Five Things I’m Unlearning This Summer

People keep saying summer is the time to “reset,” especially for educators. Reset what exactly? My sanity? My laundry system? The floorboard of my backseat? My metabolism? Because none of those seem to be cooperating.

Let me be real: this summer isn’t about a reset. It’s about an unlearning.

After a school year full of meetings, hallway talks, data digs, discipline logs, dinner negotiations with a six-year-old, grieving the loss of my dad, and trying to remember if I even like working out… I don’t need a reset. I need a rewrite.

So here it is. Five things I’m unlearning this summer—because I’ve finally realized the world won’t fall apart if I take my foot off the gas… and neither will my school, my house, or my family.

(Okay, maybe the laundry room will, but that’s another post…and it already was!)

1. Unlearning: That Rest Has to Be Earned

Somewhere along the way, I internalized this toxic little lie that rest is something you earn—like a gold star for surviving the day. Only once you’ve emptied the dishwasher, responded to every email, mixed the stain-removing chemicals to get out “that” mystery stain, figured out groceries, answered the late-night parent message, AND remembered to order your mother-in-law’s birthday present… then, and only then, do you deserve to sit down.

Let me be clear: that’s nonsense.

Rest isn’t something you have to earn—it’s something you require to be a functioning human being. Like water. Or Wi-Fi.

This summer, I’m reclaiming rest without guilt. I’m letting myself read books that don’t include professional development jargon, social-emotional learning checklists, or a main character made of felt with googly eyes.

I’ve picked up a Regency romance again—yes, complete with corsets, carriage rides, and emotionally unavailable dukes who stare longingly across the ballroom. Judge me if you want, but I’m here for it. Lady Whistledown and I are healing.

And if our daughter, Millie, needs me while I’m in the middle of a chapter, she can wait approximately three sentences—or ask Scout, the dutiful terrier who’s been unofficially promoted to summer nanny.

Because here’s the truth: I don’t need to finish my to-do list to sit down. I don’t need to prove I’m exhausted to deserve a break. I just need to honor my humanity.

And maybe enjoy a little scandal in the drawing room while I’m at it.

2. Unlearning: That Saying Yes Means I’m Committed

Fun fact: I was voted Most Dependable in high school.

Also Student Body President. Also Co-Editor of the Yearbook.

And… funny story? I got in trouble for selling homework and translating classmates’ Spanish assignments for a fee. So yes, I’ve been managing deadlines, delegating tasks, and running side hustles since the ‘99 and the 2000. You could say I was giving “AP energy” before I even knew what an assistant principal was.

I didn’t just like being reliable—I made it a personality trait. I was the girl who kept a backup pencil case, had a list for every list, and could simultaneously run student government and write the yearbook captions.

Fast forward to now: I’m still that girl. Only now she has a 6-year-old, a school full of tiny humans, a house full of golf shoes, a dog who judges everyone from her car seat, and a Google Calendar that could induce a migraine.

So for years, I said yes to everything.
Yes to the extra committee.
Yes to the weekend thing.
Yes to “Can you just real quick…”
Yes to “Sure, I’ll organize it.”

Why? Because somewhere deep down, I believed that saying yes proved I was committed. That I cared. That I was capable.

I said yes out of reflex, not reason. Yes to things that didn’t light me up. Yes because I didn’t want to disappoint. Yes because I could, not because I should.

I didn’t just love being reliable—I made it my identity. And I carried that same energy straight into adulthood, where now I’m the go-to person for everything from behavior plans to class parties to last-minute contributions at gatherings.

But somewhere along the way, “Most Dependable” quietly morphed into “Most Overextended.”

But here’s the thing: saying yes to everything has just made me exhausted, resentful, and two clicks away from losing it in the Target parking lot.

This summer, I’m unlearning the reflex. If it doesn’t bring joy, peace, purpose, or at the very least come with charcuterie and a good story, I’m not signing up for it.

I’m learning that saying “no” isn’t a rejection. It’s a redirection—toward what matters.

I can still be dependable. I can still be thoughtful. But I no longer have to be everyone’s Girl Friday.

This summer, I’m unlearning that saying yes = value. Because sometimes the bravest, healthiest thing I can say is “No thanks, not this time.”

And let’s be honest: saying yes doesn’t always equal commitment—it can sometimes mean martyrdom with a smile. A smile that’s held together with under-eye concealer and a lukewarm coffee I reheated three times.

Most Dependable 2002 still shows up—but now she checks her calendar, her energy, and her bank account (because we’re not doing free Spanish translations anymore, either).

I can still be dependable. I can still be thoughtful. But I no longer have to be available for everything and everyone, all the time.

3. Unlearning: That Strength Looks Like Silence

For most of my life, I thought strength looked like composure. Like keeping it all together. Like getting things done, smiling through it, and crying only in the car… if there was time.

I’m a firstborn daughter. I’m also an only child.
And—wait for it—the oldest grandchild on one side of the family.

So yeah. I’ve been carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations since birth, wrapped in a monogrammed blanket with a matching to-do list. I came into this world with an invisible clipboard and a strong sense of responsibility for other people’s feelings. You could say I was born to be someone’s emergency contact.

So when my dad got sick, I did what I’d always done: I handled it.
The logistics. The doctor chats. The emotions. The unspoken grief. I took care of as much as I could until the very end—because that’s what I do.

