Permission To Restart

This isn't one of my usual blog posts. Today was rough, definitely one of those days. As a teacher, it feels like those days are becoming more frequent. And as an administrator, the weight of the day feels heavier. It's not just about handling the emotions of students and parents; it's also about supporting my team as they navigate their own emotional responses to the same events. Today was full of family stress, trauma, and the vicarious toll that witnessing someone else's pain can take on everyone involved. It all just felt like too much.

When I logged off and tried to shift from my role as an educator to my role as a writer, I didn't think I could make the switch. My mind kept replaying conversations, moments, and everything that had happened. I considered skipping tonight's writing session, a small gathering planned with fellow authors to keep each other accountable. But despite the weight I was carrying, I packed up my laptop, grabbed Annie the porcupine, and drove to meet them.

When I arrived, I tried to set up, but my laptop just kept restarting. At first, I was frustrated. The longer it spun, the more irritated I felt. But then something shifted. I realized maybe this wasn't just a technical glitch, but a message from the universe. I needed a restart! I took a breath and remembered a piece of advice someone once gave me: to picture a shelf full of boxes, each one representing a different role or responsibility in my life. When it's time to switch from one to another, you mentally pack up the box and put it back on the shelf before pulling down the next one. You can only open one box at a time.

So I took the time while my laptop restarted to do just that. I visualized putting away the stress, the emotions, the pain of the day, and placing that box neatly on the shelf. And when the screen finally came back on, I reached for the writer box and allowed myself to start anew.

Sometimes, we all need a reminder that it's okay to restart. It doesn't matter if it's morning, noon, or night—if you need to pause, breathe, and begin again, that is perfectly okay. Close the box, put it on the shelf, and give yourself permission to move forward. I'm giving myself that permission—and I'm passing it on to you.