Opinion piece by Barbara Lee
As summer break gets closer, the same question starts looping in the back of every parent's mind: How am I going to get through two and a half months of this? What do we do with all those days? How do we keep the kids from getting bored, help them grow, give them memories worth keeping? I know that spiral well — and honestly, the logistical anxiety is not entirely unfounded in our house either.
We're lucky in some ways. My daughter's dad and I can both work from home, and her grandmother is around to help. But even so, summer is going to be a challenge. There's no sugarcoating it.
And yet — I've already made one decision I feel completely certain about: I'm not going to stress myself out trying to plan something for every single day.
We'll have plans, of course. We're heading to Lake Balaton again this year, because summer without the smell of sunscreen, fried dough by the water, and my closest friends and their kids is simply unimaginable. We'll go on hikes, because being in nature has a way of quietly fixing whatever's off about a day. And there's one tradition we never skip: in August, we head out after dark with a blanket and snacks to watch the Perseid meteor shower. Last year it was a bigger hit than I expected — this year, we're definitely doing it again.
So yes, we'll have shared experiences. I'm just not going to pressure myself into making every single day unforgettable.
This is exactly what the "slow summer" philosophy is about
It's about not filling every minute. About accepting — even welcoming — empty hours. For kids especially, those unscheduled stretches of time aren't wasted. They're actually where some of the most important things happen.
Boredom has a bad reputation. We tend to treat it like a problem that needs to be solved immediately. But boredom isn't the enemy — it's a transitional state, a kind of pause that makes room for something new to emerge.
When there's no pre-planned activity, no constant stream of stimulation, a child is forced to reach inward. To invent a game, dream up a story, find something to do out of nothing.
That's the moment creativity actually starts to work.
Heavily structured days often don't allow that process to happen at all. When there's always a "next thing" on the schedule, there's no need for a child to figure things out on their own. In the short term, that feels easier. In the long term, it quietly hollows out the inner world that later becomes the source of ideas, solutions, and real passions.
But this isn't only about the kids
Our nervous systems weren't designed for constant stimulation either. A packed schedule — even one full of good things — keeps us in a low-level state of alertness. The organizing, the coordinating, the showing up: the pace itself is exhausting, regardless of how enjoyable the activities are.
Slower days offer something different: a chance to regulate. A way for both body and mind to find their way back to a calmer rhythm.
It's not a dramatic process. You can't check it off a to-do list, and it won't make for a great Instagram post. But you'll feel it.
A slow morning with nowhere to be. An afternoon that drifts by without agenda. An evening with no special plans that somehow becomes one anyway — a real conversation, a burst of laughter, a spontaneous game that nobody planned but everyone remembers.
Strangely, these are often the moments that bring us closest — closer than the carefully organized experiences we spend weeks planning. Maybe because there's no expectation attached to them. They don't have to "go well." They just have to happen.
A slow summer isn't about having no plans at all. It's about keeping a sense of proportion — leaving room for nothing, on purpose.
Because that "nothing" turns out to be quite a lot. Possibly more than anything you'd find in a camp brochure, a concert lineup, or a flight booking confirmation.
