Perfectionism often creeps in because we buy into the wrong story about what it means to be a teacher. In this week’s article, I share two different stories that ultimately lead to either burnout or sustainability.

The Dangerous Allure of the Superhero Narrative

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There’s a popular idea that to be a good teacher, you need to save the world. That you have to be the best all the time. That you have to live up to the great teachers who influenced you, be like those glorious, brave teachers in movies – that you need to suffer if you want to make a difference. But here’s the thing. Your students don’t need a superhero. They need someone who can listen and learn and grow; someone who can admit their mistakes and move on. Which is way better than a superhero.

You don’t have to be perfect. Teaching is a craft that takes years to master and even then, you’ll continue to make mistakes. And that’s okay.

You are enough.

You’ll hear phrases saying teachers should do “whatever it takes,” but actually you need boundaries and space and rest. You don’t need to show up to every single sports event, sponsor every club, chaperone every single dance, join every committee, or grade every single paper students turn in. You don’t need to be the first person to show up and the last person to leave the parking lot each day.

Teaching is exhausting. It’s rewarding, yes. But it’s physically and emotionally draining. Don’t feel bad about leaving papers at your desk and going home and playing games with your kids or going for a run or having coffee with a friend or watching a movie or going hiking or reading a book that has nothing to do with teaching. Geek out on things that fascinate you. Pursue a creative hobby. Of course you should care for every child and give them your energy and passion. But to do so, you need to refuel and find joy outside of the classroom. Doing so doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you a better teacher.

Why The Silverscreen Superteacher Mindset is So Dangerous

This mindset can be really dangerous when you are teaching in low-SES schools, especially when it robs students of their agency and reinforces injustice.
The Superhero Mindset leads to perfectionism and burnout.
You can easily find yourself resentful of fellow teachers and even the students and families you serve. It can easily manifest itself as anger.
You hide your faults and fail to get help when you need it. Rather than humbly moving on and growing, you deny your faults, because superheroes are expected to be perfect.
You fail to develop a life outside of teaching. When you pursue hobbies and interests outside of teaching, you often bring in new and innovative ideas into your practice.
Rest is necessary for creativity. Teaching is an inherently creative endeavor but that requires rest.
You fail to collaborate. Superheroes work alone (at least that’s what Mr. Incredible says) but teaching is often about waiting, listening, and leaning into each other.

It’s okay to work hard as a teacher. But there’s a difference between working hard out of an internal drive and love for what you are doing and working hard because you’re chasing perfection. And even when you are working hard, it’s important to remember that rest leads to restoration.

I contrast this to Mrs. Smoot. She was a teacher with a steady passion that lasted for decades. Instead of a loud, thundering message and a flashy display of lights, she provided warmth and created a space where a community could gather around. This is why I want to explore two differing visions of success. I want to contrast the two stories as the firework story and the campfire story. Sounds odd, I know, but stick with me.

Campfires or Fireworks?

I’m lousy at trying to start a fire. Blame it on the fact that I never joined Boy Scouts or maybe the fact that “camping” when I was a kid involved hanging out in an RV. Whatever the reason, I always screw up a campfire. I begin too big, with large logs and lots of smoke. Sometimes I cheat by trying to douse the wood with lighter fluid.

My wife, however, has it all figured out. It begins with smaller wood, some starter sticks and a little flame. There’s always room to let the fire breathe. After awhile, the fire grows until, without realizing it, we have something warm and powerful and capable of turning an ordinary marshmallow into something magical.

I’m not exactly sure how fire works, but it seems to be the opposite approach to fireworks. Fireworks are more entertaining – huge explosive displays of color, ear-splitting booms, the murmuring of “oohs” and “ahhs.” Light a fuse and watch the explosion. It’s instant and impressive.

I was thinking about this the other night while sitting in front of a fire pit. I was thinking about teacher movies. Each movie seemed to glorify the firework approach to teaching. The main character ascends to the furthest reaches of the sky and passionately explodes with huge results. All of a sudden students of poverty are doing calculus and falling in love with literature.

The Silverscreen Superteachers are impressive. They’re loud and colorful and entertaining. Yet, like fireworks, the teachers featured in the movies only lasted a few years. I couldn’t think of a single “based on a true story” movie where the true story didn’t lead to the teacher leaving after less than a decade in the classroom. These movies were supposed to be inspirational but the only thing they could inspire was a story of burnout.

Which Story Will You Choose?

Stories are a powerful way to make sense out of our lives. As I think about my career as a teacher, I find that there are two types of stories I can choose. One is the firework story and the other is the campfire story.

	Fireworks	Campfire
Protagonist	I want to be successful in quantitative, bold, measurable terms. I want to be known as successful.	I want to be faithful, wise and humble. I want to be someone who loved people well.
Antagonist	Lazy teachers and lazy students	The lie of perfection
Plot	An amazing Hollywood-style story, something newsworthy and amazing	A small story filled with little daily things that make a difference over time.
Conflict	Will I save the world? Will I make a difference?	Will I remain true to my convictions? Will I react in humility?
Theme	Make a difference	Be faithful and serve

Chasing Fireworks

I began my teaching career because I saw the job as meaningful. I wanted to do something that mattered. However, in my first year, after seeing movies like Stand and Deliver, I felt inspired to be a Superman swooping into the city and saving the day. I went from wanting to serve to wanting to make a difference. A big difference. The kind of difference that would make people marvel.

