How do I get off the treadmill

 

Every once in a while, someone says something that takes you back in time. We recently had a guest speaker whose message triggered a memory of a former student and a conversation we had many years ago. She had just been accepted into her dream school, an Ivy League university, when she asked if she could talk to me after class. When she came back that afternoon, she told me something I wasn't expecting she had hated school for as long as she could remember. Her parents had always told her that good grades would get her into a great college, and that a great college would lead to success. So, she worked incredibly hard, sacrificing years of her life to reach that goal.

She described how tears of joy rolled down her cheeks when she received her acceptance letter. All that hard work had finally paid off! But the next morning, the excitement was gone. She suddenly realized that college was going to be more of the same. She would need good grades to get into graduate school or land a high-paying job. The finish line had simply moved. As she sat across from me, I could see the sadness in her eyes when she asked, "How do you get off the treadmill?"

I paused because this certainly wasn't the conversation I expected to have. My response was that she needed to change her mind set about college. Instead of viewing it as another steppingstone to the next achievement, she should use it as an opportunity to discover what she genuinely enjoyed. Take courses that spark your curiosity. Explore subjects that interest you. Cultivate a passion or discover that something isn't for you. That's what education should be about. College should be a place to explore possibilities and discover who you are, not simply another four years of chasing grades and credentials.

We also talked about the difference between working hard because you enjoy what you do and working hard because you are chasing some future reward. There are plenty of successful people who work incredibly hard, but they find meaning and satisfaction in their work.  We have become so obsessed with preparing for tomorrow that we have forgotten to help them enjoy today.

Over the years, this former student returned to visit, and I noticed a remarkable change. Her body language was different. She was more relaxed, smiled more often, and seemed to genuinely enjoy life. I don't know that one conversation changed everything, but I do believe she began to understand that life wasn't about constantly reaching for the next rung on the ladder. It was about finding something meaningful along the way. There is nothing wrong with ambition, good grades, prestigious universities, or financial success. But none of those things guarantee happiness. We need to do a better job of helping students discover what makes them curious, what excites them, and what gives their lives meaning.

The challenge should be to figure out why you're on the treadmill in the first place. Find something, you are passionate about, something that makes you want to get up in the morning, something that gives your work meaning. When you find that, you may discover that you don't need to figure out how to get off the treadmill. You aren't on it anymore.

Civil Discourse

 

The other night, I had the opportunity to hear former Governor Larry Hogan speak abou civil public discourse. He talked about growing up with a father in politics and how people could have passionate disagreements, argue their positions, and then sit down and have dinner together. When politicians came to his house, you couldn’t tell the Republicans from the Democrats because they were friends. Imagine that. People who disagreed about how to run the country could still break bread together without treating each other like they were responsible for the decline of the country.

It got me thinking about a conversation I recently had with someone I greatly respect, even though we hold opposing political views. Somewhere in the middle of our discussion, we discovered something remarkable. We wanted the same things. We wanted our kids to receive a good education. We wanted them to attend school in a safe environment, have safe places to play, find jobs they enjoyed, and earn enough money to support a family. You know, the basic stuff that most of us want for the people we love. We weren't arguing about whether our children deserved these things. We were arguing about how to make them happen.

 After thirty years in the classroom, I have some pretty strong opinions about education. I've seen things work, watched other things fail, and probably muttered "Who thought this was a good idea?" more times than I care to admit. But here's the uncomfortable question I've been trying to ask myself: How much of what I believe is based on what I know, and how much is based on the path I've taken? What if I had been raised in a different household, in a different community, with different experiences? What if, instead of spending thirty years as a teacher, I had spent those years as a school administrator? Would I see the same problems differently? Would the decisions that frustrate me from the classroom look different when I was responsible for an entire building, a budget, hundreds of employees, and thousands of competing needs? I don't have to agree with every decision someone makes to recognize that I might not fully understand the circumstances that led them to make it.

