Why Teachers Need a Moonshot Project

You don't need to ask if you're allowed to dream big in your classroom.

That ridiculous project you've been thinking about? The one that makes you excited and slightly terrified at the same time? That's not a distraction from good teaching. That's why you're still here.

I'm talking about your moonshot. The thing you'd try if you weren't worried about looking foolish. The ambitious project that lights you up when you talk about it. The idea that makes you stay after school not because you have to, but because you can't stop thinking about it.

For some teachers, it's building a student podcast about local history. For others, it's starting a classroom library of diverse voices or creating a genius hour where students pursue their own questions. Maybe it's designing an interdisciplinary unit that breaks all the "rules," or launching a student-led community service initiative that spills outside the walls of your classroom.

The specifics don't matter. What matters is that it's yours.

And here's what I've learned after 26 years: that moonshot—the messy, ambitious, slightly ridiculous thing you keep thinking about—that's not extra. It's not something to do after you've finished the "real work."

It's the thing keeping you in the profession.

Wait, Shouldn't I Be Focusing on the Basics?

This is the argument you're having with yourself, right? You're already exhausted. You've got 127 ungraded assignments, three students in crisis, parent emails to answer, and you haven't updated your lesson plans since October.

How could adding something ambitious possibly help?

Because here's the truth about teacher burnout: the grind is what kills you. The repetitive, soul-crushing, "just get through another Tuesday" energy. The feeling that you're just managing behaviors and collecting data. That you've become a cog in a machine that doesn't care about what made you want to teach in the first place.

Moonshots restore something the grind takes away: agency.

When you're building something that matters to you—something you chose, something that excites you—you're not just surviving the job. You're creating in spite of all the nonsense. You're remembering what teaching actually is.

There's a difference between working until 7pm every night on things other people assigned you, and working until 5:30pm on Tuesday because your students are filming interviews with community members and you can't wait to see what they discover tomorrow.

One depletes you. The other sustains you.

I know that sounds backwards. But passion isn't the same as intensity. Passion gives you energy. Intensity just burns through it.

Start Small (Seriously, Start Really Small)

Your moonshot doesn't need to be huge. It doesn't need budget approval or committee review or a semester-long implementation plan.

It needs to be something you can try in one class period per week. Something you can experiment with, fail at, iterate on, and improve without asking anyone's permission.

Maybe it's 20 minutes every Friday where students share what they're reading and you actually have real conversations about books instead of checking comprehension. Maybe it's letting students choose their own research topics instead of assigning them. Maybe it's bringing in a guest speaker who does something interesting, even if it has nothing to do with your standards.

Start there. Protect it fiercely.

When someone suggests you cut it to make room for something else, decline. When you're asked to justify it with data, do it—but don't apologize for the joy it brings. When colleagues question whether it's "worth the time," smile and keep building.

Because here's what happens when you protect your moonshot: students see an adult who's genuinely excited about learning. Who takes risks. Who tries things that might not work. Who models what it looks like to care deeply about something.

That's what they'll remember twenty years from now. Not the worksheet packet. Not the standardized curriculum. The moment they saw their teacher's eyes light up talking about the thing they were building together.

And that's what will remind you, on the hard days in February when you're questioning everything, why you're still doing this.

You Already Know What It Is

You do. It's the thing you think about when you're not thinking about lesson plans. The project you mentioned once to a colleague and then never brought up again because you were afraid they'd think it was impractical.

It's not impractical. It might actually be the most practical thing you could do for your teaching career.

Pick one small piece of it. Not the whole vision—just one tiny experiment you could try this week. See what happens.

You don't need permission. You don't need approval. You just need to start.

This is what excellence without exhaustion looks like: protecting the parts of teaching that bring you joy, not because they're required, but because they're what keep you in the game.