It’s that time of year again


Abby Busch

My sister and I last summer, a true representation of summer.

It’s that time of year again. 

It’s the time of year when you find students’ shoulders sinking from the weight of their backpack, which has only gotten heavier since the beginning of the semester. 

It’s the time of year when the motivation rates have been steadily dropping—and, as the underclassmen witness the seniors departing, the rate is facing a steep negative dive. 

It’s the time of year that when you ask someone what they are looking forward to most, the answer is unequivocally, unquestionably “summer.” 

Doing anything, even the most simple tasks, this time of year seems to be strikingly difficult. I have trouble finding the inspiration to merely put my clean clothes away—if you don’t believe me, ask my mother. It’s getting to be a problem. 

As I approach the finale of my junior year, detecting even an ounce of motivation within myself seems to be near impossible. During this time of year, there is only ever really one thing engulfing my senses, taking over my thoughts: summer. And not just the season, but the freedom that summer grants me. 

During this time of year, there is only ever really one thing engulfing my senses, taking over my thoughts: summer.”

What I, along with most, if not all, of my fellow classmates desire, is the time and ability to relax. Every year feels like a race; no one can really win, though I suppose just making it to the end can be deemed as winning. Near the end of every race, the desire to finish grows; yet, it also gets harder to continue with every passing minute. I try to find the happy medium, but every year it gets exceedingly arduous. 

But then, I’ll be done; I will have crossed the finish line and made it to summer. 

The thing is, it isn’t summer yet; it is that time of year again when motivation seems to have gotten lost somewhere along the race—probably sometime in March. And now, here I am, struggling to keep up with everything expected of me, just as I have every year prior. 

Perhaps the biggest problem is that the one thing keeping me going is also the one thing holding me back. I can’t wait for summer, but when I know that in 22 short days—yes, I have been keeping count—I will be sleeping in, eating when I want to, and generally doing nothing, it’s hard to keep focusing on what I have to accomplish in these 22 days, which unfortunately is not nothing. 

It’s the time of year again when all I dream about is tank tops and ice cream but am forced to sit in a classroom instead. Only 22 more days of a completely unmotivated self. And, after that, I get to rejoice in my tank tops, preferably while eating ice cream.