Between the Bells and the Blank Page: The Allure of Unscheduled Days (and the Fear of Letting Go)

I have a deep disdain for alarm clocks. I resist making appointments and, when I must, I try to cluster them together. A loose schedule is essential for my mental health, while a tight one feels suffocating. It’s not that I don’t do anything; in fact, I do a lot, but my body clock works best with flexibility. Is this biological? Creative? Or simply a matter of needing the freedom to act when inspiration strikes?

Today is a scheduled day off from school, and I anticipated it like a kid waiting for a trip to the candy shop. Last night, I could hardly wait to wake up to an unscheduled day I knew would begin with writing—my most inspired time of day. After that, the afternoon was wide open with possibilities:

• Deep fall cleaning

• Switching closets from summer to winter

• Reading Kamala Harris’ 107 Days

• Getting a much-needed pedicure

• Writing in my journal

• Catching up on authorly things—emails and podcasts

• Writing this very blog post

  
  

So why does a rigid schedule repel me so much? Perhaps it’s because much of my life is already filled with alarms, appointments, and the constant ringing of school bells dictating every transition. Maybe that’s why I love snow days so much: they feel like “found time,” a chance to lean into my authentic self.

After a relaxing and productive summer, returning to the school routine has been jarring. Today’s day off is a reminder of what life could be like on the other side of retirement. This November marks twenty-five years at my current high school, the longest I’ve worked anywhere. Before this, eleven years at another school ended when I sensed I’d grown as much as I could there. Lately, I’ve been feeling that same readiness, an itch I can’t quite scratch.

There was a time I poured my heart and soul into teaching. Nights and weekends were spent grading, planning, or thinking about planning. It never felt like a chore because it fulfilled me. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Teaching became a job instead of a passion. That was about the time I began taking my writing more seriously—setting a goal of publication one day.

In the past four years, my life outside the classroom has flourished. I’ve published two novels with a third on the way, directed an online book community of more than 5,000 members, launched a podcast, and started coaching other writers. My world is full.

And it’s about to become even fuller with our first granddaughter on the way. I long for time to lean more fully into being an author, a mother, and a grandmother—to embrace those roles in a way I never have before.

So why is it so hard to make the leap from full-time teacher to moving onto the next chapter? Part of it is financial; an author’s income can’t compete with the steady salary of a teacher. But it’s also the kids. I still love connecting with my students and building meaningful relationships that often extend well beyond their high school years. I love teaching my subject and watching how lessons land differently depending on the chemistry of each class and the context of the world around them. And I love collaborating with colleagues I deeply respect.

And then there’s the fear. Teaching has been my lifeline for thirty-six years. What if I regret leaving? What if I miss it?

That, my friends, is the conundrum. But maybe every ending is also a beginning—and perhaps the lesson I’m meant to learn now is how to trust the timing of my own life.