Time’s Up

By Lynn / June 6, 2025

When you start your journey as a yearbook creator, you’re not thinking about the end—you’re just trying to get through each step, learning the process, and probably having a few moments of being completely overwhelmed. (I’ve mentioned before: it’s basically eight jobs rolled into one title that doesn’t even begin to define the role.)

After year one, you might agree to do it again because—hey—you’ve already learned so much: design, production, distribution, and more. Now you have ideas to make things easier and feel less overwhelmed next time. Then year three rolls around, and you’ve really found your groove. You’ve got systems in place, big plans for a new theme, and things are running more smoothly.

Next thing you know, you’re in year 10. You’ve become known for awesome themes and standout yearbooks—even won some awards. Along the way, maybe you’ve even taken on books for other schools because you had so many ideas to share. You’ve adapted themes for different ages—superheroes for kindergarteners, comic book heroes for sixth graders. And even after your own kids move on, you agree to “just one more year,” because this is your jam, and you love it.

But then you start noticing some changes. Without kids in the building, you’re not as connected to the school calendar of events. New teachers are arriving, others are leaving. You’re not chatting in the halls getting photos like you used to. Where everyone once knew you, now there are staff who don’t know you—or your kids. The connection is fading.

You can feel it—the end is coming. And eventually, you and the principal agree: it’s time for someone else to take over. They thank you, tell you how much they loved your yearbooks, and how great it was working with you. But your time’s up.

That first year after stepping away, you might check in—do they need any help? Maybe offer to assist at the older grades where your kids are now. But they’ve got their own systems in place, often with student-led yearbook classes. You still say, “If you ever need anything, let me know,” and the high school advisor politely responds, “Okay, thank you.” But you know she won’t. She doesn’t need you.

You look at the new yearbooks when you get a chance—see the themes and layouts—and feel that twinge. You miss it. But your life has moved on, and the yearbooks continue capturing memories and history without you. You realize it was never really about you—it was always about recording the moments happening each year. You were just lucky enough to play a part and document them.

Now, it’s been five years since I created a yearbook. And yes, I miss it. I miss creating, capturing memories, spending time with students, staff and teachers, and documenting school history. I miss making yearbooks.

But I also recognize that it’s someone else’s turn now—someone ready to jump in, learn the ropes, and fall in love with it like I did.

Until their time’s up.