And what about today's students? What if I were going to school right now, growing up in a world where artificial intelligence can write an essay, explain a complicated concept, generate an image, and answer questions before I have finished figuring out what the questions should be? Would I think about learning the same way? Would I approach homework, research, writing, or even the purpose of school differently? It's easy for those of us who grew up in a different era to look at these changes and immediately decide what is right and wrong. It's harder to put ourselves in the shoes of a student who has never known a world without smartphones, social media, and now AI. That doesn't mean we abandon standards, common sense, or everything we know about good teaching. It means we recognize that the world our students are preparing to enter is different from the one we entered. If education is supposed to prepare young people for the future, shouldn't we be willing to reconsider some of our assumptions about that future?

Which brings me to something I'm trying to change about the way I approach a disagreement. For a long time, if I'm being honest, I probably entered a debate with the goal of making my point, defending my position, and, if possible, proving tLhe other person wrong.  I'm beginning to think that my primary goal when debating someone shouldn't be to win the argument. It should be listening to hear something I've never considered before.  

The challenge for all of us is to imagine we grew up with different views.  How would that change the way we would solve the problem?  We need to remember that the other person loves the community, the school and the country as much as we do.  Let us listen to learn and be able to finish the discussion better friends than when we started.

 

As always your feedback is appreciated.

Pebbles anyone?

 

Hearing Angela Duckworth and Adam Grant speak so closely together has my mind spinning. Sometimes you hear a speaker, take a few notes, and move on with your day. Other times, an idea sticks with you and starts connecting to things you see in your own life, your work, and the people around you. Recently, a group of us had the opportunity to hear Adam Grant speak, and I left thinking about two ideas in particular: pebbling and the idea of creating a user guide for ourselves. The more I think about them, the more I wonder how much better we could be at connecting with one another if we spent a little more time understanding what makes each of us tick.

Grant talked about pebbling; a behavior associated with penguins who offer pebbles as part of their courtship and bonding. Think about that for a moment. A penguin finds a pebble and offers it to another penguin as a way of building a connection. Humans do something similar, although most of us aren't walking around with pockets full of rocks. Instead, we send an article, share a podcast, forward a funny video, or pass along a link that reminds us of someone. We see something and think, "I know who would appreciate this." Sometimes we don't even need to add a message. The act of sharing says it for us: I was thinking about you. I know what you enjoy. I thought you might like this. I love the simplicity of that idea. In a world where we are constantly communicating, a small gesture that shows we actually know someone can mean a lot. Maybe the question we should ask ourselves is not how many people we communicate with, but how often we make someone feel seen.

The second idea that stuck with me was the concept of a personal user guide. We have user guides for our phones, cars, appliances, and just about everything else we own. When something doesn't work the way we expect, we look for the instructions. But what if we had a user guide for ourselves? What if the people we work with, teach alongside, live with, and care about understanding what pushes our buttons, what motivates us, and what helps us become better? I know a few things that would make it into mine. One trigger is seeing a gambling advertisement that ends with "Gamble responsibly." Somehow, that phrase feels like a convenient way to transfer all the responsibility to the person who is gambling. Another trigger happens when teachers read students' answers aloud and mock them for getting something wrong. I find myself wondering why our first response is sometimes, "How could they possibly answer that way?" rather than, "What do I need to do to help them understand this differently?" Those two questions lead us down very different paths. One invites judgment. The other invites curiosity, reflection, and better teaching.

Of course, a user guide shouldn't just be a list of things that annoy us. It should also help people understand what brings out our best. One of my favorite things is receiving thoughtful feedback from someone who genuinely wants to help me grow. Not criticism for the sake of criticism, and not praise that avoids the hard conversations, but feedback that makes me stop, think, and consider another way of doing something. Another favorite activity is going to dinner with a group of teachers and exchanging ideas about how we can make each other better. Those conversations are rarely about having all the answers. They are about being willing to ask questions, share experiences, challenge assumptions, and leave the table with something new to try. There is something powerful about surrounding yourself with people who care enough to help you improve and trust you enough to let you do the same for them. Maybe that belongs right at the top of my user guide: I appreciate people who challenge my thinking, share what they know, and help me see possibilities I might have missed.

