Learning to Learn
Nazario L. Medellin
Nazario L. Medellin
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025
Earlier this year I stood in front of a classroom full of eighth graders and thought: What if I don’t actually know enough to be here? I was overcome with uncertainty, which I’m sure is a quiet companion to anyone who's ever cared deeply about teaching. And while it’s easy to disregard this feeling as impostor syndrome, as I look back, I can’t help but think it was actually a good thing. Now I should first preface this by saying that I didn’t feel like I didn’t know the material but instead I wondered if I could get through to them. The thoughts fluttered in as I explained the lesson: Will they be receptive? What do I do with my hands? And why is that kid picking his nose with that other kid’s finger?
As substitute teachers, we don’t really receive any formal training, besides calling the principal's secretary if things get out of hand. And that’s actually not a bad thing. St. Albert the Great knew nearly everything there was to know about everything there was to know during his time. He studied and taught theology, physics, botany, logic, astronomy and so on. He was a model for the Church’s belief that truth, whenever it’s found, leads us back to God.¹ So what does this polymath have to do with not being trained to teach? For starters, this essay isn’t about Albert’s genius. It’s about the moment we realize we’re not him. We all have days when we hesitate before speaking up, when we stall before writing, when we wonder if what we know is enough. But maybe in that discomfort we can find something to hold onto. Maybe we should not resist it and it’s a signal. A whisper of the soul’s desire to continue learning.
The feeling of not knowing isn't’ failure—it’s the mind’s plea to keep growing. Our intellect is more than a cognitive tool. It’s a gift ordered toward the contemplation of truth. We are truth seeking beings and when we feel the sting of doubt, what if we saw it not as evidence of ignorance but as an invitation to learn? Many of the classrooms I frequent are filled with growth mindset posters. Posters that encourage students to ignite their inquisitive mind but are we as teachers receptive to that knowledge? The saints, including Albert, didn’t begin their lives as encyclopedias. They began with questions—and they had the humility to keep asking them.
The feeling of uncertainty is to care. To care is to want to do good. And to want to do good is the beginning of wisdom. Most of us aren’t endowed with Alber the Great’s mind. But if you’ve ever felt that humble doubt—that flash of I should know more—then you’ve already started to think like a teacher. You’ve already honored the pursuit of truth. As educators, our job isn’t to fill students with facts. It’s to ignite their desire to seek truth themselves and what better example than to openly own our mistakes and be vulnerable. If I don’t know it’s okay, because I can find out. I can figure it out.
By the end of the school year, my young students had taught me more about teaching than I had expected. You don’t go in expecting to know everything you pick up little by little. We don’t need to know everything—we need to model what it looks like to keep learning. So next time you feel unsure, don’t let it shrink you. Let it shape you. Refrain the doubt not as a weakness, but as a sign of devotion to truth and you’ll see how the students are receptive to your own struggle trying to figure something out on the fly or your determination in getting the projector to work. That spark—that hunger—is sacred. And if we follow it with honesty and humility, we’ll keep the fire burning in the hearts of those we’re called to teach.
Endnote
Führer, Markus, "Albert the Great", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2022 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2022/entries/albert-great/>.
Earlier this year I stood in front of a classroom full of eighth graders and thought: What if I don’t actually know enough to be here? I was overcome with uncertainty, which I’m sure is a quiet companion to anyone who's ever cared deeply about teaching. And while it’s easy to disregard this feeling as impostor syndrome, as I look back, I can’t help but think it was actually a good thing. Now I should first preface this by saying that I didn’t feel like I didn’t know the material but instead I wondered if I could get through to them. The thoughts fluttered in as I explained the lesson: Will they be receptive? What do I do with my hands? And why is that kid picking his nose with that other kid’s finger?
As substitute teachers, we don’t really receive any formal training, besides calling the principal's secretary if things get out of hand. And that’s actually not a bad thing. St. Albert the Great knew nearly everything there was to know about everything there was to know during his time. He studied and taught theology, physics, botany, logic, astronomy and so on. He was a model for the Church’s belief that truth, whenever it’s found, leads us back to God.¹ So what does this polymath have to do with not being trained to teach? For starters, this essay isn’t about Albert’s genius. It’s about the moment we realize we’re not him. We all have days when we hesitate before speaking up, when we stall before writing, when we wonder if what we know is enough. But maybe in that discomfort we can find something to hold onto. Maybe we should not resist it and it’s a signal. A whisper of the soul’s desire to continue learning.
The feeling of not knowing isn't’ failure—it’s the mind’s plea to keep growing. Our intellect is more than a cognitive tool. It’s a gift ordered toward the contemplation of truth. We are truth seeking beings and when we feel the sting of doubt, what if we saw it not as evidence of ignorance but as an invitation to learn? Many of the classrooms I frequent are filled with growth mindset posters. Posters that encourage students to ignite their inquisitive mind but are we as teachers receptive to that knowledge? The saints, including Albert, didn’t begin their lives as encyclopedias. They began with questions—and they had the humility to keep asking them.
The feeling of uncertainty is to care. To care is to want to do good. And to want to do good is the beginning of wisdom. Most of us aren’t endowed with Alber the Great’s mind. But if you’ve ever felt that humble doubt—that flash of I should know more—then you’ve already started to think like a teacher. You’ve already honored the pursuit of truth. As educators, our job isn’t to fill students with facts. It’s to ignite their desire to seek truth themselves and what better example than to openly own our mistakes and be vulnerable. If I don’t know it’s okay, because I can find out. I can figure it out.
By the end of the school year, my young students had taught me more about teaching than I had expected. You don’t go in expecting to know everything you pick up little by little. We don’t need to know everything—we need to model what it looks like to keep learning. So next time you feel unsure, don’t let it shrink you. Let it shape you. Refrain the doubt not as a weakness, but as a sign of devotion to truth and you’ll see how the students are receptive to your own struggle trying to figure something out on the fly or your determination in getting the projector to work. That spark—that hunger—is sacred. And if we follow it with honesty and humility, we’ll keep the fire burning in the hearts of those we’re called to teach.
Endnote
Führer, Markus, "Albert the Great", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2022 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2022/entries/albert-great/>.
