A couple of weeks ago, I attended a webinar on work-family balance for women in leadership. The speaker shared a case of a CEO mom moving from a place near her kid’s school to the suburbs for one hard-to-believe reason — to spend more time with her daughter during the ride to school.

This story made me feel very fortunate to have this kind of a chance at this very moment: I live in the suburbs; and my daughter, Granita, and I go to the same school in the city of Chicago — me as an administrator and her as a sophomore.

This quarter, we share driving duties every Tuesday and Thursday. During our hour-long rides, we talk — often about school. With a few gently “guided” questions, I’ve come to see these conversations as informal field research on a critical question in education today: what makes students want to learn?

When Students Get to Choose Their Projects

“I think I’m gonna do well in my English class this quarter,” Granita told me after the first week.

“Why?” I asked.

“The professor said our writing project can be about anything we’re interested in.”

“So, there isn’t a given topic, but does it matter?” I kicked off my subtle interview with this question.

She then reminded me of a high school Film and Literature class. For the first two assignments, topics were assigned. For the third, students could choose their own. She earned Bs on the first two — and an A+ on the third.

“When the teacher read my last piece, she was like ‘why didn’t you write your first two as good as this one?’” she told me. “I am like — ‘because you didn’t let me write what I wanted.’”

Her topic? Studio Ghibli films.

As she explained her analysis — how characters in those films are shaped by complex causes rather than simple good-versus-evil narratives — I realized something important. She hadn’t just been watching movies for entertainment; she had been analyzing, comparing, and synthesizing — the skills that schools aim to develop. All she needed was the opportunity to express it through a higher order of thinking — writing!

When students can choose topics that matter to them, they don’t just perform better — they think more deeply.

When Learning Aligns with Passion

Her story took me further back — to elementary school, and a project simply called “Flower.”

At the time, her older brother struggled with the assignment. I remember thinking how naturally it would suit Granita, who loved art. As someone trained in instructional design, I was struck by the thoughtfulness of the project: students combined scientific knowledge of plant structures with artistic creation. It was, in essence, a cross-disciplinary capstone — something we often struggle to design even at the college level.

When it was Granita’s turn, I asked, “Have you started your flower project?”

“Yes,” she said, holding her hands close as if she was protecting something precious. “I’m saving it.”

Saving a school assignment — for later enjoyment. That was new to me.

Years later, when I asked if she remembered it, she laughed. “I think I made mine out of tissue paper.”

I still remember other students using wood, nails, and even Legos. The medium didn’t matter. What mattered was that the project invited creativity — and met students where their interests were.

When learning connects with what students already love, engagement follows naturally.

When Class Connects to Students’ Worlds

One morning, seemingly out of nowhere, Granita said, “I miss my Liberal Studies class.”

“What was it about?” I asked, immediately switched on my researcher hat.

“Mexican art,” she said. “I don’t usually like speaking in class, but in that one, I always wanted to participate.”

“Why?”

“Because the professor always asked us to connect what we were learning to something we already knew. Like, someone compared Frida Kahlo to Beyoncé.”

That comment reminded me of my own teaching. In my Chinese language class, I begin each quarter by asking students about their favorite Chinese movies, songs, celebrities, and foods. I study that list as carefully as they study my syllabus. It tells me where to begin.

There’s a big difference between starting a lesson with grammar rules and starting with a song students love — where the grammar is embedded in the lyrics.

Connection creates entry points. And those entry points invite participation.

When Students Have Somewhere to Use What They Learn

This spring, Granita began texting her grandfather far more often than usual — sometimes multiple times a week. The reason? Her Chinese literature and religion class.

What she learned in class reminded her of him — a writer, painter, and composer who embodies the content she was studying. Through WeChat, she began sharing ideas about Laozi, Zhuangzi, Taoism, and classical poetry.

One message read:
“Grandpa, we learned a poem that starts with your last name and my middle name — Guan. And in the poem, it was doubled as ‘Guan Guan’, and it means the sound of a bird.”

That single message sparked long responses from her 94-year-old grandfather, filled with insights in both Chinese and (Google-translated) English.

Learning had moved beyond the classroom. It had found a real audience.

Not every student has a “grandpa” to share their learning with. But the principle holds: when students have a place to use what they learn — an authentic context or audience — the learning becomes more meaningful.

In my own class, I try to create this by pairing students with peers from Tianjin Normal University in China. Through real conversations, they practice language, learn culture, and engage in authentic exchange.

When Learning Has a Real Purpose

I saw a similar pattern with my son during his sophomore year. He once told me about a writing assignment:

“We had to apply for a real internship — and we get extra credit if we get a response.”

Out of all his courses, this was the one he talked about most.

The assignment had a clear, tangible purpose. It wasn’t just practice — it was real.

Research supports this. When learning is tied to meaningful or self-transcendent goals, students show greater persistence, self-regulation, and performance — even on difficult tasks.

I’ve tried to bring this principle into my own teaching. Last winter, I “volunteered” my class to perform a dance at the Chinese New Year gala. The performance became our purpose.

Learning in motion: students applying coursework through group performance.

Students selected a song, learned its lyrics, and choreographed movements that aligned with its meaning. Through this process, they acquired far more vocabulary than they would have in a traditional textbook-based course. Moreover, by dancing to — and with — an audience of nearly 500 to a song celebrating the Year of the Horse, they not only learned about the customs of Chinese New Year but also became an active part of the culture.

Purpose didn’t just motivate learning. It amplified it.

A Reflection on the Car Ride Conversations

Education has always wrestled with a central question: how do we move students from passive compliance to active desire?

That question feels even more urgent today. AI tools make it harder to rely on traditional measures of compliance — like detecting plagiarism, which is turning into a mission impossible. This makes motivation the foundation of learning.

We can no longer depend on enforcement alone. We must design for engagement.

From these rides to school, I’ve come to see a pattern. Students are more likely to want to learn when:

they can choose what matters to them,
learning connects with their interests,
class content relates to their world,
they have opportunities to use what they learn, and
their work serves a real purpose.

These aren’t abstract theories. They are small, concrete design choices.

And sometimes, they begin with something as simple as a conversation in the car.