Make Stress Your Friend 2

 Stress gets a bad reputation. We talk about it like it’s the enemy—something to avoid, escape, or eliminate. But when you really think about what causes stress in your life—your job, school, friends, parents, and relationships, you realize something important: your life would feel empty without these things. Stress exists because something matters. You can’t live without stress, but you can learn to manage it and even use it to your advantage.

The first step in making stress your friend is to acknowledge it instead of fighting it. Feeling stressed means you care about the outcome. You wouldn’t feel anxious about a test if school didn’t matter, or worried about a relationship if the person wasn’t important to you. Stress is a signal that you are invested. Rather than seeing it as weakness, see it as a helper.

The second step is realizing that stress is not just unavoidable, it can actually be helpful. When you feel stressed, your body is preparing itself to perform. Your heart rate increases, your breathing changes, and more oxygen is sent to your brain. This isn’t your body panicking; it’s your body getting ready to rise to the challenge. Stress is often your body saying, “This matters. Let’s go.”

Researchers tested this idea in an experiment with college students before a final exam. One group, the control group, was told to relax and take deep breaths to reduce stress. The other group, the experimental group, was told that stress was a good thing: that it meant they were excited, focused, and receiving more oxygen to the brain. They were encouraged to view stress as a performance booster rather than a threat. The results were powerful. The students who were told stress was helpful,  outperformed the group that was told to calm down.

The lesson is clear: mindset matters. When you believe stress is harmful, it drains your confidence and energy. But when you believe stress is helpful, it can enhance your well-being, performance, and even your health. Stress doesn’t have to be your enemy. If you change how you think about it, stress can become one of your allies. 

trust the process

  

 

Here’s something I’ve had to relearn: the more I obsess over the end result, the more the whole thing falls apart. Every time I sit down with a picture of the “perfect” outcome in my head, I might as well hang a “mental block” sign on my brain. Because nothing shuts down creativity faster than trying to make something flawless before you’ve even made anything. It’s like expecting the first pancake to be the good one. No. It’s always lumpy and weird looking. but that its job

But when I stop grading myself in advance, the work suddenly becomes… well, workable. I loosen up. I play. I try that idea I was half-afraid of, because it might not look polished. And you know what? Sometimes it doesn’t. But sometimes it leads to something unexpectedly good. Curiosity has a way of unlocking doors that perfectionism would rather keep sealed shut with industrial-strength glue. 

And this is exactly what I wish we could bottle and sprinkle around every classroom. Because somewhere along the line, a whole lot of students started believing their worth is measured in points, percentages, and whether the rubric says they’re “proficient.” They get so tangled in the scoreboard that they stop actually learning. Instead of asking, “What am I figuring out here?” they ask, “Will this hurt my grade?” And once that happens, the goal isn’t growth anymore—it’s damage control. Nobody learns well in damage-control mode. 

The best learning moments I’ve ever witnessed had absolutely nothing to do with grades. They happened when a student took a wild swing at a new idea or asked a question that changed the whole direction of the lesson, or boldly said, “I don’t get this… yet.” Those moments don’t fit neatly into the grading software, but they’re the moments that build thinkers. And ironically, when students stop chasing the A and start chasing understanding, the grades usually rise anyway—because the learning finally comes alive. 

So maybe the challenge—for teachers, students, and the rest of us wandering through this life—is to shift the spotlight. Let grades be the byproduct, not the target. Let the process be messy and interesting and full of “Wait, what if we try this?” Give students permission to learn instead of performing. And maybe give yourself that permission, too. Because results matter, sure—but learning? That’s the part that stays with you long after the gradebook closes. 

Nuggets from Buck

 Buck Showalter once said, “Some coaches practice until you get it right. I believe you should practice until you can’t get it wrong.” That quote really stuck with me. It made me think about the difference between just doing something correctly once and truly mastering it. There’s a certain level of confidence and precision that comes when you’ve practiced so much that mistakes become almost impossible. That idea really challenged me to think differently about how I approach teaching and learning. 

