You Probably Already Know What You Should Do. Maybe You Just Need a Place to Start.

We give people some incredibly useless advice.

Get organized.

Speak up for yourself.

Take better care of yourself.

Set boundaries.

Participate more.

Be confident.

Ask for help.

Find a hobby.

Okay.

How?

I have spent most of my career in education, which means I have spent a lot of time around goals, feedback, evaluations, interventions, and people telling other people how they could improve.

One of my least favorite experiences was learning that, on most teacher evaluation systems, a 4 out of 4 is essentially treated as this mythical level of perfection you should not actually expect to reach.

I remember being told some version of:

“No one is perfect. You shouldn't expect to get all fours.”

Excuse me?

I am a recovering perfectionist who has been handed a rubric.

You have shown me the highest possible score.

You have defined the criteria.

And now you're telling me I'm not actually supposed to reach it?

How exactly is this meant to motivate me?

I know the intended message was probably about growth.

What I heard was:

Here is the goal. You cannot have it. Keep trying.

Cool.

Very helpful.

I think about that experience a lot because we do versions of this to people constantly.

We tell them where they should be.

We tell them what they should do.

We tell them what success looks like.

And then we dramatically underestimate how hard it can be to identify the first actual step.

Knowing Is Not the Same as Starting

I think most people already know more than we give them credit for.

The teacher knows she should take care of herself.

The student with 37 missing assignments is probably aware that having 37 missing assignments is not ideal.

The person who has been saying “I should start journaling” for six months knows they want to reflect.

The student sitting silently in an IEP meeting may know they should speak up.

The overwhelmed person staring at a disaster of papers knows they need to get organized.

Knowing is not always the problem.

Sometimes the problem is:

Where do I start?

What do I say?

Which thing do I do first?

How do I know what I need?

What if I do it wrong?

What if I start and can't keep going?

What if this is too much?

I know this feeling because I see it in my students constantly.

I also know it because I am completely capable of becoming overwhelmed by a task I genuinely want to complete.

This is why I own a Pomodoro timer.

Not an app.

An actual physical timer.

I know I need to work.

I want to work.

I frequently have approximately 14 things I am excited to work on.

And sometimes my brain responds to this abundance of possibility by doing absolutely none of them.

So I set the timer.

Work.

Stop.

Check in.

Start again.

Apparently, I need accommodations from myself.

I Have Literally Cut Assignments Into Pieces

I have used a guillotine paper cutter to chop worksheets into sections.

Not metaphorically.

I physically cut the paper.

I have had students who look at an entire worksheet and immediately shut down.

Too much.

Nope.

Bathroom.

Head down.

Sudden urgent need to reorganize a pencil pouch they have not cared about for six months.

So I cut the assignment into pieces.

Then I give the student one.

Level one.

Finish it.

Come check in.

Here's level two.

Sometimes I turn it into a whole thing.

Congratulations.

You have unlocked the next level of the worksheet.

Is it still the exact same assignment?

Yes.

Did I just create additional work for myself with office equipment?

Also yes.

But the student starts.

That matters.

The student did not suddenly become more motivated.

I made the entrance visible.

And the slightly embarrassing thing is that the longer I teach, the more I realize I need versions of the exact same strategies I give my students.

Break it down.

Use a timer.

Make a list.

Identify the first step.

Check in.

Adjust.

Try again.

Maybe the things that help people are not always incredibly complicated.

Maybe they just need to be specific enough to use.

We Keep Giving Advice Without Giving People the Tools

“Advocate for yourself.”

What words should I use?

“Participate in class.”

How do I enter a conversation when four people are already talking?

“Get organized.”

Do I need folders? A binder? Where do these 63 papers currently in my backpack go?

“Understand your accommodations.”

I am 15 and six adults have been using the phrase “preferential seating” around me for four years. What does that actually mean for my life?

“Take care of yourself.”

When?

How?

What do I actually need?

“Reflect.”

On what?

This is the problem I keep coming back to.

We assume people are missing desire when sometimes they are missing language.

Or structure.

Or confidence.

Or access.

Or permission.

Or a first step small enough that their brain doesn't immediately decide to go reorganize the spice cabinet instead.

I don't think people always need more advice.

Sometimes they need the advice translated into something they can actually do.

This Is Apparently Why I Keep Making Things

It took me a long time to understand why my work looked so disconnected.

Educator resources.

Student tools.

Journals.

Art.

Creative experiences.

But when I look at the things I have made, almost all of them started at the same kind of moment.

Someone knows something isn't working but doesn't know what to do next.

I made my Organization and Executive Functioning tools because I kept seeing students treated like they didn't care when they were overwhelmed by invisible skills no one had explicitly taught them.

We tell students to manage their time, prioritize assignments, organize materials, and start tasks.

Then sometimes we get irritated when they cannot do those things.

So I started breaking the skills down.

Take the papers out.

Make piles.

Get rid of what you don't need.

Choose a system.

Try it.

Reflect.

Adjust.

Start here.

I made my Self-Advocacy and Accommodation tools because I kept watching students be told to “speak up” without being given the language to explain what they needed.

So I made sentence starters.

Reflection questions.

Ways to identify what actually helps.

Start here.

I made my Student-Led IEP resources because I watched students sit in rooms while adults discussed their goals, services, accommodations, and futures.

Then we wondered why they didn't feel ownership over their education.

Maybe they don't need to lead the entire meeting tomorrow.

Maybe they need to understand what IEP stands for.

Maybe they need to identify one accommodation.

Maybe they need to introduce themselves.

Maybe they need six different levels of participation so they can enter their own education somewhere that feels possible.

Start here.

I made my journals because I was the person who needed help.

I knew I didn't feel like myself.

I knew something needed to change.

I did not need another person to tell me to “focus on my mental health.”

I needed better questions.

What am I holding onto?

Where do I feel disconnected?

What do I need to let go of?

What would clarity look like?

Where have I stopped showing myself compassion?

I journaled my way through those questions.

Eventually, I realized someone else might need them too.

Start here.

And I create art experiences because I keep meeting people who say:

“I'm not creative.”

Okay.

Sit down.

Here are the materials.

Nobody is grading you.

Make something.

Start here.

Apparently, I have built a significant portion of my life around finding different ways to say the same thing.

You don't have to know the whole way forward. We can find an entrance.