Why the French Don’t Feel Guilty About Vacation

A reflection on what it takes to truly disconnect.

This post kicks off my new Summer Series: reflections on how the French do vacation, rest, rhythm, and everything in between.

Wishing a restful 4th of July to my American readers, and a slower, sunnier mindset wherever you are. Especially if it’s been hard to pause lately.

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From late July to the end of August, offices go dark in France. The phrase je suis en congé becomes a catch-all excuse for everything from unanswered emails to full-on shop closures. In the U.S., this might feel like mass abandonment. In France, it’s simply called vacation.

The contrast is striking, not just in policy, but in mindset. Where Americans are trained to apologize for rest, the French treat it as a civic right.

The first time I truly understood this, I was in my twenties and working at the Eiffel Tower.

Not as a tourist, but as a temp. My summer job? Filling in for full-time employees on their three-week vacations. What struck me was how coordinated it all was: who left when, who covered what, July vs. August. It wasn’t chaotic. It was choreographed.

I didn’t know it then, but that job planted a seed, one that would take years, and a lot of unlearning, to grow.

After getting my baccalauréat in France, while most of my classmates were headed to prépa or med school, I moved back to the U.S. I’d always loved New York City and figured I’d take some time to work and figure out what I actually wanted to study.

I ended up spending my first three adult years working two jobs — grinding, as they say in New York — and later back in Honolulu, where I was born.

As a result, I entered the adult world through the American system, where vacation is a reward for performance. Life in NYC is tough. You’re expected to hustle. Rest feels indulgent. Days off are rationed. And when you do take them, you often apologize, if not in words, then in tone. You let your boss know you’ll “stay reachable.” When I was living in New York, I never went home to visit my family.

In Honolulu, I lived with roommates, worked double shifts, and spent an entire summer without setting foot in the ocean — despite one of my jobs being at the Starbucks in Waikiki, across the street from a perfect swim. That’s how deeply I’d internalized the idea that time off was a luxury I hadn’t earned.

Now that I’m in France, I see things differently.

Here, vacation isn’t something you earn. It’s something you take. Routinely. Systematically. Proudly. There’s no guilt, no half-apologies. It’s not seen as a threat to your productivity but as necessary for it.

Of course, this is only possible thanks to very different legislation.

The French approach to vacation was fought for, legislated, and defended over generations. Paid leave was introduced in 1936 under the Popular Front government. Over time, that expanded. By 1982, the standard had risen to five weeks. The 35-hour workweek came later, with RTT days (extra time off for working beyond the limit). Today, vacation is part of the social contract, rooted in the belief that life outside of work matters. That rest isn’t indulgent, but essential.

In the U.S., it’s different. There’s no federal law guaranteeing paid vacation. When time off is offered, it’s at the employer’s discretion. Some companies are generous; others, not at all. The expectation is more cultural than legal: work comes first, and rest has to be earned. American labor movements focused on wages and healthcare, not time off. Over time, that shaped a mindset where being unavailable can feel risky.

Another difference? Job security. In France, permanent contracts (CDI) are the norm and come with legal protections. You can’t just be let go without cause. Layoffs are formal, compensated, and usually involve a process. That stability helps. You can take your five weeks without fearing someone will replace you. In the U.S., where employment is often at-will, stepping away can feel like opening the door for someone else to step in.

In France, entire industries slow to a halt from July through August. Some companies formally close for the whole month, requiring employees to take their congés payés. Offices empty out. Out-of-offices go up and don’t come down until la rentrée. No one’s checking emails from a beach lounger in Corsica. No one’s replying to “just a quick question” from Cap Ferret. And if they do, they’ll likely be told to log off, profite bien, and stop setting a bad example.

This circles back to how the French tend to view their jobs and purpose, which I wrote about here.

Even the structure of work culture reinforces it. French employees are entitled to five full weeks of paid vacation, plus around a dozen public holidays, plus RTT days at many companies. It adds up. And no one brags about how little they take.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., even a 10-day vacation can feel bold. A full month? Unusual, and often hard to justify. There’s pressure to always be visible, responsive, productive. That pressure doesn’t disappear when you’re away; it follows you.

It took me years to unlearn that.

Even after moving back to France for my studies and working in French companies, I carried that American energy into vacation. I packed my laptop “just in case.” Replied to emails between sightseeing stops. Justified my time off by how hard I’d worked before.

I remember one long weekend in Madrid where I spent every morning answering emails from a shaded terrace, before even putting on sunscreen. I told myself it was “being responsible.” But really, I didn’t know how to stop proving I was useful.

The longer I lived in France, the more I noticed no one around me was doing that. My colleagues would say je pars en congé naturally, with ease. Vacation wasn’t a break from work. It was part of the rhythm of life.

There’s a ritual around it, too. In the weeks leading up to your congés, you talk about your plans: where you’re going, how long, what the weather’s like. It’s a social expectation. And when you return, you don’t just disappear into your inbox. You share stories. Maybe show a few pictures. Vacations are meant to be lived, and shared.

When my husband and I got married, we took three weeks off for our honeymoon. We traveled slowly. Disconnected. And even though I’d been working in France for years, three weeks still felt indulgent, like I was getting away with something. But no one at work batted an eye. The response was mostly: “Ah, trop bien ! Vous avez bien raison.” Just a warm, matter-of-fact acknowledgment that rest isn’t up for debate.

That was a turning point.

Because once you experience rest without guilt, you realize how much energy went into the guilt itself.

It took me years to get here, resting without apology.

Now that I work for myself, things are different but the mindset has stayed with me. There’s no boss reviewing my calendar or reminding me to log off. But there’s also no built-in boundary. If I’m not careful, work spills into everything.

Last summer, I didn’t fully disconnect. With maternity leave approaching, I told myself I couldn’t afford to slow down. I was technically on vacation, but mentally still toggling between client tasks and Google Docs. Honestly, being away with my business-owning, U.S.-based siblings didn’t help. We all gathered around the kitchen table taking calls and answering emails, like some kind of family-run operation. No one questioned it. It felt normal. It even felt important.

This year will be different. I’ll be resuming international client work in September, and I know French requests will be minimal — if not nonexistent — in August. For Substack and the blog, I’m planning ahead so I can truly step away for a few weeks. (That’s not to say I won’t read or respond to your lovely comments — but that hardly feels like work.) I still believe in rest. And now, I try to practice what France has taught me: rest doesn’t need to be earned. It just needs to be taken, with proper planning.

France taught me that vacation isn’t something to justify. It’s not the reward at the end of burnout. It’s a non-negotiable part of living well — of what the French would call profiter de la vie.

So now, when summer rolls around, I make plans. I prep. I log off.
And I don’t apologize.

What about you? What’s your relationship to vacation? Do you find it easy to disconnect — or do you still feel the pull to stay reachable?

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Curious what actually happens in France during summer break? You can read my latest blog post right here: Planning a Trip to France in August? Read This First. It’s a practical companion to this essay—full of travel tips, cultural context, and what to expect if you’re visiting France in July or August.

Coming next week in my Summer Series: French beach etiquette vs. American beach etiquette.
We’re diving into the unspoken rules of towel spacing, topless sunbathing, snack strategy, and whether anyone actually swims — all through the lens of two very different cultures. It’s light, observational, and just for fun.

Special thanks to my reader Rebecca for inspiring the theme of this series with her phrase “a European-style summer.”

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