Growing up, in the public schools I attended, lessons were from a scripted textbook and followed a predictable structure: read the assigned pages, complete the packet, turn it in, take a quiz, move on to the next unit. Looking back, that traditional way of learning lacked connection to the real world. I never interacted and engaged with what I was learning about, and because of that, I don’t think I truly understood how the world works. The things I’ve learned stayed on paper and in the classroom. Everything was so removed and isolated and I rarely got to work with and learn with others. It was always up to me, and how well I was able to complete a worksheet and take a quiz all on my own.
Over the last two years, I’ve been a research intern with CONNECT, learning about play and inquiry in education. This year, I have been working with CONNECT Researcher Dr. Christine Lee and Demonstration Teacher Alice Schatz on a research study on inquiry and environmental education. Ms. Schatz’s intermediate class has been thinking about the relationship between students and classrooms, and what we can do to create healthy air quality. As part of this work, I got to co-design two inquiry lessons with my fellow CONNECT interns that introduced to students the negative impact of too much CO2 in classroom spaces.
When I was in elementary school, concepts like CO2 might have appeared briefly in a textbook passage, but never with any depth. I would have never had hands on meaningful learning experiences because CO2 is “too difficult” for third graders. At the Lab School, learning feels different. We don’t tell students what they learn, we create inspiring conditions where they could discover learning for themselves. This stands in contrast to how lessons and learning typically works in traditional public schools.
This is at the heart of the Lab School’s inquiry approach, which places “student questions, ideas, and observations at the center of teaching and learning.” Rather than delivering scripted content to students, inquiry asks teachers to spark curiosity and then follow students’ lead, and plan learning experiences that “encourage and utilize student ideas, questions, and solutions.” This philosophy shaped how we co-designed the two lessons for Ms. Schatz’s class. We met many times for planning sessions leading up to the lessons. We outlined our goals, divided responsibilities among ourselves, and rehearsed the flow of each lesson, but still kept our plans open by design. We knew students might go somewhere unexpected, and we wanted room to follow them there. In my experience, over-planning can backfire. When every minute is scripted, there’s little room for adaptability.
And honestly, that openness was both exciting and nerve-wracking. Leaving space for students to adapt means accepting that you can’t fully predict what comes next. What if a student asked something none of us could answer? What if the students went somewhere we hadn’t prepared for? I had to live with that uncertainty and trust that the structure we had built was strong enough, even if the lesson didn’t go exactly as planned. Because, as it turned out, that openness was where the best moments came.
Our first lesson opened with a simple and silly activity. To think about how we can “see” CO2, students breathed on glass mirrors and described what they observed. We didn’t just ask what they saw. We asked what it smelled like and what their breath felt like when they touch the glass. We intentionally invited students to use all of their senses because we anticipated — and welcomed — the giggles and “ewww” that would come with it. While teaching the first lesson, I realized that joy and rigor are not opposites, and that if students are laughing and having fun, it doesn’t mean they are not actively learning.
For me, one of the clearest signs that students were driving their learning was when students didn’t wait to be told what to think. In both sessions, that happened repeatedly. Students asked questions we hadn’t anticipated. They made connections with CO2 out of genuine curiosity, not because we prompted them toward a predetermined answer.
At the close of the final lesson, during the reflection, one student raised her hand. She looked at the CONNECT internship team and said, “Thank you guys, I learned a lot.” That moment meant a lot to me. In many professions, recognition of good work comes in formal ways like a performance review, a raise, or a bonus. Teaching students feels different. Like the words were a real expression of something positive that had really happened for her without incentivization.
What made these lessons possible was not a special curriculum or a unique topic. It was the freedom to treat students as thinkers rather than recipients. We were not required to follow a scripted sequence or demonstrate coverage of a standard at the end of every session.
That freedom is not incidental to good teaching. It is the condition that makes it possible. When educators have room to follow curiosity, to build in flexibility, and to let a lesson breathe, students notice. They lean in. And they ask better questions.
Mollie Grange Isaacson is a UCLA junior studying Education and Social Transformation. She is interested in improving and innovating K-12 education systems by bridging the gap between policy and practice, and utilizing research to drive meaningful reform.
This blog post comes from CONNECT research project, Environmental Qualities of Elementary Classrooms. Questions about this study can be directed to Dr. Christine Lee, clee@labschool.ucla.edu.