Early this morning, while jogging along a quiet stretch of road, I noticed a huge snail painstakingly crawling, inch by inch, seemingly determined to cross the street. Its movements were slow and deliberate, almost meditative, as though it had all the time in the world. Instinctively, I felt the urge to swoop in, pick it up, and carry it to the other side of the street. I worried that a passing car might crush it before it could safely finish its journey.
But then I paused.
What if I was wrong? What if the snail wasn’t trying to cross the street at all? What if it wasn’t chasing a goal or destination, but just enjoying the journey? What if my act of picking it up, something that seems helpful from my perspective, would interrupt its purpose entirely?
And because our college graduation is just a few days away, this snail reminded me of our medical students.
As educators, it is tempting to think that we know what is best for our learners. We often see ourselves as their guides, taking charge of their academic journeys, helping them move faster, avoid pitfalls, or reach the goals we believe are in their best interests. And when we think they are moving too slowly, or seem lost, we feel compelled to intervene, to speed things up, to point them toward the right direction, or even to carry them where they need to go.
But who are we to know what they truly want?
What if that snail, or my students, are perfectly content with moving at their own pace? What if the journey, slow and deliberate, is exactly where they are supposed to be in that moment? What if their goal isn’t necessarily to cross the street but to savor the process of crawling toward wherever they’re headed?
I realized then that my instinct to help may sometimes be misplaced. Perhaps my job, both as a teacher and a human being, isn’t to pick up that snail and carry it across the street. Perhaps it isn’t to define the destination for my students or assume control over their journey. Instead, my role might be simpler, quieter, just to make sure no car runs them over. This seems harder for the snail. I cannot stand there, in the middle of the street, all day, as it discovers its own direction. But for my students, this seems to be simpler and more concrete.
As a teacher, this means creating a safe space for growth, where students can take their time, make mistakes, and figure out their own pathways. It means providing support without imposing direction, protecting their pace without rushing them, and walking alongside them without carrying them.
Perhaps being a teacher is not about forcing progress; it is about fostering possibility. It is about meeting each student where they are, letting them explore their unique journey, and ensuring that the road they travel is well-lit and free of unnecessary hazards.
The snail may seem slow, but its movement is purposeful. The same can be said of many of my students. Each one moves at their own pace, guided by their own goals, and that is okay. My job is not to make them move faster or to assume they are crossing the street, but to ensure they aren’t run over on the way.
In the end, maybe teaching does not mean carrying my students towards a direction that I presumed they would want to go. Maybe it just means making sure that their journey is protected and their path is clear. Maybe it's as simple as ensuring that they arrive safely, in their own way, and in their own time.
No comments:
Post a Comment