Last Tuesday, I found myself crying in my car after school because I couldn't remember if I had turned in my field trip permission slips or if they were still sitting on my kitchen counter under a pile of Marcus's baseball schedules. It was such a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like proof that I was failing at everything.

Then I remembered something my mentor teacher, Mrs. Rodriguez, told me during my first year: "Mija, if you're not exhausted by May, you probably weren't doing your job right."

Twenty-two years later, I finally understand what she meant.

We're Running a Marathon, Not a Sprint

Teaching is the only profession I know where we're expected to maintain the same energy and enthusiasm in week 36 as we had in week 1. Can you imagine asking a marathon runner to sprint through mile 24? Yet somehow we've convinced ourselves that feeling tired after nine months of pouring our hearts into 25+ little humans means we're not cut out for this job.

Pero that's ridiculous.

Think about what we've accomplished since August. We've been counselors, nurses, cheerleaders, disciplinarians, and academic coaches. We've celebrated breakthroughs and mourned setbacks. We've stayed up late planning lessons and gotten up early to make copies. We've bought supplies with our own money and spent weekends at school events.

Of course we're tired. We should be tired.

The Guilt That Doesn't Serve Us

Here's what I wish someone had told me during those early years when I thought exhaustion meant I was weak: feeling drained doesn't make you a bad teacher. It makes you human.

I used to look at veteran teachers who seemed to have it all together and wonder what was wrong with me. Why was I so tired when they looked fresh as daisies? What I didn't realize then was that those teachers had learned something I hadn't yet: how to give themselves permission to be imperfect.

Mrs. Patterson next door taught me this lesson the hard way. During my fifth year, I was beating myself up because my bulletin boards looked terrible and I hadn't graded papers in three days. She looked at me and said, "Maria Elena, your kids are learning and they feel loved in your classroom. The rest is just decoration."

That hit different.

What End-of-Year Exhaustion Really Means

When we're exhausted in May, it usually means we've been doing our job well. We've been present for our students. We've adapted and adjusted and pivoted more times than we can count. We've celebrated their victories and worried about their struggles.

That takes emotional energy, and emotional energy is finite.

I think about little Sofia this year, who came to me barely speaking English and now raises her hand to share her thinking during math. Or James, who spent the first month hiding under his desk and now helps other kids when they're struggling. These victories didn't happen because I was superhuman. They happened because I showed up, day after day, even when I was tired.

The exhaustion is proof of our investment.

Practical Ways to Honor Your Tiredness

Instead of fighting the exhaustion, let's work with it. Here are some things that have helped me survive (and sometimes even thrive) during these final weeks:

Lower the bar on the small stuff. Those elaborate bulletin boards? They can wait until next year. Focus on what matters most: relationships and learning.

Embrace "good enough." My lesson plans in May look nothing like my lesson plans in September, and that's okay. My students are still learning.

Ask for help. I finally learned to say yes when parents offer to help with the end-of-year party or when colleagues suggest splitting duties.

Protect your energy. I stopped volunteering for extra committees in April and May. My classroom and my students get my best energy first.

The Permission You Need

If you're reading this while sitting in your car after school, wondering if you're cut out for this job because you feel like you're running on empty, let me give you the permission you need:

You are allowed to be tired.

You are allowed to count down the days until summer break.

You are allowed to order pizza for dinner instead of cooking because you spent your energy on other people's children today.

You are allowed to say no to that extra request that just landed in your inbox.

You are allowed to be human.

What Your Students Really Need

Here's what I've learned after more than two decades in the classroom: our students don't need us to be perfect. They need us to be present. They need us to care. They need us to show up, even when we're tired.

And you know what? You're already doing that.

Little Emma doesn't remember that my bulletin board was crooked in May. She remembers that I celebrated when she finally mastered her multiplication facts. David doesn't care that I wore the same cardigan three days in a row. He cares that I noticed when he was having a hard day and gave him a quiet moment to collect himself.

Our impact isn't measured by our energy level. It's measured by our heart level.

A Message for the Marathon Runners

We're in the final miles now, teacher friends. Your legs are tired, your feet hurt, and you can see the finish line in the distance. This is the hardest part of the race, and it's supposed to feel hard.

But look how far you've come. Look at the lives you've touched. Look at the growth you've nurtured. Look at the safe space you've created day after day, even when you didn't feel like it.

That exhaustion you're feeling? It's not a character flaw. It's a badge of honor.

Hang in there, mija. Summer break is coming, and you've earned every single day of it.