Listening to Angela Duckworth and Adam Grant so close together has reminded me that growth isn't just about working harder or knowing more. It is also about understanding ourselves, staying curious about others, and being intentional about the connections we build. Perhaps pebbling is one small way to strengthen those connections, while a personal user guide is a way to make those relationships more meaningful. Imagine what our schools might look like if we spent less time judging people's reactions and more time understanding them. Imagine if we shared ideas because we knew someone would appreciate them, offered feedback because we wanted someone to grow, and approached mistakes with curiosity instead of ridicule. We may not be able to write a perfect user guide for ourselves, but we can start by helping others understand us a little better—and by making the effort to understand them, too. So, what would be in your user guide? And who could use a pebble from you today?

Trust in built in seconds

 

Trust Is Built in the Small Moments

I remember the day like it was yesterday. I had taught eight periods in a row and then stayed after school for a review session. When the review was finally over, I sat down in my chair and realized just how exhausted I was. I had barely begun to relax when Jasmine came over and asked, “Could we go over my FRQ?” My first response was, “Jasmine, I am exhausted. Can we do this tomorrow?” She said yes, but her eyes told me a different story. There was something behind that “yes” that told me she really needed help. So, I looked at her and said, “Come over here. Let’s look at this FRQ.” I was tired, but I knew that moment mattered.

John Gottman describes moments like these as “sliding glass door” moments—small, seemingly ordinary choices when we can turn toward someone or turn away. In those moments, we are either building trust or slowly chipping away at it. We often think trust is built through big promises or dramatic acts, but I believe trust is much more ordinary than that. It happens in conversations, in follow-through, in whether we listen when someone needs us, and in what we choose to do when no one is watching. Jasmine probably did not know it at the time, but that moment was bigger than an FRQ. It was an opportunity for me to show her that she could count on me.

When I previously blogged about generous assumptions, someone asked an important question: “Do you need trust?” The answer is yes. Generous assumptions and trust are deeply connected. It is difficult to give someone the benefit of doubt when we have no foundation of trust. Trust allows us to believe that people generally have good intentions, that they will communicate honestly, and that when something goes wrong, they will take responsibility. But trust does not appear magically. It has to be earned, and according to Brené Brown, there are several behaviors that help us build it.

The first is doing what you say you are going to do. One of the tenets of my former job was “under-promise and over-deliver.” There is wisdom in that idea. When we make promises, people form expectations around them. If we consistently say one thing and do another, trust begins to disappear. But when our words and our actions match, people learn that they can rely on us. It does not mean that we will never make a mistake or have to change plans. It means that our word has meaning. Trust grows when people can look at our actions and say, “I know I can count on you.”

The second is accountability. We all make mistakes. Every one of us will say the wrong thing, forget something, disappoint someone, or decide something we wish we could take back. Accountability means owning our part rather than looking for someone else to blame. It also means being willing to accept the apologies of others. If we expect people to acknowledge their mistakes, we have to be willing to acknowledge ours as well. The third element is what Brown calls the “vault.” When someone shares something with us in confidence, we protect it. We do not gossip about it, pass it along, or use someone else's vulnerability as conversation. And this matters because if we are constantly sharing other people's secrets, people will naturally wonder, “What makes me think my secrets are safe with you?”

Trust is not built in one grand moment. It is built through hundreds of small choices—the sliding glass door moments when we decide whether to turn toward someone or turn away. Sometimes it means staying a few extra minutes when we are tired because we recognize that someone needs us. Sometimes it means keeping our word, owning our mistakes, or protecting something that someone trusted us to keep private. These moments may seem small to us, but they are often the moments people remember. Jasmine's FRQ was never really about the FRQ. It was about what happened when she needed me, and I had a choice. Trust is built when our actions quietly tell people, “You matter. You are safe with me. You can count on me.”

Nuggets from Angela Duckworth

 

A group of us recently had the opportunity to hear Dr. Angela Duckworth speak about her new book, Situated. I took three pages of notes that night, which is probably a good indication that there was a lot to think about.

Rather than try to capture everything she said, I want to share four ideas that stuck with me.

1. Space Matters

The first lesson was about our surroundings.

Dr. Duckworth shared research showing that students who keep their phones in another room while studying tend to perform better than students who simply keep their phones nearby. The lesson is simple:  the best way to exercise self-control is to remove the temptation altogether.

