"Delete it all and start over."

In college, I overworked myself. I discovered pretty early on in college that I have this innate desire to best my own standard of perfection in everything I do. Not only that, but I had to do it better than anyone else trying the same thing.

Only recently, a coworker and friend described this desire as: "You just want the biggest and brightest gold star, don't you?"

While I was offended at the simplistic summation of my entire character, it annoyingly fits. I choose to be proud of that.

Early on in college, I was presented with an opportunity to join the Honors program. There's a gold star, for sure. A professor that I had at the time said it would be a good fit for me--after I had a long discussion with her about the opportunity.

My first year in this program was the first time I had experience the issue with this gold-star desire of mine. Though, at the time, I didn't have a name for it. I just wanted to make college worth it. Or something.

In my sophomore year of college, I was taking 18 credits. I could bore you with the details of what those classes were, but I won't bother. On top of those 18 credits was this pressing Honors Thesis that I was supposed to be developing and researching and creating. It wasn't due for a year, but this gold-star mindset wouldn't let me slip.

In my sophomore year of college, I had my first panic attack. I was in my single dorm room, writing down my weekly to-dos on my white board as I did every Sunday night.

I had spent the entire day alone--one of those weekends that I literally didn't talk to another human. Something I enjoyed, but something that hurt sometimes.

I would wake up, feed myself off the stash of peanut butter and granola bars I kept underneath my growing stack of books on my bookshelf. I wouldn't want to go to the dining hall and get a to-go container of food--worrying that people were starting to see me getting those more often than is sane.

I stayed in all weekend--not leaving my tiny dorm room. I didn't have to nor did I have a reason to.

Anyway, that Sunday night, writing down my list of things suddenly became overwhelming. I looked at this list of things encompassing my entire whiteboard I had to accomplish that week in order to stay where I want to stay--in order to reach my standard.

I started freaking out.

Pacing.

Then I couldn't breathe.

I'll spare you the rest of the details.

Flash forward to a year from then. I was meeting with my Honors Mentor about the Thesis I had been working on, panic-stricken for a year, wanting to turn it in and be on my to creating something above every bar ever set.

I had sent him my ideas and my initial draft prior to the meeting.

We talked about some things that I now find irrelevant.

Irrelevant because, at this meeting, he told me this simple fact about my project, my writing, my work over the past year: “delete it all, start over. It will help you get to the core of what you really want to say. Because this isn't it."

Later that night, I had another panic attack--an event in my life I had now grown accustomed to.

Now, I know you opened this blog to read about teaching advice or writing advice or the ramblings of someone who thinks he has something cool to say or some other fourth reason and not about the discovery of my personal anxiety.

But, I needed to set the stage for the reason my current advice for writing and for teachers: deleting everything and starting over.

In the moment, this advice crushed me.

Now, I see what this professor was trying to get at: the core of creation lies in saying and creating what you truly need to say.

That is something vulnerable.

That is something intimate.

That is something unattainable in a first draft of anything.

I didn't do that, and he was right.

I think teaching is full of gold-star people. People like me who want to be the very best (that no one ever was...).

People who need to feel superior, advanced, better off.

People who simply need the biggest, brightest gold star.

And why wouldn't we be? We want the very best for our students, so we have to expect the very best from ourselves.

But, that takes time. Getting the biggest, brightest gold star takes time.

What's that something teachers don't have a lot of?

Time.

And that's why this advice from my professor crushed me.

"I don't have time to start over!"

"I don't even know where to start again!"

"Do you know how much time I spent on this?"

"I'd like to see you do this!"

"I wish I could start over, but I can't."

"How do I even do that without doing the same thing again?"

"How do you know it will be better?"

I have simplified this advice for teachers: take a minute, start again.

Why did you start?

Where did you start?

What would you do differently?

In a moment of weakness, in a moment of overwhelming expectations, in a moment where your purpose is disconnected, in a moment when the kids are, well, "just being kids" a little too much, delete everything and start again.

Get to the core of what you want to do.

We get too bogged down with things that take us away from our core in teaching.

It's incredibly counter-productive.

I have simplified this advice for students: slow down.

In writing--in all work--students are rushed to be final, professional, perfect in what they say and complete.

"Write your rough draft."

"Your final is due tomorrow."

"Now we're writing another paper."

"Plan. Draft. Revise. Edit. Final."

"Finish the final for homework, we're starting a new ___________ tomorrow."

The speed at which we ask students to share their thoughts is truly astounding. I'm guilty of it, too--even as recent as last week.

Even as a writing teacher, I know that writing takes time. Yet, we push forward toward whatever standard we are hoping to achieve.

What ever happened to taking a day--to sit with your ideas, to marinate in your thoughts, to let the learning sink in?

Imagine a space, a classroom, where students could try again without consequence.

Imagine a space, a classroom, where students have the opportunity to work on something and have the chance to entirely re-see it.

Imagine how easy this is: give them more time to write a paragraph, don't rush through curriculum, let it sink in, give them more time than you think you have, allow them to completely re-do work, take the time to talk to them about their learning, let them talk to each other.

Delete the expectations, standards, professionals telling you otherwise and start over.

Students work too fast to even truly move forward with any learning they do hold onto to.

I mean, quicksand envelops you the faster you move, right?

Why do we want all of our students to be neck-high in quicksand?

I'm sure that's how they feel sometimes... because, well, WE feel like that more often than sometimes.

As I sit here planning for next week, I feel behind. I feel that the other class is ahead, and I have to move faster to get the same things done.

I had my plans written--the ones that would rush us through our work, get us to where we "needed" to be, move us along toward the end of the unit, that would allow us to start a few new pieces of the unit this week.

Then I deleted them.

I started over.

Sure, it's way more work for me. That's why it's seven on a Sunday night, and I'm sitting in my classroom. (Clearly, the gold-star mentality within me is alive and well, but the panic attacks have somewhat subsided... )

But, I got to the core of what I wanted from my students this week; I got to the core of wanted from my teaching.

I'm slowing down. For me, for my students.

Regardless, I think there is value in starting over, in re-seeing, in revisiting, in being vulnerable with what really needs to happen, in being vulnerable with our true ideas and expectations.

Delete it all and start over.

Don't let the gold-star mindset lead you into another, far-too-common, teacher panic attack.

Those, too, are incredibly counter-productive.

This is not an easy thing to do: delete everything you have worked on and start over.

It's hard, and I think that's point.

It forces us to become closer to saying and doing what matters. And, oftentimes, we hold the things that matters too closely.

And we shouldn't. And we shouldn't teach students to keep the things that matter too-tightly held.

I don't know how to do this, really. I pretend that I do. Really these are just the thoughts of someone hoping to make a ripple of change.

With that, I don't know what I am encouraging here.

I think I'm encouraging a try at it.

I think I'm encouraging you to encourage your students to try it.

After encouraging myself to do it, my thesis was published.