When brain empty 🐸

The florescent lights hum; the soft clicking of keyboards blurs into a low static. I blink. Once, twice. Not because I’m processing a spreadsheet or re-evaluating my entire career trajectory, but because for a split second, I’m not even in this office. Inside, I’m just—empty. Like, truly, brain empty. There’s a rhythm to these mid-afternoon slumps: notification after notification, a flock of digital birds, but none land on my branch.

It’s wild—did anyone ever tell us adulting would feel like this? The emails stack up, lunch detention forms and unsent Slack drafts, and yet... nothing inside stirs. Responsibilities buzz by, but I’m just floating on my metaphorical lily pad, unmoved. You ever have that moment where expectations keep rolling in and your brain just clocks out, leaving a very chill, underqualified frog in charge?

Honestly, that’s me. My brain says nope, and suddenly I’m not a “valued team member” or “respectable educator”—I’m just a little green thing, soft and still and zero thoughts. Assign consequences? Please. Literally just a frog here.

Time slows down. The office plant looks suspiciously like it’d make a better lily pad than my chair. Someone’s talking about Q3 goals and I’m just… waiting for a digital fly to pass by, attention span set to amphibian.

Head empty. Ribbit. In a weird way, there’s peace in this absurdity—a moment where you embrace the nothing, because nothing is all you have to give.

If you’ve ever felt your soul quietly logging off at your desk, I see you. Welcome to the lily pad. 🐸

Press play if your brain’s out on a coffee break too. Ribbit.