That idea hit home for me.

I am trying to cut down on snacking, and I have discovered that it is much easier when the snacks are out of sight. If the cookies are sitting on the kitchen counter, I must make a decision every time I walk by. If they are somewhere I can't see them, I don't have to make that decision nearly as often.

We often think getting better is about having more discipline. Sometimes it is simply about creating an environment that makes the right choice easier.

2. Peers Matter

The second lesson was about the people we surround ourselves with.

Our friends, teammates, and classmates influence us more than we probably realize. The people we spend time with shape what we see as normal, acceptable, and expected.

That doesn't mean we need to abandon friends who think differently than we do. But it does mean we should be intentional about who we spend our time with.

Find people who challenge you. Find people who encourage you. Finding people who will help you do the right hard thing when doing the easy thing would be more comfortable.

We become, in part, the people we spend time with.

HELPFUL HINT: -exchange goals with a peer.  Research shows that we would rather let ourselves down than a peer

 

3. Seek Out Mentors

The third lesson was the importance of mentors.

There are people who have walked roads we are just beginning to travel. They have made mistakes, learned lessons, developed expertise, and built relationships that can help us see possibilities we might not see on our own.

But mentorship doesn't always begin with someone offering to be your mentor.

It often begins with curiosity.

Ask thoughtful questions. Listen carefully. Be genuinely interested in what other people have learned. Show up prepared. Follow up. And, most importantly, be willing to learn.

People are generally more willing to invest in someone who is curious, humble, and willing to listen.

INTERESTING FACT: Michael Phelps coach explains that what made Michael great was that he practiced everyday at a 8.  You do not need to be perfect every day but rather be consistently good.

4. Culture Matters

The fourth lesson was about culture, the broader environments in which we live and work and the norms, expectations, and values that determine "how we do things around here."

Culture is powerful because much of it operates beneath the surface.

We don't always stop to think about why we behave in a certain way. We simply observe what everyone else is doing and follow along.

That can work for us or against us.

When we have the opportunity, we should choose environments where the culture reinforces the person we are trying to become. Look for places where hard work is expected, where people support one another, where doing the right thing matters, and where growth is part of the culture.

The Better Question

As I thought about these four ideas—space, peers, mentors, and culture—I kept coming back to one question.

Maybe the challenge isn't simply to ask:

"How can I get better?"

Maybe the better question is:

"With whom, and under what conditions, do I become better?"

Be A Lifeguard

 

A lifeguard’s head is always on a swivel. They are constantly scanning the water, looking for the small signs that might tell them someone is beginning to struggle. A swimmer who was laughing and playing a few minutes ago might suddenly be floating differently, moving more slowly, or looking exhausted. A good lifeguard notices those changes.  The goal is not to wait for someone to be in trouble and then jump into action. The real goal of lifeguarding is prevention—recognizing the warning signs early enough that a dangerous situation never develops.

What if we approached school the same way? What if each of us thought of ourselves as a lifeguard, constantly paying attention to the people around us? In a school, the signs of someone struggling may not be as obvious as someone waving for help at the beach. Maybe it is a student who normally talks to everyone but suddenly becomes quiet. Maybe it is someone sitting by themselves at lunch who usually has a group around them. Maybe a student who is usually energetic seems tired, disconnected, or unusually withdrawn. These small changes can be easy to overlook, but they can also be opportunities for us to notice that someone might need a little extra care.

Being a lifeguard at school does not mean that we must solve everyone’s problems. It means that we are willing to notice, care, and act. Sometimes lifeguarding might mean sitting next to someone who is alone. It might mean asking, “Are you okay?” or “Do you want to talk?” It might mean including someone in a conversation, inviting someone to sit with you, or letting a trusted adult know that you are concerned. Most importantly, it means leading with empathy. Instead of judging someone based on what we see, we pause and wonder what might be happening beneath the surface. Just as a lifeguard watch for signs of trouble before someone goes under, we can watch for the small changes that might tell us someone is beginning to struggle.

