There is something magical about the beach. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the waves, constant and soothing, or the salty breeze that helps you feel like you can breathe again. But one of my favorite things to do at the beach–especially when I’m feeling emotionally stretched thin…is to just watch.

People watching at the beach is a masterclass in humanity. You’ll see to full spectrum of life scattered across the sand like seashells:

The older couple walking hand in hand, steady and content.

The single mom hauling an umbrella, cooler, and three kids and somehow managing to smile through the chaos.

The teenager lying face-down on a towel, lost in earbuds and tanning lotion.

The bodybuilder strutting confidently.

The bookworm hiding in the shade.

The toddler, wide-eyed and shrieking with joy at each crashing wave.

The woman crying quietly behind her sunglasses.

The group of friends laughing so loudly you wonder what kind of inside joke could be that good!

But every person there is carrying something we can’t see. A story. A struggle. A moment. A mood.

And it hit me…this beach, in all it’s variety, is a lot like a classroom.

In a single day of teaching, you encounter dozens of “beach moments.” Students with stories you’ll never fully know. Colleagues are quietly drowning under waves of pressure. Administrators are trying to juggle the tide of all their demands.

And you? You’re the one trying to keep it all afloat. To anchor yourself in the shifting sands of lesson plans, curriculum demands, parent emails, and the overwhelming feeling that no matter how much you do, it is never enough.

Burnout doesn’t usually roar in like a tsunami. It creeps in slowly, like the rising tide. You’re standing ankle deep in overwhelm, and before you know it, the water’s at your chin and your gasping for air above the piles.

But being at the beach reminded me of something…

No one is watching the ocean and judging the waves for being too much. No one stands at the shore and says, “That wave should have been smaller,” or ” Why couldn’t the tide come in more quietly?” The ocean is allowed to be vast, untamed, and powerful.

So why don’t we allow the same for ourselves?

Teachers are human. We carry grief, joy, exhaustion, passion, guilt, creativity, fear, and hope all in one body. Just like those strangers on the sand, we show up with our stories…many of them hidden behind the smiles or sunglasses. And still we keep showing up.

If you are feeling the tide rise around you, I hope you remember this:

YOU are not alone.

YOU are allowed to rest.

YOU do not have to carry it all.

And sometimes, stepping back and observing— whether it’s at the beach or in your classroom —can remind you that we’re all just humans trying to do our best.

So take a breath. Let the sun warm your skin. Let the waves crash without needing to fix them. Watch the people and remember your place in this beautiful, chaotic mosaic of life.

And give yourself permission to just be.