A Different Kind of September

I’m beginning with the lesson first, even though it usually comes at the end.

One doesn’t always understand the weight of a thing until they’ve had the distance to see it clearly.

About this time every year, I begin having nightmares—teacher dreams, one and the same for me. Typically, they center around the seemingly infinite, all-encompassing list of tasks to accomplish before school begins. The frequency of these dreams doesn’t subside until weeks into the new school year. They are a reminder of the heaviness that begins settling in my chest around mid-August of any given year.

But I don’t feel it this year.

In the absence of that same heaviness—this being my first year of semi-retirement—I’ve discovered why I’ve carried such heavy anticipation year after year. For twenty-five years, actually.

I had come to think this was simply who I was. Multitasker. Over-planner. Meticulous. Over-thinker. Thorough. Anxious. And it’s no wonder I was.

Each year, I taught five classes of twenty-five(ish) students, all with varying abilities, ethnicities, reading levels, thinking styles, personalities, and classroom chemistry from one period to the next. There was differentiated instruction, IEPs, 504s, special education and SEL considerations. Lesson prep—researching, reading, planning, scaffolding, executing. Informal and formal assessments. Common assessments. A multitude of behaviors happening simultaneously. Parent concerns. Administrative demands. Committees. Meetings. Professional responsibilities non grata. Setting up a classroom. Grading. Creating quizzes, and then creating multiple versions of those quizzes because the schedule was so randomly composed. Honestly, the list goes on and on...

No wonder I came home at the beginning of every summer feeling like Jell-O, needing a good couple of weeks to acclimate to the ease of the long break. No wonder that, at the end of every summer, I spent two good weeks before school even started bracing myself for what was to come. Only after stepping away from full-time teaching—even though I’m only partially retired for now—have I come to realize something:

It’s not me. It’s been the job the whole time.

At the beginning of the summer, I gave the changes I’m facing considerable thought. I knew I wanted to move into this next chapter with purpose. I want to embrace a gentler rhythm and a little more peace. I want to remember what it feels like to sit in silence with my own thoughts. To be bored. To live guilt-free on a flexible timeline. To take my days slowly enough that I can actually appreciate them.

That’s how I’m beginning this September. With all of those priorities intact. And, as a little bonus, I’ll be teaching two sections of my favorite course to teach.

I’ll have much more time to devote to writing and to my author life. I’ll have time left over to enjoy life with my husband, spend time with friends, and soak up every minute of mom-time and grandma-time I can.

So, yeah. The beginning of the school year is hitting a little bit differently this year.

And I’ve earned it.