Each week, educators around the world step into classrooms, hallways, Zoom calls and community spaces carrying more than just lesson plans — they carry the weight of hope. Hope that their students will be seen, heard and affirmed. Hope that their schools will be safe harbors for inquiry, identity and growth. Hope that, even amid turbulence, they can be the steady hand that guides young people toward truth, justice and joy. But that weight, noble as it is, can be heavy. And today, it feels especially so.

Across the country, we are witnessing unprecedented political interference in curriculum. Books are being banned. Histories are being silenced. Words like “equity,” “diversity,” “inclusion” and “justice” are being framed not as pathways to liberation, but as threats to the status quo. Educators, especially those who identify as Black, Indigenous, people of color, LGBTQIA+, immigrants, women, or people of various faiths and abilities — are being asked to do more with less while facing scrutiny for daring to affirm the humanity of all students.

Still, we persist. Because we made a promise, not just in our contracts, but in our convictions, that every child deserves a learning space where they are free. Free to read books that reflect their cultures. Free to ask bold questions. Free to wear their hair naturally. Free to speak their home languages. Free to transition. Free to feel grief. Free to dance. Free to heal. Free to be.

And yet, as we advocate for students’ right to show up fully, we often forget to grant ourselves the same freedom. Let this be your reminder: You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to say no. You are allowed to unplug, cry, laugh, dance, nap, wander. You are allowed to protect your peace as fiercely as you protect your students’ potential.

For educators, rest often comes last — after the lessons are planned, the papers are graded, the emails returned, the students cared for, and the crises averted. Rest becomes something we hope to get to, a vague future prize that dangles just beyond the next professional development day or long weekend.

But something transformational happens when we finally, deeply know — not just intellectually but somatically — that we are deserving of rest. It changes how we show up for ourselves.

When educators know they deserve rest:

Rest becomes proactive, not reactive. We don’t wait until our bodies break down or we’re on the verge of tears in our cars before we stop. We schedule rest like we schedule staff meetings — because it’s just as essential, if not more.

We reclaim our time without guilt. We close the laptop when our work hours end — not because everything is done (it never is), but because we are done for the day. We stop equating exhaustion with effectiveness.

We learn to say no — not from scarcity, but from self-preservation. We don’t overextend ourselves to prove we care. We care so deeply that we protect our capacity, knowing that depletion doesn’t lead to justice.

We practice daily rituals of renewal. Morning sunlight. Five minutes of silence. Breathing with intention between classes. Walking without our phones. Drinking water slowly. These are not luxuries, they are acts of devotion to the self.

We stop tying our worth to our productivity. We remember that our humanity is not measured in lesson outcomes, test scores or classroom performance. We are whole, even when we pause. Especially when we pause.

We give ourselves what we give our students: grace. We make mistakes and recover. We forget things and forgive ourselves. We have rough days and recognize that healing is non-linear. We extend the same compassion inward that we so readily offer others.

We rest in community, not isolation. We normalize taking time off. We check in on one another’s well-being. We create staff cultures where rest is a shared value, not a secret shame. We stop glorifying burnout and start celebrating balance.

Equity work is not a sprint. It is not martyrdom. It is not sustained by overextension or burnout. Equity work is a lifelong practice of imagining a better world — and to imagine that world, you need to be able to see it clearly, not through the fog of exhaustion. You need rest not just as recovery, but as resistance. As rebellion. As a radical re-centering of your own humanity. Toni Morrison once said, “The function of freedom is to free someone else.” But how can we free others if we are shackled to systems that demand our perpetual over-functioning?

As educators committed to equity, we must believe that we, too, are worthy of the very things we fight for. Rest. Rejuvenation. Safety. Joy. A strong, abundant quality of life. That belief must be more than aspirational, it must be operational. It must show up in our calendars, our boundaries, our breath. This week, I invite you to do something both simple and sacred: reclaim a moment for yourself. Go outside and let the sun touch your skin. Turn your phone off for an hour. Journal. Stretch. Take a long sip of something warm. Call someone who sees you. Reconnect with your “why,” and allow it to hold you as much as it drives you.

When we finally believe we deserve rest, we begin to lead from a place of groundedness rather than grind. We teach with more clarity. We advocate with more stamina. We connect with more authenticity. We become models of what liberated living can look like — for our students and for ourselves.

Because the truth is this: A rested educator is a revolutionary educator. And a rested educator teaches students that they, too, are worthy — not just of achievement, but of joy, health, softness and rest. You don’t have to earn the right to breathe deeply. You already do. You are doing sacred work. And you deserve sacred care. Take what you need. And keep going.

Sawubona, Anthony

Anthony Robinson is ACSA’s director of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion.