“You won’t make it in teaching without your why,” my education professor said. “Figure out your purpose and infuse every day with it. It’s your anti-attrition plan.” Now, almost twenty years later, I wonder at how I never really struggled with the why or the raging desire to quit teaching. What really tanks me, however, is when that teacher why goes on hold—the dreaded summer break.

My friends in twelve-month jobs envy my summer options. They envision me lounging on the beach, leisurely chugging iced lattes, with not a care in the world; but I’ve never figured out how to live up to these expectations. To me, summer is a time of existential rumination—perhaps because I’ve tied my life’s why to my teacher calling. If I’m not teaching, what could possibly fill the void?

Early in my teaching career, I realized that for me personally, I need a summer job. However, I’ve never taught during the summer (outside of counseling at Christian summer camps, Sunday school, and vacation Bible schools), since I can sense the teaching fatigue by around March. A job that lets me clock in and out and not take work home with me is perfect, whether it’s serving coffee or writing blogs. The pace change I need; the quiet, though, I don’t. If you too have tasted of the summer blues, maybe you’ll find like me that a change is as good as a rest.

Other teacher friends I’ve talked with relish their summer breaks. They rediscover their exercise routine, social life, and reading list. They visit family. They plan new bulletin boards and curate new music playlists, falling seamlessly into a summer routine—a routine that I never managed to figure out early in my twenties.

Maybe I should give summer off another try. But just imagine that flurry of report cards, last photos, thank-you cards, tassel turning, and best wishes—and then it’s just you and the janitor nodding to one another as you pass in the silent hallway. You file as much as you can, fill out the end-of-school checklist, and then? It’s quiet, and in the quiet you think about your students who are no longer your students. (At least that’s how my brain works.)

I’ve given the subject some serious thought this summer. Now, headed toward my forties, if I were to give the summer another try, I’d do what my wise teacher friends do:

1.   Budget throughout the year so that I could immediately leave on a week’s vacation—either to a special destination or to see family (thereby having something to look forward to, even as I walk the empty hallways back to clean my classroom).

2.   Avoid silence for the first couple weeks, filling it instead with beautiful music and inspirational podcasts.

3.   Begin a tickler file where I store reflections about the past year’s wins and failures and make a list of course corrections for the fall.

4.   Go read somewhere in public (at a coffee house or at a local park), rediscovering the fiction that I haven’t indulged in for the past year.

5.   Schedule visits with elderly friends and teacher buddies who may also be feeling lonely and in a liminal space.

6.   Volunteer to help with a youth group, Sunday School class, or VBS that I wouldn’t have time to help with during the school year.

7.   Set up a moderate exercise regimen, being careful not to overcommit at first and burn out.

8.   Begin planning new classroom decor in mid-July (not too early, not too late, just right).

9.   Let a mentor or family member know if the existential thoughts get loud, asking for prayer and advice.

10.   Start a countdown until school on the first day of August, celebrating each day with one new mini task leading up to the fresh beginning.

I’ve already incorporated a couple of these into my summer evenings, after work. (There’s no grading—so I’ve got spare time.) And maybe along the way this summer, I’ll have the emotional space to also think about that powerful why. Do I focus so much on my teacher why that I’ve forgotten I’ll still be me, even in the summers, even someday in retirement? That spiritual research topic seems like a pretty good challenge that may be worth your time as well.

All the best this summer, may you never have more silence than you need, and may your purpose transcend your teacher why.