Earlier this year, I got myself into a minor disciplinary conflict. In the week before the standard hearing, at every chance I got, I was perfecting statements and reactions to a tee. So, walking into the meeting with the Dean of Student Conduct, I was certain my case would be dismissed and I would be set scott free. As it turns out I wasn’t entirely correct. The verdict hit me with 10 hours of sanitary service in the dining hall, which was truly awful. However, my biggest takeaway wasn’t the hours spent mopping the kitchen floor. That sting came from the dean’s parting instruction: to reflect on what I’d done.
Relieved the meeting was over, I walked out with the dean’s advice stuck in my head. Why did I have to attend that meeting in the first place? Where did I slip up? Who had I affected? What could I do to make sure I didn’t end up in a similar situation in the future? These questions stayed on my mind for weeks, and gradually, piece by piece, I put together some answers. I learned about how people perceive me, how my actions impact others, and how to manage difficult situations thoughtfully. In the end, for me, it was a good thing I got in trouble. The dean’s stern, serious, sincere tone, compelled me to take his advice. But I wouldn’t have grown if it hadn’t been for the mistake. The embarrassment. The act of, well, stupidity.
Seven months later, I sat in the back of a classroom held on zoom, bored out of my mind. The goal of the meeting was to reflect on the study abroad experience. Within minutes of the beginning of the presenter’s lecture, her audience turned to a non receptive herd of zombies. To the left, a girl picked at her fingernails, while another member snoozed diagonally with her mouth wide open. As the promethean droned, the energy of the room died. This continued until the lecture mentioned “resume”. Suddenly the room came alive. I squinted my eyes in disgust, and made the most “what the hell” facial expression of my life. The presenter had finally caught the class’s attention, but for all of the wrong reasons.
If facilitated properly, that meeting would have been the most insightful class of the semester. Instead, one girl bought a new pair of mittens from Shein, and I completed another one of my trademark 300-piece jigsaw puzzles.
I couldn’t help but compare this moment to my meeting with the dean. Reflection, I’d learned, isn’t about crafting a polished narrative for someone else’s approval. It’s about digging into the uncomfortable, the messy, the personal. So when the computer asked “what was your best experience of studying abroad?” the room fell asleep. Predictable questions don’t spark engagement. They shut brains off.
So, how does one capture the attention of the Tik Tok generation? You need to start with a BAM. Something unexpected, surprising, baffling. Maybe it’s sharing a piece of your story, like the time you got kicked out of a club for doing the worm on a table. Or when you fell asleep on the train on the and ended up in a remote village with no cell service. Embarrass yourself. Make people laugh. The more vulnerable, the more unconventional, the more authentic your story, the more people will engage.
When I walk up to a cute girl I don’t know, I tell her there’s a zombie apocalypse happening RIGHT NOW. You can pick three people—real or fictional—to join your survival team. Who would you choose and why? It’s an absurd question, but it’s surprising, entertaining, revealing. Does family matter more than survival? Are you a fighter? A resolver? A romantic? It’s a conversation that entertains while prompting reflection on what they value most.
Of course, the presenter last week could not ask this question to the class. But she could have made us laugh, shared a story from her life, and then asked us – what’s the biggest mistake you made abroad? Did you meet someone you’ll remember for the rest of your life? If you could take home one thing you’ll lose after your journey, what would it be? These questions are vulnerable, engaging, and thoughtful. They’re too personal to be blown off.
So, if the presenter had taken a more unconventional, personal approach towards reflection, how would the class have responded? These would be my answers—
In England, I had a beer with an off duty cop, who had spent his entire career in the military and police force, but had never owned a gun. I witnessed, live, one of the best football prospects in the world shoot a top left-corner rocket from 10 feet outside the box to seal a victory. I ripped a hole in my favorite jacket hopping a spiked fence. A man working at the lot threatened to call the police, but thankfully, when I turned around, he recognized me from the hours I spent at the archaic Pianodrome warehouse, practicing Queen on refurbished pianos. I spoke more French with my roommate and classmate than I ever had in any classroom. I met a girl from California who made me smile, time after time.
What I put on that resume doesn’t matter. What matters is the stories I carry, and the person I’ve become. And that’s why, seven months later, I’m still grateful to the dean who asked me to reflect. It’s not the punishment I remember; it’s the mistake I made and the lesson I learned.
