Rediscovering Joy Beyond Achievement

Sometimes, I watch them in the hallways after school – a swarm of kids heading to volleyball practice or debate club, and it reminds me too much of something else entirely. It’s not a bad thing, exactly, just…a feeling. Like seeing someone else's memory playing out before your eyes. My grandmother used to say that things get repeated because they need to be learned, even if you already know the lesson in theory.

I remember what it was like to truly *want* something beyond getting a good grade. When I was their age, it wasn’t about college applications or scholarships; it was about building model rockets with my cousin Mark and meticulously documenting every failed launch. We weren't trying to impress anyone, just figure out why the nose cone kept popping off. That feeling – that deep-down curiosity, the absolute absorption in something you cared about – is what I want for them now, but I’m not sure they always have a clear shot at it.

There's this pressure these days; kids feel like everything has to *mean* something, and they’re encouraged to pile their schedules high with activities designed to look good on paper. It’s gotten so that the joy seems to get squeezed right out of it. I talked to one of my students, Jamal, last week about his robotics team. He was exhausted – stressed about deadlines, worried about winning competitions. When I asked him what he *enjoyed* about building robots, he just shrugged. That stuck with me.

My cousins and I weren't trying to win anything with those rockets; we were learning physics and patience without even realizing it. It wasn’t a resume builder; it was simply…fun. Now, kids feel the weight of expectations from parents, coaches, and themselves—and somewhere along the line, they forget that belonging shouldn’t be earned through achievement. They start to equate being part of something with demonstrating competence, instead of just *being* present.

The Sunday gravy project I've been tackling this summer has taught me a lot about that feeling, too. It’s my grandmother’s recipe – a sprawling, complicated thing passed down from her mother before her. The first few times, I messed it up badly. Burned the meat, used the wrong herbs, didn’t let it simmer long enough. There's this quiet satisfaction in finally getting something right after repeated failures; a sense of connection to something bigger than yourself. And no one is going to put that on a college application.

This year, I want to encourage my students to do more than just join clubs. I want them to *start* them. Not necessarily big ones, not things that will make headlines. Just small groups of kids who are genuinely interested in something – bird watching, comic book drawing, learning how to play the ukulele. Let them be imperfect. Let them fail spectacularly and learn from it together. That’s where real leadership emerges—not in following instructions or chasing accolades, but in creating space for others to explore their own passions.

It reminds me of Fishtown – those mornings at my kitchen table, slowly simmering that sauce, tweaking the recipe. There wasn’t a grand plan attached to it; there was just the quiet satisfaction of learning something new and sharing it with someone you love. Those are the things they'll remember long after the trophies have faded.

Maybe all we can do is clear some space for those little sparks – the model rockets, the Sunday gravies, the kids making their own clubs – and let them burn a little brighter. That’s more than enough.