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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.

Big animals seem to get all the attention. Lions, elephants, and bears have countless books and movies dedicated to them. Don’t even get me started about whales. I’m much more interested in the small creatures of our world. Have you ever watched a slug make its slimy way across a rock, or had an aphid land on your sleeve? Is there anything cuter than a chipmunk? More fascinating than a praying mantis?

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.

There’s a bus stop on my front lawn. I think about this often — how in suburbia, neighbors might post “keep off the grass” signs, but here in my small city, the neighborhood literally comes to me. It’s just one of countless small, cool things I’ve found in semi-urban living that I’ve been reflecting on lately.

My mental health toolkit includes meditation, journaling, a bit of exercise, and — every day, almost without fail — about 45 minutes with a brutally difficult card-based video game called Slay the Spire. What started as a pandemic coping mechanism has evolved into an essential ritual that’s now woven into the fabric of my life.

Lately, I’ve been noticing how much emotional stress technology places on people across all demographics. Technology increasingly shifts burdens onto users by design, creating anxiety and exclusion—particularly for those less comfortable navigating digital spaces, and I believe that it’s time to recognize and reverse this trend.

Is it naive to have hope right now? Is it just the daffodils and forsythias, explosions of yellow and green that seemed to appear overnight, tricking me into thinking things will eventually get better? Are warm breezes carrying the scent of an awakening earth leading me astray? I don’t know. It’s important to recognize hard times and be realistic about the world as it is, but I also find myself, again and again, coming across things that give me hope.

“It’s because you’re a generalist.” When my friend made this observation about my success with AI, I stopped for a beat. I was sharing my excitement about all the ways AI was transforming my work and creative processes, but I hadn’t connected it to this fundamental aspect of who I am.

I’m preparing to teach a unit on AI literacy to a group of high schoolers next month, and it’s clear that we need to spend some of that time discussing the ethics of using Large Language Models (LLMs) like ChatGPT. I’m still working through this stuff myself, particularly because students are sharing their own opinions about it and getting me thinking, so I thought I would take this opportunity to carefully consider the ethics of this type of AI, both as a teacher and as someone who uses LLMs regularly.

Everybody’s seeing bald eagles this winter, it seems, but me. We have a bobcat at school (promptly named “Bob”) that’s exploring campus a bit too much for its own good. Hawks circle the skies above our house, and herons wade in the pond up the street. When I was a kid in the ’70s and ’80s, we didn’t see wildlife like this.