Armed with a handful of Hollywood prototypes, I now had a new story which involved both being perfect and expecting perfection from my students. I saw the antagonist as the other teachers who were pushing “low standards.” My theme had moved from faithfulness to making a difference and being noticed.

Outwardly, this approach looked successful. Students were working hard and reading more challenging literature. We were filming a documentary. I had a philosophy club meeting each morning before school. However, I felt hollow. I became sarcastic toward students, because I expected perfection. I grew overly critical of myself until eventually I grew critical of students. I felt like they owed me something. I snapped at students over the smallest mistakes. I was a disaster as a teacher.

A few weeks into this approach, I pulled my class aside and apologized. I did this for six class periods and each time I admitted that I had set unrealistic expectations for myself and for them. I had slipped into perfectionism and expected perfection from them. I had tried to be the superhero flying high above instead of staying grounded. To my surprise, the students responded with kindness and grace. It would take a little longer, though, for me to show myself the same kind of grace.

Show Yourself Grace

When I was a first-year teacher, my mentor teacher observed me teaching a lesson. Afterward, we met up during my prep period and she said, “John, your lesson was outstanding but I want to talk to you about how you’re treating someone in your class.”

My stomach sank.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve noticed that you are really good at showing students grace when they mess up. You encourage them to take creative risks. You remind them that learning is a process and mistakes are allowed. But then you turn around and demand perfection from someone else. You’re really hard on him every time he makes a mistake. You’re impatient with him and I can see that he’s pulling back and isn’t taking any risks. He’s afraid.”

“I haven’t noticed. I mean, it’s not on purpose.”

“I know it’s not intentional but it is damaging,” she said.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“You,” she answered.

I let a sigh and cracked a smile.

“You seem relieved.”

“I am,” I answered. “I thought it was one of my students you were talking about.”

“How is this any better?” she asked.

“I just . . .”

“You have to show yourself the same amount of grace that you show your students. You expect them to make mistakes but you get mad at yourself when you make mistakes. You’re patient with them but you have no patience for your own learning curve. Take some bold risks. Fail hard and get back up and try again. It’s the only way you’re going to make it as a teacher,” she said.

She was right.

Where Do We Go from Here?

In behavioral economics, there is a concept of the “planning fallacy.” We tend to overestimate how much we can accomplish in a given time frame because we imagine our future actions in a perfect context free of mistakes. Letting go over perfectionism involves setting realistic goals for what you will accomplish. You don’t have to grade everything. So, set a goal for how much you can realistically grade and then cut that number down by about a third.

Here’s a hard truth: no matter how hard you work and how dedicated you are, you will never be perfect. This truth is hard because it seems so many people in society expect you to be perfect. Parents want you to be perfect for their kid. Principals want you to be perfect for their school. The school board wants you to be perfect for their district. Governors want you to be perfect for their state. But this standard is unachievable.

When we say things like, “My job is to change students’ lives,” or “I work with underprivileged kids,” or “If not me, then who else will help them?” we are essentially putting our students in boxes they don’t belong in. Whether a student comes from a rich or poor home, have involved parents or not, or live in a high-crime neighborhood or not, they are more than these things. Every single student is a complex being with so much more than meets the eye.

By viewing them as beings who need to be saved, we are discounting their inherent value and contribution. We miss the dynamism they bring to school regardless if they have behavior or academic issues. We are boiling down the complexities of a student’s life to categories that are far too small. Rather than saving our students, I think we need to give them relentless love, and with that, opportunities. Opportunities for connection. Opportunities to be challenged and to grow. Chances to learn and succeed in a safe environment. By adopting this mindset, not only are teachers relieved of the duty to ‘save’ their students, the students are not put into an unfair box with other students who ‘need to be saved.’

Your Students Don’t Need Perfect

About a year ago, a former student of mine reached out to me and said, “Mr. Spencer, you’re why I became a teacher.”

“Thank you so much,” I answered. Then I asked, “What was it about me that you remember so much?”

“I think it was when you yelled at our class,” she said.

My heart sank. This was the memory? Me yelling at a group of sixth graders.

“I still cringe when I think of those moments,” I answered. “It was a hard year and even now I still feel embarrassed by the fact that I yelled at your class.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she answered. “I think it happened once or twice that year but when it did, you apologized. Like a real apology. Not an ‘I’m sorry you made me do that.’ You didn’t blame us even though we had been awful. You owned it. And you were the first adult in my life that ever apologized to me.”

“Wow,” I answered.

“Don’t get me wrong. We did some really cool projects. And that year was when I fell in love with reading and writing. But those apologies? They stuck with me.”

This was a reminder that our humanity, as imperfect as it may be, is a gift to our students. But it’s more than that. When we embrace the campfire mindset, we give ourselves the permission to try new things and innovate in our practice. It reminds me of the concept of the New Teacher Card: