Consider the New Year’s resolution.
As we all know, it’s something you make with real conviction, at a genuine turning point, when you honestly intend to change. You run hot for two weeks, limp through a third, and by the middle of February, you haven’t so much abandoned your resolution as quietly stopped mentioning it and eventually (if you’re lucky) thinking about it. By the following January, you do the same again, perhaps with more conviction and even stronger intentions… along with the feeling that what you’re actually doing is compiling evidence that you’re the kind of person who doesn’t follow through.
What a horrible cycle.
We could call this pattern spurt and die. And if you’re an educator, you’re about to watch 300 or so people do it at once.
The start of a term is the most powerful fresh-start moment in the academic year. New notebooks, new intentions, new versions of ourselves. Students (and faculty) arrive determined to be organized this time. By week five, a recognizable number of those intentions are gone, and the people who made them are a little more convinced that their recurring failure to be better is simply who they are.
But here’s what is actually happening…and it’s not a failure of motivation.
Motivation is not the variable. The person who quits in February was not less motivated than the person who is still going. They were, if anything, more motivated…and that’s often the problem. Enormous initial energy produces an enormously ambitious plan, and an enormously ambitious plan is a plan that only works on the days you feel enormous. (It’s hard to be a whole new and improved person when you can’t find the energy to exfoliate, for example.)
What separates a change that lasts from one that evaporates is not intensity at the start. It is whether the thing was built at a size that survives an ordinary week.
So the question to ask about any new practice is not how committed am I? It is: what does this look like on my worst Tuesday? Not your best day, when you have time and energy and the idea still feels exciting, but your worst one…the day with the difficult meeting, the bad night’s sleep, and the thing that went wrong at home. If the practice doesn’t survive that day in some reduced but real form, it will not survive the term, no matter how much you meant it in August.
Three characteristics tend to show up in the practices that stick:
- It feels right while you are doing it—not just afterward, and not just in principle. Practices sustained purely on discipline are running on a fuel that depletes.
- Its value is visible—you can point to what it produced this week. Not this year. This week.
- It has a floor, not just a target—a version so small it’s nearly free. Ten minutes of weekly reflection is not the goal, but it is what keeps the goal alive in a week when the goal is impossible.
You’ve heard a version of this before, usually phrased as “start small.” And that matters, but doesn’t quite capture the essence. The point isn’t modesty but that a practice you can hold on a bad week is the only kind that gets to compound, and compounding is where all the actual returns are.
Dan Apple has put this more sharply for years: most people conclude that life does not allow sustainability of self-growth. He would insist the reverse—that life is not sustainable without it.
So before the semester or term starts, take whatever new practice you’re planning and find its floor. Then ask one more question about your students: what floor have you given them? A course design that only works for students having a good semester is making the same mistake, on a larger scale, on someone else’s behalf.
What is one practice you are planning for this term—and what is its worst-Tuesday version?