One day, I decided to put that philosophy into practice with my own students. Normally, once most of the class seemed to understand a lesson, I would move on to the next topic. But this time, I kept going. I didn’t stop when they “got it right” a few times—I wanted them to reach the point where they couldn’t get it wrong. So we reviewed, practiced, and discussed the material over and over. At times it definitely felt repetitive, and I could tell some students were getting bored or restless. 

Even though repetition can feel tedious, I’ve learned it’s a key part of mastery. It’s in those repeated moments—the ones that feel a little dull—when understanding really sinks in. The students began to show more consistency, and their answers started coming naturally instead of hesitantly. I could see their confidence grow as they realized they didn’t have to second-guess themselves anymore. That was a powerful thing to watch. 

By the end of that day, I truly felt that the class had reached a different level of understanding. They weren’t just completing tasks; they were owning the material. It felt rewarding to see that steady effort pay off, both for them and for me as their teacher. It reminded me that learning isn’t always about speed—it’s about depth. 

Showalter’s words continue to resonate with me. Practicing until you can’t get it wrong takes patience, persistence, and a willingness to push through the boring parts. But that’s where real growth happens. Whether it’s in sports, academics, or life, that kind of dedication builds lasting skill and confidence. It’s a lesson I’ll carry with me in my classroom from now on. 

A community of Lifeguards

 

The job of a lifeguard is all about being observant. They spend their time scanning the water, always watching, always aware. They’re not just looking for someone in trouble—they’re looking for the little signs that something might go wrong before it does. They see the swimmer starting to get tired, the group that’s pushing the limits, the kid drifting too far from the edge. Lifeguards prevent problems before they happen. Their quiet vigilance keeps everyone safe.

In a lot of ways, that same idea applies to life in a school. Think about it—our classrooms and hallways are kind of like the pool. Everyone’s moving at their own pace, some confident, some struggling just to stay afloat. When we act like lifeguards, we look out for each other. Teachers check in on students. Students notice when a classmate seems off. We pay attention, not because we’re nosy, but because we care enough to make sure no one feels like they’re drowning.

And when we do see someone sinking a bit, we step in. Lifeguards don’t hesitate—they move to lift someone up. In a school, that might mean helping a friend who’s behind on work, giving a kind word to someone who’s stressed, or even just sitting with someone who looks like they could use some company. Small gestures, but they make a big difference. Those are the moments that define who we are as a community.

This time of year can be especially tough for our seniors. College applications, tests, practices, games, and everything else—they’re juggling so much. It’s easy to feel like the water’s rising a little too fast. That’s when we all need to be lifeguards—teachers offering support, classmates encouraging each other, and families reminding them that it’s okay to come up for air.

Imagine how strong our community could be if everyone took on that lifeguard mindset. If every hallway, classroom, and locker room was filled with people looking out for each other. No one would feel alone. Everyone would know someone’s watching out for them. That’s the kind of school I want to be part of—one where we all help each other stay afloat, and maybe even swim a little farther.

This thought originated from a leadership seminar I attended

 

The Power of Gratitude

 

As a teacher, I’ve come to realize that gratitude might be one of the most underrated forces in a classroom. We spend so much time focusing on performance, deadlines, and improvement that it’s easy to overlook the power of simply saying “thank you.” But gratitude—both giving and receiving it—can completely change the tone of a classroom, a team, or even a day. It’s not just good manners; it’s good psychology.

When students feel appreciated, something shifts. I’ve seen students stand a little taller after being thanked for their effort or attitude. A simple acknowledgment—“I noticed how you helped your classmate” or “I really appreciate your focus today”—can motivate far more than a grade ever could. Gratitude helps students feel seen, and when people feel seen, they’re more likely to stay engaged, take risks, and keep growing.

Gratitude doesn’t just help students—it helps teachers, too. On tough days, when the to-do list feels endless, pausing to notice what’s going right can reset everything. Taking a moment to thank a colleague for covering a duty, or to appreciate a student’s small act of kindness, reminds us why we do this work in the first place. Research backs this up: people who practice gratitude regularly report being happier, more resilient, and even sleep better. That is why I do three good things every day.

There’s also a fascinating side to gratitude that goes beyond mood. Some studies suggest that people who feel grateful are less likely to cheat or act dishonestly. That might seem surprising at first, but it makes sense. When we’re aware of how much others contribute to our success, we’re less likely to cut corners or take advantage. Gratitude connects us—it reminds us that we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.

