“What if we’re focusing on all the wrong things?”
This thought consumed me as I stared at decades’ worth of research, data, and testimonials. I had painstakingly collected every number, interview, and chart, yet something felt off. Schools love to say we need to be “data-driven,” but data without context? It’s just noise. Numbers can tell, but stories—stories sell.
For an upcoming keynote, I refused to stand behind a lectern, flipping slide after slide. My goal wasn’t to share data from my research but to inspire. Yet, when I thought back to my own start as an educator, I remembered having no clue how to make sense of the endless data sets handed to me. I wasn’t alone. When I asked colleagues, they shrugged. It was as if we’d all been handed pieces of a puzzle with no picture to guide us.
That changed after a pivotal moment at the New York TESOL conference. I had just finished my keynote when Dr. Safivand pulled me aside and said, “You need to come back next year.” The challenge was on. First things first: I didn’t want to act like a scholar but a comedian. I ditched the titles before and after my name; I wanted to create something transformative, memorable, and yes, even funny.
So, I signed up for improv classes at Second City.
A Keynote Like No Other
For four months, I obsessed over my presentation. I wanted to blend humor, visuals, and storytelling to tackle an issue that educators everywhere face: our reluctance to ask for help. My research revealed nine common excuses we give for avoiding collaboration, from “I don’t have time” to “I’ve always done it this way.”
Then inspiration struck. I decided to represent each excuse with a type of sock—yes, socks. Why? Because just like socks, we’re meant to pair up for a common goal. Yet so often, we go it alone. To emphasize this absurdity, I commissioned a nine-foot sock as a final illustration, along with a ladder for me to reach the summit of the absurd—how else could I illustrate burnout?
When Pride Gets in the Way
Early in my career, I learned the hard way how pride can prevent meaningful change. One winter, I noticed a student, Tim, wearing no socks despite the frigid temperatures. Concerned, I offered to buy him new clothes. He eagerly accepted, but to my utter dismay, his family later rejected the gesture. The rejection stung—I couldn’t even return the clothes.
I felt defeated. How could I help if the help wasn’t wanted? But the real issue wasn’t their rejection—it was my approach. I had failed to ask what they needed. Instead, I assumed I knew best.
To address the situation, I collaborated with my administrators and stocked our school’s store with clothing. But when Tim had the chance to choose, he ignored the socks entirely, opting for snacks—a small bag of chips, precisely. It was humbling.
That’s when I realized: we can’t impose our values on others. What seems vital to us might mean little to someone else.
The Excuses We Wear
In my keynote, I use various socks to represent the excuses we educators cling to. Each excuse—time constraints, self-reliance, habits, or the belief that our tasks are “too small to matter”—adds to the sock’s ridiculous length. By the time it stretches across the stage, the absurdity is undeniable.
I also hand out miniature bags of chips—nine to be exact—that I designed with the help of my camera. These chips symbolize a lesson I learned from Tim: sometimes, small joys matter more than grand gestures. They serve as a tangible reminder for attendees of the excuses we recycle and the importance of focusing on what truly resonates with those we serve.
A Lesson in Connection
At its core, my presentation is about connection. It’s about recognizing that no one—educator, student, or parent—can succeed in isolation. Yes, communication takes effort. Yes, collaboration requires vulnerability. But when we fail to ask for help, we burn out—not because the work is hard but because we complicate simple things.
The truth is, two heads are better than one. Just like socks, we’re meant to work in pairs.
Laughter, Learning, and Legacy
Designing this keynote took months: four to craft the content, two to commission the sock, and countless hours creating visual aids like the miniature chips. But the result was worth it. Watching attendees laugh, linger, and ask questions after the presentation was exactly what I had hoped for.
The sock, the chips, and the stories weren’t just gimmicks—they were bridges. They reminded us that it’s okay to lean on one another, to ask for help, and to celebrate the small joys.
Because when we finally let go of pride and excuses, we create space for real collaboration—and that’s where the magic happens. For decades, I thought of my North African grandmother’s phrase as antiquated when she’d say: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go in company.” She was wise.
In education, as in life, we are better together.
These miniature bags of chips were designed with the help of my camera. I took photos of actual bags of chips and printed them. Chips were made with a hole puncher. I gifted them to members of my audience.
Leila Kubesch is a keynote speaker, speaking coach, and author. Her keynote, The Art of the Ask, shows leaders and teams how to make the ask with confidence. To bring Leila to your event, write to Leila@LeilaKubesch.com.
