When May Comes: The Truth About Teaching, Burnout, and the Need to Rest

As I am sitting here writing, it’s a Tuesday in May.

The kind of day where the sun is shining just enough to make you want to be outside, where the breeze feels like an invitation to slow down. Staff and students are restless, counting down the days. Spring fever is definitely starting to set in. But inside the classroom, I glance at my computer screen, and my chest tightens just a little. My to-do list is open in front of me and I feel like it’s longer than it’s been all year.

Emails waiting. Reports unfinished. Data still needs to be entered. IEPs to finalize. Meetings stacked back-to-back. Observation notes I haven’t had time to process yet. And somehow, the clock keeps moving faster while I feel like I’m moving slower. But I pause for a second, take a breath, and think, How is it possible that after everything this year has demanded… there’s still this much left to do? And that’s when it hits me, for teachers, this is May.

Every year, May arrives softly. To most people, it’s a season of beginnings, flowers blooming, longer days, a fresh sense of energy. But for teachers, May tells a different story. It’s not the start of something new. It’s the final stretch of something that has already taken so much. It’s the last mile of a marathon you’ve been running since August… Already exhausted, but expected to sprint anyway.

Because while the outside world is easing into summer, teachers are accelerating. The workload doesn’t taper, it piles up. Final observations, post-observation meetings, end-of-year evaluations, IEP meetings, and the mountain of documentation that comes with them. Every task matters. Every deadline is real. And all of it lands at once.

Individually, each responsibility is manageable. But together, they feel overwhelming, like trying to hold everything steady while more keeps being added. And the truth is, by May, most teachers are already running on empty.

There’s a phrase teachers hear every year:  “At least you get summers off.” Sometimes it’s said lightly. Sometimes it’s said with a hint of envy. But almost always, it’s said without understanding. Because teaching is never just teaching. It’s compressing an entire year’s worth of work into nine months. It’s evenings spent lesson planning, weekends filled with grading, and countless unpaid hours creating materials, entering data, and communicating with families.

It’s constant decision-making. Constant problem-solving. Constant giving. It’s managing behaviors all day long while staying calm, patient, and steady. It’s building relationships with students who may be carrying trauma, navigating poverty, experiencing instability, or facing mental health challenges, and showing up for them every single day. It’s documenting everything, academic progress, behavior, communication, interventions, because every detail matters.  It’s being a teacher, but also a curriculum designer, a technology troubleshooter, a translator of learning, and sometimes the only consistent support system a student has. It’s supervising lunch, recess, buses, hallways, while also being responsible for student safety at all times, including emergencies you hope never happen. It’s sitting through meeting after meeting, IEPs, staff meetings, PLCs, trainings, data reviews, while trying to find time to actually do the work those meetings generate. It’s ongoing professional development just to stay current. It’s evaluations based on metrics that don’t always reflect the full story.

And somehow, all of it has to fit into nine months. So when summer comes, it’s not extra time. It’s recovery time.

There’s a kind of tired that settles in by the end of the school year. It’s not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep can fix. It’s deeper than that. It lives in your thoughts, your body, your patience, your energy. It builds slowly, day by day, week by week, until one day you realize you don’t feel like yourself anymore. You feel stretched thin, emotionally full, mentally drained. This year especially, I can feel it. Balancing teaching with grad school has pushed me in ways I didn’t expect. And while I love what I do, truly, I’m also honest enough to say that I’m ready. Ready to unplug. Ready to step away. Ready to just breathe without a checklist running in the background.

This summer feels different. It’s not just a break, it’s a chance to heal. And for me, healing looks like the mountains. It’s the quiet of a trail, the rhythm of footsteps, the way the world slows down when you let it. It’s sitting in stillness without needing to be productive. It’s remembering what it feels like to just exist without constant responsibility. This summer, I want that. Less noise. Less pressure. More space to think, to feel, to rest. To let nature do what it does best, restore what’s been worn down.

And if you’re a teacher reading this, I want you to hear this clearly:

You do not need to feel guilty for resting. Not now. Not in June. Not in July. You have already given more than most people realize.

Over time, I’ve learned that disconnecting doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that bring us back to ourselves. From hiking, and camping, to getting lost in a good show, reading just for fun, exploring your town in a new way, saying yes to rest without explaining it.

Will I still do some work this summer? Probably. But I’ve learned to give myself permission to rest first. Because if we don’t take the time to recover, we carry the weight of one year straight into the next.

So here we are again. At the edge of another school year. Tired, proud, a little overwhelmed, a little emotional, but still standing. Still showing up, still caring. And now, finally, approaching the moment where we get to take care of ourselves.

To every teacher who made it to May: You did more than enough.

Now it’s time to rest.