A Teacher's Reflection on Summer, Anxiety, and the Radical Act of Doing Nothing

Every May, it starts.
There’s a strange rhythm among teachers in May.
The small talk blooms like clockwork:
“So, what are you doing this summer?”

The tone’s casual, friendly and light-hearted. But subtext feels loaded.

Trips planned? Big goals? Renovations? Certifications? 
You’re expected to have an itinerary of accomplishment it seems.

And I?
I smile and say,
“As little as possible,” with a slight, rehearsed chuckle.

Not as a joke. Not as a defense.
As a boundary.
It’s not laziness.
It’s necessary.

I didn’t grow up with peaceful, soft summers. I suppose many of us didn't. Mine were irregular, scattered and fragmented with whatever my parents could manage.

One year I went to camp and learned to swim. But, I never got to go back. Eventually, I forgot how. 

They say you never forget how to ride a bike. I am living proof that is not true. I had a bike and my parents said,  "Never leave it outside." But I was seven. I left it outside. It was stolen. No one replaced it for several years. Long enough that I forgot how to ride. That’s the part that stuck. Eventually, I got a new bike. And my dad taught me how to find my balance - again - on wobbly wheels.

I don’t remember entire summers from my childhood.
Not because anything dramatic happened—just the opposite.
They were made of long, unremarkable days. My parents were working. No structured plans. No activities.

Just me and my brother, mostly left to our own devices.

We made up games. Built forts. Argued over nothing. Sometimes we watched the same VHS tape over and over again because it was the only one we hadn’t worn out.

The thing that sticks isn’t the content—it’s the feeling. That low hum of boredom mixed with the sense that you’re on your own. The adults are busy. The world is moving on. And you’re just... waiting for something to happen.

But nothing does.

And maybe that’s what shaped me the most. Not the drama, not the loss. The emptiness. The silence that lasted long enough to teach me to fill it— with effort. With energy. With doing.

Those summers were a lot of things, but they were not predictable. And when life feels unpredictable, you don’t relax—you brace.

I learned that peace was temporary or only earned through exhaustion. That I had to stay alert, stay prepared, stay busy. And somewhere in that constant bracing, I forgot what it meant to truly rest. I carried that anxiety - quiet and coiled - into adulthood.

So now, when I say I’m doing nothing this summer, it’s not laziness. It’s not indulgent.
It’s recovery.

It’s me relearning how to stop bracing, stop being busy—and start breathing. I try to not fill every possible resting space with activity because I am afraid it could dissipate at any moment. I remind myself to let it hold me.

Some mornings, I wake before the sun and pad barefoot to the back porch patio. The air is soft, still unbothered by heat. I sit in the quiet and let the world wake around me—birds trading songs, wind teasing the leaves, light slipping over rooftops. I breathe deep, not because I’m stressed, but because I finally have the time to notice I’m alive.

Other days, I sleep in. I don’t set alarms. I let my body remember what it feels like to rest without guilt. My cat stretches out in her outdoor catio, eyes half-closed, as if she too understands that doing nothing is sometimes the most powerful thing.

And sometimes, I draw for hours. I lose myself in soft lines, shadows, and sepia ink. I cut and paste fragments into my art journal, layering scraps of meaning until a page makes my heart beat just a little faster. There is no grade. No rubric. Just the alchemy of quiet hands in motion.

I read novels that don’t improve me. I take long showers. I stare out the window with no agenda. I let silence stretch out long enough for it to feel like company instead of absence.

Anton Chekhov once wrote:

“Let everything on the stage be as complicated and as simple as it is in life. People are sitting at a table, having tea, that’s all. But in the pauses... the meaning of life is revealed.”
— Chekhov on the Art of the Stage

That line lives in me now.

Because I’ve come to believe that meaning doesn’t live in what we accomplish.
It lives in what we allow.
It lives in the morning light.
In the stillness between movement.
In the decision not to rush.
In the tea going cold while we think.
It lives in the pause.