This past weekend, a group of us got caught up in one of those group texts that starts light — a string of funny memes, a few inside jokes — the kind that makes you laugh out loud in the middle of Saturday morning. 

But somehow, almost inevitably, work wormed its way into the conversation. One comment about grading, a story about a student, a meme about the copier… suddenly we weren’t just friends texting. 

We were colleagues, mid-discussion about lesson plans and deadlines, even on a weekend. It was funny. It was familiar. And it reminded me that for educators, leaving work behind isn’t just hard — it’s nearly impossible.

Even when we try to keep it casual, work has a way of sneaking in. A few memes can turn into stories about students, assignments, or the endless parade of emails waiting in our inboxes. It makes you wonder… do we ever really leave it behind?

Do you ever try to leave your work self locked in a cabinet on Friday afternoon?

I’m talking about that version of you with the lanyard still around your neck. The one holding a stack of invisible papers. The one who says things like, “Let’s circle back,” at dinner.

Every Friday, I imagine opening a metal filing cabinet in my classroom, gently folding up my Work Self, and placing him inside. I even picture giving him a juice box and a granola bar so he can make it until Monday. I slide the drawer shut. I padlock it. Maybe even wrap a small chain around it for good measure.

“Stay,” I whisper.

But somewhere around Saturday morning, he escapes.

He shows up at breakfast.
“Did you answer that email?”
“Did you finish grading?”
“And what about the kid who hasn’t turned anything in since October?”

And I’m just trying to butter my toast.

This is especially true for educators. We don’t just leave work at work. Work is people. Work is stories. Work is worry. Work is 162 living, breathing plot twists that walk into your room every day and then follow you home in your thoughts.

You can be out for dinner with friends — actual adult friends — and someone asks an innocent question:

“So how’s work?”

And that’s it. We’re off.
“Well, let me tell you about this one student…”
“And don’t even get me started on the copier…”
“And wait until you hear what happened during third period…”

It goes beyond venting. Venting is quick. Venting is a pressure valve. What we do is storytelling. Analyzing. Replaying. Rewriting scenes in our heads like directors who just can’t accept the first cut.

We don’t just teach during contract hours. We mentally reteach lessons while driving. We redesign seating charts in the cereal aisle. We compose emails in the shower. We solve behavior plans somewhere between the appetizer and the entrée.

It’s not that we can’t stop.
It’s that we care.

And caring is heavy. It doesn’t fit neatly in a filing cabinet.

The truth is, for many of us, our “work self” isn’t some separate identity we can hang up next to a blazer. It’s stitched into who we are: the patience, the vigilance, the constant scanning of the room, the instinct to explain, clarify, correct, encourage.

You ever notice how teachers can’t even watch a movie without critiquing the classroom scene?
“No teacher would say that.”
“That’s not how detention works.”
“That bulletin board is unrealistic.”

We can’t help it. Occupational hazard.

But here’s the quiet irony: the same heart that makes it hard to leave work behind is the one that needs rest the most.

Maybe the goal isn’t to chain our work selves in a cabinet. Maybe it’s to let them sit in the passenger seat instead of driving. To say, “I see you. I know you care. But tonight, we’re just going to eat tacos and talk about literally anything else.”

Maybe it’s giving ourselves permission to be something other than “Mr.” or “Ms.” for 48 hours.

To be just a person.
A friend.
A spouse.
A parent.
A human who does not need to assess anything.

Because if we never step out of the role, we start believing we are only the role.

And we’re more than that.

It goes beyond taking work home with you. That’s the easy part to admit.
“Yes, I brought grading.”
“Yes, I answered emails.”
“Yes, I checked the portal… just once.”
(Lies. It was not once.)

But this is different. This is about turning it off on purpose. Not accidentally. Not because you’re exhausted. Not because Netflix auto-played the next episode. On purpose.

It’s about deciding that the version of you who manages, fixes, redirects, assesses, anticipates, and absorbs… gets to clock out.

Because here’s the thing no one really says out loud: for educators especially, “work” isn’t just tasks. It’s posture. It’s vigilance. It’s emotional radar that never powers down.

You don’t just stop grading.
You stop scanning the room.
You stop solving problems that haven’t happened yet.
You stop mentally drafting conversations you might need on Tuesday.

Letting go means allowing silence in your own head without filling it with responsibility.

And that feels… strange. Almost irresponsible.

There’s a tiny voice that whispers,
“If you relax too much, something will fall apart.”

Spoiler alert: it won’t. The world will survive your Saturday.

Letting go means letting yourself be whatever you need to be in that moment.
Not Mr. So-and-So.
Not the fixer.
Not the planner of spirit weeks.
Not the human suggestion box.

Just you.

Maybe you’re quiet.
Maybe you’re goofy.
Maybe you’re the one who laughs too loud at the wrong time.
Maybe you’re the person who stares out a window with a cup of coffee and thinks about absolutely nothing productive.

Coffee works well with plain old simple you.
No agenda.
No lesson plan.
No learning objective posted in the corner of your brain.
Just steam rising.
A slow sip.
A morning that doesn’t require anything from you.

That might be the real skill we never got trained for — intentional off-switching.
Not burnout. Not escape. Not avoidance.

Choice.
“I will not carry this right now.”

It’s not about abandoning responsibility. It’s about remembering that you are more than it.

Because if we only ever operate in our professional selves, we start to forget who we are without the title.

And that version of you?
The one with no clipboard, no urgency, no mental checklist?

They deserve time too. Sometimes all they need is a quiet table, a warm cup, and permission to exist without performing.

And that’s enough.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.