I Can't Learn It For You

What My Students Are Telling Me — and What I Need Them to Hear Back

We were out for snow days.
Nine+ school days, a blend of sleet, snow, single-digits, and roads just…disappearing.

No bells. No interruptions. Just me, pots of coffee, and stacks of student work. Tests. Quizzes. Explainers. Free-response answers. Enough time sitting with work that the patterns that can hide during the “rush-to-a-meeting, teach for four and a half hours straight, inhale my lunch, recover and plan for the next day” days stopped being subtle.

After a while, it started to feel a little like The Shining. Snowed in. The same mistakes. The same habits. The same beliefs. All written over and over again, just in different handwriting.

And my dog started talking about those nice twin girls he saw upstairs in the hall.

Regardless of my house being haunted, things crystallized for me: student work doesn’t just show me what students know. It sends me a clear message of what they believe - about learning, about effort, and most importantly, about responsibility.

If you allow me to paraphrase my students’ messaging, a lot of that work said this:

• I sat in class. Words were spoken. We did a problem together. Therefore, I’ve learned.

• If I finish fast, I must be smart.

• I can skip reading or following instructions — my unparalleled genius will be recognized.

• If I write enough words, the answer should count.

• If I’ve always been bad at this, nothing can change - including my handwriting.

• If it’s confusing to me, it’s unfair.

• If I don’t help myself, it’s still not my fault.

• If I paste the question into a chatbot, learning has magically occurred.

Under every one of those beliefs is the same quiet assumption: someone else is responsible for the thinking.

Look, I’m not saying everyone was cheating or bombing quizzes and other assignments. Overall, the grades were decent. But what I’m seeing in the work is an absence, a lack. It’s a pattern of behaviors, habits, and beliefs that will derail these kids hard in the years to come if they’re not corrected.

And that’s where this one comes from.

The earlier essays in this impromptu series were about limits—what I can control, what I can’t, what I refuse to apologize for. They were pieces quietly aimed at me, my colleagues in the job, leadership, the system, and parents. This one is simpler, and harder, and aimed directly at my students, and I figure, a lot of other students as well. The TL;DR version goes something like this:

I can’t learn it for you.

Allow me to roll up my sleeves, skip the inspirational bullshit, and get practical.

Here’s what success actually looks like in my classroom.

Buckle up.

The Non-Negotiables:

Put the phone in the holder.
Every time. Every day. If you’re in my room, your phone is in the holder.

Phones are very good at what they do. They interrupt. They fragment attention. They train your brain to expect a hit of novelty every few seconds. When the phone is on you, part of your mind is listening for it, whether you admit it or not. You’re addicted to your phone, again, whether you admit it or not.

Learning doesn’t survive that shit.

I keep thinking about a quote from Jared Horvath’s The Digital Delusion. It’s a line from the prologue, and it stopped me cold and prevented me from going on for about a week. The line is:

“Our children are less cognitively capable than we were at their age.”

That makes me ill. I hope it does the same for you. But ask your folks if it’s true. Parents are parents. They love you and never want to say things that upset you. But I guarantee that if they say, “No, no…it’s not like that,” their eyes will be darting around a little like people’s do…

…when they’re lying.

When the phone is in the holder, your brain is a little more available. When it isn’t, it’s not. That’s the whole rule.

Show up as a person, not as a body warming a chair.
Eyes open. Mind engaged. At least a genuine attempt to follow what’s happening. I promise you this stuff is interesting if you just follow along and try.

Ask questions early and often.
Confusion isn’t a failure state. Confusion is the sweat of learning. A rite of passage to get to a new place. Your ticket to cross the river. But quiet confusion is how people drown.

If you say nothing, I assume you’re fine. That’s how everyone ends up surprised later.
Yeah - whoops. I agree - I guess you didn’t understand it after all.

Do the work in class.
Not performatively. Not “pretending to start.” Actually do it. Pencil moving. Brain engaged. Trying things that might not work until you find what does.

Do the work outside of class.
You can’t learn chemistry, physics, or anything else in just ninety minutes a day. You learn it by coming back to it, fixing mistakes, and putting in reps even when you’d rather be doing literally anything else.

Use failure correctly.
When something goes badly, the useful question is “What do I fix?” which manifests as “Can I have some more problems to work out?” or “Can you show me how to solve this one?”

The useless one is “How do I get out of this?” which manifests as “Are there gonna be test corrections?”

And then there’s AI.
If your entire strategy is to take my questions and paste them into a chatbot, you’re not learning. You’re acting as a human USB cable between me and a machine.

I don’t need that.

I can type the damn question into the machine myself. Protip - so can your other teachers, college admission boards, and future employers. At some point, you may ask yourself a question like, “Wait - what’s my value here?” If you land at that spot, it’s 100% everyone above you has already wondered the same thing about you, and may already be taking action on their answer.

School isn’t asking whether you can produce words. It’s asking whether you can think. Thinking is the work. The answers are just proof that the work happened.

That’s why AI-generated responses get marked wrong with no explanation. There’s no thinking there for me to respond to. If you didn’t think, I don’t respond. What exactly are you asking me to evaluate, to judge? You’re my student, the AI is not.

AI isn’t banned here. But it doesn’t get to replace you.

Thinking first, tools second. That’s the “measure twice, cut once” of learning.

With AI in my classroom:
If you try first and then ask for clarification, fine.
If you write something yourself and check whether your reasoning holds up, fine.
If you use it to quiz yourself after you’ve studied, fine.

If you hand in something you can’t explain, it’s not yours. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise just to spare your feelings.

That rule existed long before chatbots. We just stopped enforcing it for a while, and I agree with you — in some places, it’s not enforced. But in here, it is.

One more thing, because it matters more than most of you realize:

Take care of yourself.
Get enough sleep, stay hydrated, eat the best food you can manage, and move your body occasionally.

None of that is extra credit. It’s basic maintenance for a brain you’re asking to do hard things.

Pay attention to the people you spend your time with. If you hang out with four knuckleheads, you’re not the lone “nice” exception—you’re just the fifth knucklehead. That’s not an insult. That’s how social groups have worked since before we came out of the trees and walked upright on the savannah.

Build a circle that actually supports you. And work at getting along with your parents. Even an imperfect peace at home is a massive advantage when you’re trying to do difficult work elsewhere. A tired, distracted, socially-dragged student doesn’t need better tools—they need fewer things working against them.

All of this adds up to something students tend to underestimate: a supported, rested, fed, and grounded student has an enormous edge.

Call it discipline, call it maturity, call it whatever you want.

Functionally, it’s a superpower that will put you so far ahead of your peers that it won’t seem fair.

For parents reading this: I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for participation. Consistency beats talent every single damn time. Difficulty usually means learning is actually happening, even if it’s uncomfortable. Giving up is not an option. Resist the urge to swoop in and rescue them from the discomfort in their learning.

Phones matter. Attention matters. Thinking matters.

I’ll show up prepared. I’ll teach clearly. I’ll reteach when needed. I’ll show up early and stay late for tutoring. I’ll be patient. I won’t judge a student for not knowing something.

But I can’t learn it for them.

They have to show up.
Put the phone away.
Ask questions.
Try.
Do the work.

If they do that, they’ll be fine.

If they don’t, no amount of grace, technology, or good intentions can replace the missing thinking.

And that’s the part no one else can do for them.

Thanks for reading.

I’m genuinely curious what landed for you here.

If you had to pick one non-negotiable that actually changes outcomes, which would it be—and why?

Add a comment. Let’s keep this going - parents, teachers, and students.