Days

No alarm.
No cafeteria buzz.
No emergency bathroom breaks to squeeze into a schedule.

No stack of iPads to set-up for testing.
No odd trinkets showing up in my pockets
like a rubber band, a sticker,
a tiny dinosaur curled in my pocket
like a ghost of the day.

No one’s calling my name every minute.
No crisis at 8:03 a.m.
No data logs or seating charts
scribbled on the back of a napkin.

Just sun.

Just wind in the trees
and the soft anticipation
of puppy snuggles waiting at home.

This summer, my job is rest.
Not prepping.
Not printing.
Not planning how to hold a room together
with patience and masking tape.

Not stitching broken routines with smiles.
Not absorbing everyone else’s fire.
Not catching the pieces before they hit the ground.

I am not on the clock.
I am not catching up.
I am not paid,
but this summer,
I’m earning something else.

Like finding pieces of myself

I left behind in hallways and folders.

Like joy without a lesson plan.

Like rest that doesn’t come with guilt.

Like hearing my own thoughts 

without interruption.

Like mornings that begin without dread.

and stillness that doesn’t beg for proof.

This summer, my job is rest.
Not prepping.
Not pleasing.
Not stitching together a classroom
with snacks, stickers, and patience.

My burnout is real—
like smoke still rising
from the engine I ran too hot.

But so is the slowness I used to apologize for.
The quiet book.
The guilt-free nap.
The slow sip of something cold
I actually finish.

I am not lazy.
I am not lucky.
I am healing.

And that, 

finally, 

is 

enough.