Returning to work this week after a two-week winter break has been slow and it feels right.
The Friday before going back, my five-year-old was crying as we were putting toys away. After a few minutes, he looked at me and said, “I don’t want to go back to kindergarten.”
After two weeks of fun - lots of mama and papa time, playdates, movies, skiing, and rest - he didn’t want to return to the demands and responsibilities of our normal routine. And from what I’ve been hearing from educators this week, he wasn’t alone.
This time of year naturally asks us to slow down, and I’ve been leaning into that. After a super-hectic end to December, something others have echoed - I’m entering January with a clear intention: I’m saying no to overwhelm.
Overwhelm often feels inevitable, but it’s also a choice. And this month, I’m choosing to build habits that keep it at bay and instead embracing balance, prioritizing what truly needs to be done today, and letting the rest wait until tomorrow.
These tiny, intentional habits matter. They reduce the probability of burnout and help build staff resilience. In the Book Onward, Elena Aguilar names January’s focus as cultivating compassion - compassion for others, and just as importantly, compassion for ourselves.
Self-compassion is not optional. As the saying goes, you have to be filled up in order to give to others. Many educators are natural caregivers and helpers, we’re wired to focus outward. Turning that care inward can feel uncomfortable, even selfish. But developing the self-compassion muscle is critical to sustaining ourselves in this work and preventing burn out.
One of my favorite self-compassion practices comes from Kristin Neff and is called the Self-Compassion Break. It can be used as a reflective writing exercise when you’re calm, or in the moment when frustration or overwhelm shows up.
A core part of this practice is honoring that suffering is part of being human. This is the common humanity piece, remembering that you’re not alone, that others feel this way too, that struggle is shared even when it isn’t always spoken aloud.
When Finley said he didn’t want to go back to kindergarten, it wasn’t because he disliked school. What he was really saying was:
I don’t want the rush.
I don’t want the pressure.
I don’t want the sudden demand after rest.
I get that. I feel that way too.
As educators we rarely give ourselves permission to name that feeling. We push through. We override our nervous systems. We tell ourselves to “get back into it” faster than our bodies and brains are ready for. And that’s often where overwhelm sneaks in.
Saying no to overwhelm doesn’t mean saying no to your job, your students, or your responsibilities.
It means saying no to the pace that burns you out (which is different for everyone).
It means saying no to the belief that everything has to be done right now.
It means saying yes to a slower re-entry, clearer priorities, and self-compassion.
Just like my son needed reassurance, predictability, and time to transition back into routine, so do we.
When we model that, we choose balance over frenzy, compassion over self-criticism, and progress over perfection.
We quietly teach our students how to return to the world without being overwhelmed.
And that’s a lesson worth repeating. Stay tuned for how it goes.