Learning and Education

I have a wonderful new group of eighth graders in my Tech Projects class, and they’ve been hard at work brainstorming ideas, narrowing them down, doing research, and finally picking their best one. At that point, I have them create a project proposal that asks them to step back and think about various aspects of their idea, even though they want to dive in immediately. This isn’t easy, and it doesn’t come naturally.

Last week, I got an email from an ed tech company inviting me to a conference that included speakers, a fancy dinner, and ways to explore their products in detail. I get these all the time. I usually don’t click through, but I did in this case and looked at the product. It was an AI-powered graphic organizer for students that had plenty of other things clamped onto it, nothing special.

I keep reading about how difficult the landscape looks right now for people trying to build a career in information technology, and it leaves me sitting with two feelings at once: grateful for the path I got to walk, and a little heartsick for the people just starting theirs, because that path isn’t available anymore. It’s left me with a question: if someone stood at the very beginning of this journey, still deciding whether IT was worth pursuing, would I actually tell them to go for it?

Something shifted for me recently. This week, for the first time, I could actually see myself walking away from the flagship corporate AI products. Not from AI itself — from the companies.

I’m getting nervous about my new web development class now that it’s just a few weeks away. It’s my first time teaching older students — tenth, eleventh, and twelfth graders — for a full semester, and I’m doing it alone. Last year I dipped my toes in with a smaller group, learned some things, and made some mistakes. But this is different.

Last year, my students were hitting usage limits on free ChatGPT accounts mid-conversation. I was working hard on prompts to help them use AI as a thought partner rather than a shortcut or search engine, but I kept running into limitations.

Over the past several months my relationship with AI tools has shifted, and I think it’s a good time for an update.

I found myself facing a familiar challenge recently: I need to be more thoughtful about my sugar consumption. Like many people trying to maintain good health, I’m always looking for sustainable ways to make better choices without turning my life upside down. When some recent testing suggested my blood sugar levels were creeping higher than ideal, I knew I needed to make some changes.

When a colleague teaching an intro to technology course approached me about her students’ interest in learning about AI and asked if I could teach it, I was excited. I developed a five-session unit centered around business development with an AI co-founder. What I discovered surprised me, and has implications for how we might think about preparing students for an AI-integrated future.

We tend to see failure as an endpoint: a closed door, a dead end, a signal to turn around and try something else. For much of my life, that’s exactly how I viewed it too. A failure meant I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, or disciplined enough. It was a judgment, not just on what I did, but on who I was.

Over time, however, I’ve discovered something unexpected. Failure has often been my most reliable compass, pointing me toward paths I might never have discovered otherwise — paths that felt more like me and brought real joy into my life.

Every time I show other teachers how I’m using AI in my classroom, I can see anxiety flash across some faces. It usually happens right after they witness an AI-facilitated student conversation that shows surprising depth, personalization, and responsiveness. Sometimes they come right out and say it: “If AI can do this, what’s left for me?”

Every teacher has to figure out who they are and how they best interact with students. For me, looking back after 23 years in the classroom, that journey quickly led to a realization: young people get a lot of empty praise. When everything is celebrated at the highest level, genuine feedback becomes meaningless or expected. That approach simply doesn’t work for me in terms of both personality and educational philosophy, and I don’t think it works for my students, either.