Category: Quick Thoughts

When ChatGPT dropped in November 2022, I jumped in shortly after. I started playing with it, wrote my first post about using it in education by January 2023 (here it is).

A few months later, I was presenting on AI locally and, eventually, across the country—showing teachers how it could actually make their lives easier. Somewhere along the way, I became an AI consultant. I gave about five presentations. After one of them, the head guy pulled me aside and told me I did an excellent job.

Me being me, I asked, “Are you serious or just being nice?”

He said, “I don’t say things I don’t mean. That was excellent.”

That moment stuck with me.

And then… silence.

No more calls. No more opportunities. I reached out—asked if I was fired. They said no. I asked if I needed to fix anything. They said no. I asked for feedback. Nothing.

Same story with job interviews. Get the call. Get told, “We went in another direction.” I ask for feedback, and get told, “You were great, but someone else rose to the top.” I get told, “The other candidate stood out.” No feedback. No real explanation.

And honestly?

It’s ridiculous.

We work in education. We preach feedback. We tell kids and teachers it’s the key to getting better. We build entire evaluation systems around it.

But when it comes time to give real feedback to each other? Crickets. Excuses. Vague compliments and generic rejections.

It’s cowardly. It’s bullshit. And it’s hypocritical.

We owe people better than that.

Especially if we actually believe half the stuff we say about growth, learning, and improvement.

In a recent interview, I was told:
“Your pedagogical knowledge is impressive. I haven’t seen anything like it. But we hire people who can build relationships.”

The comment came from nowhere. I was taken back. The interview wasn’t even over. I didn’t even have time to respond. But since then, I’ve been sitting with it—annoyed, frustrated, and a little fired up.

Because here’s the truth: pedagogy and relationships are not exclusive. They work together.

You want to build relationships with students?
Start with someone who knows what the hell they’re doing when the bell rings.

Someone who knows how to make the content accessible.
Someone who knows how to design lessons that let kids shine.
Someone who knows how to lower stress and raise expectations—at the same time.

I don’t need chaos to connect with kids. I need consistency.
And consistent, thoughtful lesson design frees my brain to actually be present.
To notice who’s having a bad day.
To check in.
To make space.

So yeah, I took that comment personally.
Because this job demands both.

When I was putting together my “Turning Whatever Into Wow” presentation, I kept coming back to one truth: don’t let AI create your lesson. Use it to support your thinking, not replace it.

You are the human in the loop. You know your students. You know your standards. You know what they need to know and be able to do by the end of a lesson.

That’s how every lesson should start—with the end in mind. What skill are we building? What misconception are we clearing up? What connection are we hoping they make? Once I know that, then I bring AI into the process—not to do the work for me, but to help sharpen the work I’m already doing.

AI is powerful, but your thinking still drives everything.

Teachers are often put in situations where we’re expected to react quickly. And let’s be honest—most of us are pretty reactionary by nature. We think we know how we’d handle a situation, and sometimes we even rehearse those responses in our heads. But when the moment actually happens? It’s never exactly like you imagined.

Today I was thinking about a student I had who wore a camping bracelet. I didn’t think much of it until I saw him sparking it—yes, like actual sparks. Turns out, it had flint and a small knife hidden in it. In my head, I could hear the imagined reactions of others: panic, write-ups, sending him out immediately, maybe even calling security.

But instead, I just stood there, and took it in. A few minutes later, I walked back and asked him calmly to tell me what it was. As he explained, I texted the right people behind the scenes. Admin came down, had a quiet conversation, and that was that. The student left. No spectacle. No scene. I never saw him again.

That moment stuck with me. Because yeah, I could’ve reacted. But I didn’t need to. Not every situation requires a high-stakes response. Sometimes it’s not about how you want to react—it’s about how you need to respond. There’s a difference.

This isn’t about being passive. It’s about being thoughtful. Teaching is hard, and every kid, every situation, every choice is different. We don’t always have to meet intensity with intensity. Sometimes the best thing you can do is pause, listen, and make your move quietly.

This year has been tough. New school. New curriculum. A constant balancing act between using what I know works and keeping people happy. My students this year are mostly on IEPs or not on track to pass the state ELA test. I’ve spent so much time worrying about whether they’ll pass that I lost sight of something more important—growth.

That should have been my focus all along.

I only realized this thanks to my friend Corbin Moore. It hit me that I’ve been measuring success by the wrong metric. Sure, scores matter, but the real victory is in progress—the moments when students engage, when they connect with history, when they improve, even just a little.

I’m refocusing. Instead of stressing over test results, I’m leaning into what I know works: structured, meaningful learning experiences that meet students where they are and push them forward. If they grow, if they leave my class better than they came in, that’s the win. That’s what matters.

Why do people think rigor only comes from weirdly worded questions with hard vocabulary? Or that multiple pages of reading automatically equate to a challenging learning experience?

Rigor isn’t just about making things hard—it’s about making learning meaningful.

I’ve seen a one-page reading with well-designed tasks lead to deeper thinking than a five-page article with a set of dry comprehension questions. The secret? The tasks we ask students to do with the content.

Instead of throwing long passages at students and calling it rigorous, we should be designing engaging, thought-provoking activities that push them to think critically and apply what they’ve learned. Here are a few ways to shift the focus:

• 3xPOV or 3xGenre – Instead of just summarizing, have students rewrite the same historical event from three different perspectives or in three different genres (e.g., news article, journal entry, poem). This forces them to deeply engage with the content and consider different viewpoints.
• Thick Slides – Give students a small piece of reading and have them generate key takeaways, add two images to represent the ideas, and correct a common misconception about the topic. This helps them move beyond surface-level understanding.
• Sketch & Tell-O – Rather than just answering a comprehension question, students sketch a concept, label key elements, and write a brief explanation. This encourages deeper processing and makes abstract ideas more concrete.

It’s not about how much they read or how difficult the vocabulary is—it’s about what they do with the information. If we truly want rigor, we have to focus less on making learning harder and more on making it better.

Sometimes, I get so caught up in trying to create the best learning experience possible that I hit a wall. My brain just shuts down, or I avoid the process altogether because the thought of planning one more lesson feels like too much.

But today, I had a thought.

I often turn on CBS Sunday Morning or scroll through random YouTube videos, not because I have to, but because I genuinely enjoy learning. Some topics pull me in, while others? Not so much. And that’s okay.

It reminded me that learning experiences don’t always have to be grand. Not every lesson needs to be a game-changer. Not every student will be interested in every topic. And that’s normal.

What matters is that we create opportunities for curiosity—moments where students can choose to engage, explore, and connect with ideas. Some days, it might be an elaborate activity. Other days, it might just be introducing a thought, a question, or a story and letting it sit.

Big or small, learning still happens.