And then, the day after we buried him, I walked into a long-overdue doctor’s appointment and sat down across from my extraordinary nurse practitioner, Kaitlyn. She looked at me—really looked at me—and said,
“You are not taking care of yourself.”

And then she did something even more radical. She made me talk. Not about school. Not about Millie. Not about who still needed thank-you notes. About me.

Within five minutes, I was hugging her. Rambling. Basically reenacting the last minutes of a Nicholas Sparks movie. It was my most vulnerable moment of the month.

I needed someone to say, “You don’t have to keep it together right now.”
Because I didn’t know how to give myself that permission. I thought if I let go, it would all unravel.

But what I’ve learned—what I’m still learning—is this:
Strength isn’t silence.
It’s truth.
It’s vulnerability.
It’s the ability to say, “I am not okay,” and trust that you’ll still be loved anyway.

People have always described me as “strong.” You know what else is strong? A dam. Until it breaks.

I’ve spent years being the glue, the planner, the checklist queen, the one who handles it all—school, home, grief, dogs with dietary needs, kids with snack opinions. But silence? That’s not strength. That’s suppression.

I’m not made of steel. I’m made of stories and softness and stubbornness and sweet tea. And this summer, I’m letting myself feel—all of it. The joy, the rage, the relief, the sorrow.

Because quiet pain doesn’t make you stronger.

This summer, I’m giving myself space to not be silent, not be strong, and let people show up for me.

4. Unlearning: That I Have to Be Everything to Everyone

Let me just start by listing a few of my current job titles:
Assistant Principal.
Mom to a strong-willed 6-year-old who is known to tell grown-ups “that’s not the way it’s done.”
Wife to a club pro—which means we own more polos than an entire country club.
Dog mom to Scout, our 11-year-old terrier and self-appointed emotional support animal.
Only child. Default family communicator.
Friend, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, after school activity planner, grocery organizer, human reminder system for other people’s lives.

So yeah. I’ve been out here trying to be everything to everyone. And somehow still answering “Hey, real quick…” texts while ordering school supplies in May (I like to be prepared).

The thing is—I’m good at it. That’s the problem. I’m really, really good at holding it all together with a smile, a spreadsheet, and a getting flowers to your door by the end of the day. But just because I can doesn’t mean I should. And it definitely doesn’t mean I can do it all without consequences.

There’s a point where being dependable starts to feel like being disposable. Where you realize you’re holding so many people up that you’ve completely forgotten how to hold yourself.

This summer, I’m unlearning that my value comes from how many people I can serve, save, or soothe in a day.

I’m not their miracle worker. I’m not the fixer, the catcher, or the one-woman safety net. I am one person. One very tired person, who deserves to have needs, too.

So if I don’t respond to the group text in 0.3 seconds or show up to the potluck an hour late with Publix potato salad, know this: I’m not ignoring anyone. I’m just finally prioritizing myself.

Because I can’t be everything to everyone—and still be someone to myself.

And let’s be honest… I can’t pour into others if I’m scraping from the bottom of a dry-erase marker.

5. Unlearning: That I Can Do It Alone

Here’s the thing I don’t love admitting: I don’t ask for help. Not because I don’t need it, but because I’ve spent years being the one who helps. (Just ask my very patient husband)

I’ve worn “I’ve got it” like a badge of honor. Like a protective layer of Southern charm and high-functioning independence. If you need something planned, carried, fixed, proofread, or rescheduled—I’m your girl. I’ll probably even DoorDash lunch.

But when it came time for me to need something? I didn’t know how to ask.
Not when my dad got sick.
Not when he passed.
Not in the weeks that followed, when the flowers stopped, the calendar cleared, and I was left trying to navigate my own grief while keeping everything else running.

Because I’ve always believed that I should be able to do it all. That I was built for it. Raised for it. Expected to.

I mean, I’m the only child. The oldest grandchild of seven cousins. I’ve been everyone’s go-to since before I could reach the top shelf. I’m the one people call when they don’t know who else to call. I’m the responsible one.

But this season has humbled me.
Grief has a way of knocking the wind out of your pride.

And yet—there are moments that catch you off guard in the best way.

Like last night. I had dinner with two of my best friends—women I bonded with over motherhood and loss years ago. We’ve cheered each other on through heartbreak, career changes, pregnancies, new schools, new homes. We’ve raised our children and our careers together.

And now, we’re holding space for each other through a new wave of grief. One of them lost her dad just a few months ago, too. We sat together—over pasta, laughter, and the kind of understanding you don’t have to explain—and we felt it. Together.

No fixing. No fluff. Just friendship and shared weight.

It reminded me: I don’t have to do this alone.
I was never meant to.

This summer, I’m unlearning the belief that being strong means being solitary. I’m learning to let people in. To let them bring the casserole and the conversation. To say, “I’m not okay” and let that be enough.

Because independence may have carried me through survival.
But interdependence is what will carry me toward healing.

We are not meant to be the glue for everyone else while falling apart in silence.

This summer isn’t about reinvention.
It’s about release.

Letting go of pressure.
Letting go of perfection.
Letting go of the idea that worth is measured in how much I can carry.

Because unlearning is a kind of healing, too.

It’s me.
I’m the AP.
And this summer, I’m learning how to be human first.