I often ask students a simple question: Would our school be better if everyone took the role of the lifeguard? The answer is almost always an immediate yes. Students understand the power of a community where people look out for one another. Imagine walking into school knowing that the people around you are paying attention—not in a way that feels invasive or judgmental, but in a way that says, “You matter here. If you are struggling, someone will notice.” That kind of culture does not happen because of one person or one program. It happens when caring becomes something we all take responsibility for.

The challenge is that lifeguarding requires us to look beyond ourselves. It requires us to slow down enough to notice the person who might otherwise be invisible. It asks us to recognize that the outgoing person can have a difficult day, that the student who always seems happy can still struggle, and that sometimes the person who needs help might even be the person who pushes us away. We do not have to know exactly what someone is going through. We simply must care enough to notice a change and take a small step toward them. A simple conversation or act of kindness may not solve everything, but it can remind someone that they are not alone.

A school where everyone acts like a lifeguard is a school where we look out for each other. We notice. We listen. We include. We care. And when we see someone beginning to struggle, we do not wait until they are completely overwhelmed before we reach out. We throw them a lifeline before they go under. The goal is not to become heroes who rescue people after they are in danger. The goal is to build a community where fewer people reach that point in the first place. So, the challenge for all of us is simple: Be the lifeguard.

Generous assumptions

 

School can be an exhausting place. Teachers are balancing lessons, students, paperwork, meetings, deadlines, and the countless unexpected things that happen during a school day. Administrators are balancing many of those same demands while also making decisions that affect an entire school community.

And yet, it can be surprisingly easy for us to assume the worst about one another.

Teachers may think, “Whatever the administrators do, they are going to get it wrong.” Administrators may look at a struggling teacher and think, “They are just not working hard enough.” Teachers may look at a student who is disengaged and think, “They are lazy.”

What if, instead, we practiced generous assumptions?

A generous assumption does not mean ignoring problems, excusing poor decisions, or pretending everything is okay. It simply means leaving room for the possibility that we don't have the whole story.

Maybe the administrator has information we don't have. Maybe there are constraints we aren't aware of. Maybe a decision that doesn't make sense from our perspective makes more sense when we understand everything that went into it.

That doesn't mean we have to agree. We can question decisions, advocate for ourselves, and have difficult conversations. But we can do those things while assuming that the person on the other side is trying to do their best with the information and circumstances they have.

The same is true for our students.

When a student doesn't complete an assignment, puts their head down in class, comes to school unprepared, or seems completely uninterested, it is easy to label that student as lazy. But we don't know what happened before they walked through the school doors.

Maybe they didn't sleep well. Maybe there are problems at home. Maybe they are struggling academically and are embarrassed to ask for help. Maybe they are overwhelmed, anxious, discouraged, or simply having a terrible day.

We don't have to know exactly what is happening to choose compassion over judgment.

And this applies to teachers, too.

Sometimes administrators see a teacher who isn't meeting expectations and quickly attach a label: lazy, unmotivated, resistant, or unwilling to change. But teachers are people, not robots. Their best effort may look different from day to day. A teacher who seems disengaged may be overwhelmed. A teacher who is resistant to a new initiative may be exhausted from years of initiatives that came and went. A teacher who isn't performing at their usual level may simply be struggling with something we cannot see.

Accountability still matters. Expectations still matter. But so does curiosity.

Instead of asking, “What's wrong with them?” perhaps we can ask, “I wonder what is going on?”

That small shift can change everything.

Generous assumptions also make our schools happier places to work and learn. When we assume positive intent, we are less likely to become defensive. We are more willing to listen. We are more likely to ask questions before making judgments. And when people feel that others are willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, they are often more willing to extend that same grace to others.

That doesn't mean everyone agrees.

It means we choose kindness alongside accountability.

We choose curiosity over assumptions.

Perhaps one of the simplest ways we can improve our schools is to pause before we judge and remind ourselves:

Maybe there is more to the story.

That is the heart of generous assumptions. It doesn't make us naive. It makes us human.

And if we can give one another a little more grace, a little more curiosity, and a little more kindness, we might discover that we can create schools where people feel not only accountable, but understood.

Sometimes, that is exactly what people need to do their best.

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.