Last June 3rd, I walked out of my classroom at 4:47 in the afternoon, dragging a tote bag full of math manipulatives I had promised myself I would "organize over the summer," and I sat in my car in the parking lot for a full eleven minutes without moving.

Not because I was sad. Not because I was happy. I was just... still.

If you're a Florida teacher, you know that feeling. The school year ends and your nervous system doesn't quite believe it yet. You're waiting for someone to knock on your car window and tell you there's a mandatory meeting about reading data.

There isn't. You can go home. But first, let's talk about what that first week actually looks like when you do it right.

Day One: The Sacred Rule of Doing Absolutely Nothing

I'm serious. Nothing.

Not lesson planning. Not cleaning out your school email. Not reorganizing your TPT folders. Nothing that has anything to do with school.

I know, I know. Some of you are already twitching. I was the same way for the first ten years of my career. I would spend June 1st making color-coded binders for the fall and then wonder why I was burned out by August. Ay, the things we do to ourselves.

Your brain has been running at full capacity since August. It has managed 20-something children, communicated with parents, survived FAST testing season, navigated at least three policy changes, and probably mediated more conflicts than a United Nations diplomat. It needs a rest before it can do anything useful again.

So on day one, I watch something completely mindless on TV. I take a long walk. I eat lunch sitting down, which is apparently a luxury we forget exists during the school year.

That's it. That's the whole plan.

Days Two and Three: The Physical Detox

Around day two, I start to feel something shift. The headache I didn't even realize I had starts to fade. My shoulders come down from somewhere near my ears.

This is when I focus on my body, because honestly, the school year is physically brutal. We stand for hours. We eat lunch in eleven minutes. We hold our bladder like it's an Olympic sport.

I sleep as late as I want. I actually cook breakfast. I go to the gym, not because I'm training for anything, but because moving my body in a way I choose feels completely different from pacing in front of a whiteboard.

Carlos always jokes that I turn into a different person by day three. He's not wrong. The version of me that walks in the door on the last day of school is a little hollow-eyed and speaks mostly in sentence stems. By day three, I'm starting to sound like myself again.

The Classroom Bag Problem

Here's something nobody talks about: what to do with all the stuff you brought home.

I always bring home too much. Always. Last year it was the manipulatives bag, a folder of parent communication I was going to "review," and two books about differentiated instruction that I had every intention of reading.

On day two or three, I make one decision about each item. Either I put it away somewhere specific, or I put it in a box in the garage that I label "School, Fall" and I do not open it until late July. That's it. Two choices.

The goal is to get school stuff out of my main living space. When I can see the math folders on my kitchen table, I can't fully relax. Out of sight matters more than I used to think.

Day Four: The One Honest Look Back

Somewhere around the fourth day, I give myself one hour to think about the year that just ended. Not to plan, not to fix anything, just to process.

I sit with a cup of coffee and I ask myself a few questions. What worked this year that I want to remember? What absolutely did not work and I need to let go of? Which students am I still thinking about, and is there anything I can do for them before fall?

That last one matters a lot at a Title I school. I have a few students every year who I worry about over the summer. Sometimes I can reach out to a family. Sometimes I just have to trust that I planted seeds and they'll grow.

I write these thoughts in a regular notebook, nothing fancy. Then I close the notebook and I don't open it again until late July.

One hour. That's the limit. We are not allowed to spiral.

What I Stopped Doing in the First Week

Pero let me tell you what I used to do in the first week that made everything worse.

I used to start planning for fall. I thought I was being productive. I was actually stealing recovery time from myself and then showing up to August pre-planning already tired.

I used to check my school email "just in case." There is almost never anything in your school email in the first week of summer that cannot wait. Almost never. Check it once at the end of the week if you must, but do not make it a daily habit.

I used to feel guilty for resting. Dios mio, the guilt. Like somehow if I wasn't being productive, I wasn't a good teacher. Twenty-two years in this job has taught me that the teachers who never fully rest are the ones who leave the profession. Rest is not laziness. Rest is maintenance.

The Permission Slip You Didn't Know You Needed

I'm going to say something that took me a long time to believe: you are allowed to not think about school for a few days.

Your students will be okay. Your classroom will still be there. The fall will come whether you plan for it in June or July, and the plans you make in July after you've actually rested will be better than the ones you make in June when you're running on fumes and spite.

You gave everything you had this year. I know you did. I see it in every teacher I talk to, every blog comment I read, every conversation in the Publix checkout line when I run into someone from another school and we do that knowing nod at each other.

You earned this week. Take it.

My One Practical Suggestion

If you need something concrete to do in the first week, here it is: write down three things you're proud of from this school year.

Not goals. Not plans. Not things to improve. Three things you actually did well.

Put it somewhere you'll see it. Because by August, when you're setting up your classroom and second-guessing every decision you've ever made, you're going to need that reminder.

We are good at this job, mija. Even when it doesn't feel like it.

Now go enjoy your summer. You've got about ten weeks before the back-to-school sales start showing up and Carlos starts asking why there are so many Amazon boxes on the porch.

Trust me, it goes fast.

Maria Elena Santos teaches 4th grade in Tampa, Florida. She has been writing about classroom life and surviving the Florida school year for teachers who need someone to tell them they're doing fine.