“Struggle, when designed purposefully, prepares the mind for deeper learning.” — from the chapter on Struggle Before Instruction
There’s a Maths lesson from my teaching days that still stays with me because it quietly reshaped the way I look at learning.
I walked into the classroom that day fully prepared. My explanations were structured, my examples carefully chosen, and I was confident that I would finally make fractions look simple and logical. I spoke, demonstrated, and checked for understanding. The students nodded politely, but their eyes told a different story. They weren’t resisting; they were just… lost. And no amount of explaining seemed to bridge that gap.
The next day, I made a small but powerful shift. I didn’t begin with rules or steps. Instead, I gave them a slightly messy pizza-sharing problem—one that didn’t have an obvious starting point. Then I stepped back and said just one word: “Try.”
What followed was beautiful chaos. Students debated, drew rough diagrams, made incorrect assumptions, crossed things out, and tried again. There were disagreements, laughter, frustration, and sudden “aha” moments. The room was noisy, but alive with thinking. They were struggling, but this time the struggle belonged to them.
When I finally introduced the formal method, something was different. The explanation landed. It wasn’t just heard—it was understood. The students weren’t memorising steps; they were making connections. The method answered questions they had already asked themselves.
That lesson taught me something deeply important: learning doesn’t begin with perfect clarity. It begins with uncertainty, curiosity, and the courage to attempt something without knowing the outcome. A little discomfort doesn’t block learning—it invites it.
Since then, I’ve learned to trust the power of well-designed struggle. Because when students wrestle with ideas before being taught, understanding doesn’t just arrive—it stays.
Assignment 2: The Power of Prior Knowledge in Teaching
“Learning builds on what learners already know—or think they know.” — from the chapter on Activation of Prior Knowledge
During a classroom observation, I once watched a Grade 7 Maths lesson begin with algebraic expressions on the board. The teacher was confident, and the content was correct, but the students looked as though they had been dropped into unfamiliar territory. Their eyes followed the symbols, but their minds hadn’t arrived yet.
After the lesson, we sat down and talked—not about pace or classroom control, but about starting points. As we unpacked the lesson together, the teacher slowly realised something important: the students already had pieces of the puzzle. They knew patterns. They had worked with numbers and symbols. They had met variables before. But none of that had been called into the room before algebra was introduced.
What struck me most was how much students carry with them every day—half-formed ideas, prior experiences, small misunderstandings, and quiet confidence from earlier learning. When that knowledge isn’t activated, new concepts don’t settle. They hover, disconnected, with nothing solid to hold on to.
This experience reinforced a belief I now strongly hold as an academic head: lessons don’t begin with teaching; they begin with remembering. A quick recall question, a familiar example, a short conversation, or even asking students to explain what they already know can make all the difference. It warms up the brain and gives new learning somewhere to belong.
Because when prior knowledge is acknowledged and activated, learning doesn’t feel like a leap—it feels like the next natural step.
Assignment 3: Awareness, Reflection, and My Leadership Journey
“Recognising what we don’t know is the beginning of meaningful learning.” — from the chapter on Awareness and Metacognition
When I stepped into the role of Academic Head, I quietly assumed that experience would make things feel familiar and almost predictable. I believed that years in the classroom would prepare me for most situations. But leadership has a way of gently—and sometimes not so gently—challenging those assumptions.
Very soon, reality set in. Teachers asked thoughtful questions I didn’t always have immediate answers to. Parents raised concerns that revealed gaps I hadn’t noticed. There were moments when I realised I had misunderstood certain Cambridge guidelines and had to pause, revisit, and relearn. None of this felt comfortable. In fact, it felt unsettling at first.
This chapter helped me see those moments differently. It reminded me that awareness is not about self-doubt; it’s about self-observation. Noticing what I didn’t know, where I went wrong, or what I had assumed too quickly wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was evidence of growth.
I began to watch my own thinking more carefully, question my decisions, and reflect on why I chose certain paths over others. Over time, I understood that leadership is not about being flawless or having every answer ready. It is about being willing to pause, reflect, and adjust.
The days when things went slightly off track taught me far more than the days when everything ran smoothly. Those small missteps shaped my leadership mindset, strengthened my judgment, and deepened my empathy. They reminded me that meaningful learning—whether in classrooms or in leadership—always begins with awareness.
Assignment 4: Emotions as a Part of Learning and Leading
“Emotion fuels thinking—it doesn’t distract from it.” — from the chapter on Affect
There was a week that completely drained me—harsh words from a senior, a complaint from a parent, and teachers stressed about deadlines. By the end of the week, I felt like everything was slipping out of my control.
This chapter made me rethink the role of emotion. When a child gets frustrated with a maths problem, that frustration means they care. When I felt overwhelmed in school, it was because I wanted to do well.
Emotions aren’t obstacles; they are signals. Understanding this made me calmer, more empathetic, and more grounded as a leader.
Assignment 5: Bringing Meaning to Chaos — The Art of Assembly
“Learning becomes complete when ideas are gathered, refined, and made coherent.” — from the chapter on Assembly
Earlier in my leadership journey, I believed that being capable meant getting things right the first time. When decisions didn’t land as expected, or situations unfolded differently than I had planned, I took it personally. I saw mistakes as shortcomings—something to correct quickly and quietly.
Experience changed that belief.
There were moments when my judgment needed revisiting, when my communication could have been clearer, and when I had to admit that I didn’t fully understand a situation before responding. Those moments were uncomfortable, but they were also honest. And they taught me more than any smooth, successful day ever could.
Over time, I stopped fearing mistakes and started learning from them. Each misstep sharpened my awareness, softened my responses, and widened my perspective. I became more patient with others because I had learned to be patient with myself. I began listening more deeply—not just to words, but to intent, hesitation, and unspoken concerns.
Today, my leadership is shaped less by authority and more by empathy. I don’t aim to appear flawless; I aim to be thoughtful, reflective, and open to growth. The lessons that mattered most didn’t come from getting everything right, but from pausing, reflecting, and choosing to grow stronger each time something went wrong.
That is the kind of leader I’ve grown into—not perfect, but grounded.
Ms. Manika Pandey
Academic Head
Sunbeam International, Varuna