In the end, gratitude builds community. It strengthens trust, boosts morale, and makes our classrooms more human. Every “thank you” creates a ripple that touches both the giver and the receiver. In a world that often pushes us to move faster and expect more, gratitude invites us to pause, appreciate, and belong. And that might just be the most powerful lesson of them all.

Lessons from the Seals

 Simon Sinek once shared a story about asking Navy SEALs what kind of people make it through their training. He assumed it might be the strongest, the fastest, or the most naturally gifted leaders. But the SEALs surprised him. They said it’s not the muscle-bound candidates, not the pure athletes, and not the ones who delegate well. The ones who make it are those who, when they are completely exhausted and feel like they have nothing left to give, still find the strength to look out for the person next to them. That selflessness, especially in the toughest moments, is what makes someone worthy of wearing the trident. 

I think there’s a lot in that lesson for us as teachers and students. School isn’t SEAL training, of course, but it can be exhausting in its own way. Deadlines pile up, expectations weigh heavy, and sometimes both teachers and students feel like we have nothing left in the tank. And yet, what if the true measure of success in our classrooms isn’t simply about who gets the best grades or who has the most talent, but about who continues to care for the people around them—even when it’s hard? 

For us as teachers, that means modeling selflessness. It’s easy to encourage and support when everything’s going smoothly. The real test is when we’re tired, when we’re stretched thin, and when patience is running low. Choosing to see our students, to encourage them, and to put their growth above our own exhaustion—that’s when we truly model what it means to “look out for each other.” Our students learn just as much from how we respond in those moments as they do from the content we teach. 

For students, the lesson is just as powerful. The ones who thrive are often not the smartest in the room, but the ones who make others feel seen and supported. Helping a classmate before a test, sitting with someone who feels left out, or offering encouragement when everyone else is tired—these are the things that build a community of trust. Just like the SEALs, students discover that they don’t succeed alone; they succeed together. 

At the end of the day, the Navy SEALs remind us that true strength is measured not in personal achievement, but in how we care for others when it’s hardest. Imagine a classroom where that was our culture—where teachers and students alike leaned on each other and lifted each other up in moments of exhaustion. That’s the kind of environment that doesn’t just prepare young people for tests, but prepares them for life. 

Building a Classroom for Lasting Purpose and Relationships

 

In Season of Life, Joe Ehrmann shows how the Gilman coaches use football as more than just a sport—it becomes a vehicle for shaping young men into people of empathy. My last blog talked about this book, and as a follow up I would like to share how this might look in a classroom. 

At the heart of a meaningful classroom is relationships. Grades, tests, and assignments matter, but what often leaves the deepest mark are the connections formed between students and teachers. When students feel seen, heard, and respected, they are more willing to take risks, share ideas, and grow. As teachers, we must model empathy by listening closely, valuing each student’s story, and affirming that every voice has worth. As students, we can encourage each other, celebrate differences, and remember that learning is never a solo journey. 

Another essential piece is purpose. Just as the Gilman football program emphasized playing for something larger than yourself, classrooms can cultivate a purpose that reaches beyond the walls of the school. When lessons tie into real-world challenges—whether through community service, collaborative projects, or simply reflecting on how knowledge can serve others—students begin to see that learning is not just about “me,” but about “we.” This shift from self-centered achievement to world-centered contribution builds character alongside intellect. 

Equally important is the commitment to never shame. Mistakes are a natural part of both sports and academics and shaming only silences growth. Instead, classrooms can be places of encouragement, where errors are seen as steppingstones and where everyone is given the dignity of second chances. Teachers who frame mistakes as opportunities—and students who treat one another with patience and kindness—create a culture of safety where true learning flourishes. 

The classroom should be a place where each person helps make the other better. That does not mean competing to be the best but rather striving to bring out the best in one another. When empathy, purpose, and encouragement define our daily interactions, classrooms become more than spaces for lessons—they become communities of character. And just like the Gilman football program, they prepare young people to step into the world ready not only to succeed, but to be effective. 

The challenge is for teachers, parents, and students to work together to make the world a better place in the future.