The Gift of Doing Nothing

Every summer for as long as I can remember has looked basically the same.

Go. Build. Create. Research. Plan. Direct. Teach. Improve.

Even when I wasn't standing in front of students, I was still working. If I wasn't directing a show, I was preparing for one. If I wasn't writing curriculum, I was reading plays. If I wasn't taking a class, I was planning one. If I wasn't answering emails, I was thinking about the emails I needed to answer. Productivity became my default setting.

If I'm honest, though, it also became my hiding place.

Staying busy meant I didn't have to sit quietly long enough to think about grief, regret, disappointment, or all the "shoulda, woulda, coulda" moments that still occasionally knock on the door of my mind. As long as I was moving, I didn't have to listen. So every summer I convinced myself I was "resting," while somehow managing to fill every available hour with something productive.

This summer was different.

After one of the hardest school years I've ever experienced—honestly, even harder than my first year teaching—I hit a wall. I had accepted a summer directing job, only to withdraw. Not because I didn't want to direct, but because I realized I couldn't. That scared me. By the end of May, I wasn't wondering how to become a better teacher. I was wondering how much longer I could keep running at the pace I'd been running.

I decided to do something I’d never done before. I gave myself permission to do absolutely nothing for one week.

No planning. No curriculum. No rehearsals. No side projects. No guilt.

Then something unexpected happened.

I liked it.

So I gave myself another week. Then another. Before I knew it, I had spent the better part of my summer doing something I honestly don't remember ever doing before: nothing.

For probably the first time in my adult life, I had nowhere I needed to be. No alarms. No schedule. No expectations. I went to bed when I was tired and woke up when I woke up. I watched entirely too many movies and TV shows. I read books because I wanted to—not because I thought they'd make me a better teacher. My family and I just... existed together. We laughed. We hung out. We shared space without rushing to the next thing. It was simple, and somehow it felt like a gift.

As if the summer wanted to make absolutely certain I slowed down, I even came down with COVID. Six years later, I honestly didn't realize COVID was still making the rounds, but it absolutely knocked me flat. I was supposed to take our theatre troupe officers to Leadership Camp that week, and because I was the only one who could take them, the trip had to be canceled. I hated that those students missed out on an opportunity they had been looking forward to because of me. I felt awful physically, but I also felt embarrassed and disappointed that my illness affected more than just me.

As miserable as those days were, though, I found myself strangely grateful. If I was going to be sidelined, July was infinitely better than September. After everything that happened last school year with my gallbladder surgery and the mountain of sick leave I exhausted, I knew firsthand how quickly an unexpected illness could snowball into financial stress. I'd much rather spend part of my summer recovering than spend the first weeks of school scrambling to catch my breath while trying to catch my students up.

That doesn't mean the rest of the summer was easy.

At first, the silence was uncomfortable. My brain kept handing me a to-do list.

You should be working.

You should be planning.

You should be getting ahead.

You should be more productive.

I remember sitting on the couch one afternoon thinking, I have been unbelievably lazy this summer.

Almost immediately, guilt showed up.

Then another thought followed close behind.

Why?

Why did I feel guilty for resting after the hardest year of my career? Why had I convinced myself that doing nothing somehow meant I was becoming less productive... or somehow less valuable?

I think I've started to understand the answer.

Somewhere along the way, I began measuring my worth by my usefulness.

If I was creating something, directing something, fixing something, planning something, or helping someone, then I felt valuable. If I wasn't producing, I felt like I was wasting time. Rest felt lazy instead of necessary.

But maybe that's backwards.

Maybe our value isn't found in what we produce. Maybe productivity is something we do—not someone we are.

Teaching has a funny way of convincing us that "good enough" is never actually good enough. It's a profession we often describe as a calling, and while I understand why people say that, I think sometimes we accidentally turn that idea into something dangerous.

If it's a calling, then every extra hour feels justified. Every weekend. Every evening. Every dollar spent out of our own pocket. Every missed family dinner. Every email answered at 9:30 at night. We begin believing that saying "no" somehow means we care less, that boundaries are selfish, and that exhaustion is evidence of commitment.

I don't think that's true anymore.

I love teaching. I genuinely do. It's the hardest thing I've ever done, and it's also the most rewarding. I wouldn't trade it for anything. But somewhere along the way, I started confusing excellence with exhaustion. They're not the same thing.

This summer reminded me of that.

As I reflected on everything this summer had taught me, my thoughts kept returning to the opening chapters of Genesis. Over and over again, after each day of creation, we're told that God looked at what He had made and "saw that it was good." I found myself lingering on that one word.

Good.

Not perfect.

Not extraordinary.

Not exceptional.

Just... good.

Then, after completing His work, God rested.

Not because He was exhausted. Not because there was nothing left to do. Not because He couldn't have created something more. He rested because the work for that season was complete.

Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that "good" wasn't good enough. My lessons needed to be better. My productions needed to be better. My classroom needed to be better. I needed to be better. I chased "great." I chased "excellent." Sometimes I even chased "perfect."

In doing so, I accidentally skipped over something God Himself never skipped.

Rest.

It made me wonder if I’ve been holding myself to a standard God never held Himself to. Somewhere along the way, I started demanding perfection from myself when the Creator of heaven and earth repeatedly looked at His own work and simply called it “good.” And if God could look at His own work, call it "good," and then rest, why do I insist that everything I touch has to be great before I've earned the right to stop? Who am I trying to impress?!

Maybe I've been measuring myself against a standard God never asked me to meet.

This summer, I finally took a page out of Genesis. I worked. I created. I prepared. I looked at what I'd accomplished, and then I rested—not because everything was perfect, but because, for this season, the work was done.

If God was willing to call His own work "good," maybe I can stop demanding that mine always be perfect.

I'm heading into my twelfth year in the classroom, and honestly, I'm excited. I've spent about two solid weeks planning curriculum, building lessons, organizing units, and preparing for this year. I'm proud of what I've created, and I can't wait to meet this new group of students. I'm ready.

But I'm also carrying something into this school year that I haven't carried before.

Boundaries.

I'm still going to work incredibly hard. I'm still going to expect a lot from myself. I still believe in discipline in the work, excellence in the art, and achievement in the performance. None of that changes.

What changes is this: I'm no longer willing to lose myself in the process.

My contract says 7:45 to 3:45. I'm going to do everything I reasonably can to accomplish what needs to be accomplished during those hours. If something has to wait until tomorrow, it can wait until tomorrow. If something has to wait until Monday, it can wait until Monday.

The world will keep spinning.

More importantly, my family deserves a husband and father who is mentally present when he walks through the front door—not someone who is physically home but emotionally still sitting behind a desk at school. They deserve someone who isn't carrying the frustrations of the day into the living room or replaying tomorrow's to-do list through dinner. And, if I'm being honest, I deserve that too.

Maybe that's what this summer gave me.

Not better lesson plans. Not another curriculum unit. Not another line on my resume.

Just permission.

Permission to rest without feeling like I had to earn it.

Permission to stop believing my worth is measured by my productivity.

Permission to remember that before I'm a teacher, before I'm a director, before I'm a husband, a father, a writer, or any of the roles I hold so dearly... I'm simply a child of God whose worth has never depended on how much I accomplish.

I spent most of my life believing rest was something you earned after finishing the work.

This summer taught me that sometimes rest is what makes the work worth returning to.