Laura K Spencer, Ed.D.

Category: Book Reads

Unlocking Innovation Through Curiosity and Risk
It’s been a few months, but I’m still processing the lessons I’m taking away after sitting in on the d.school book club chat with Sarah Stein Greenberg about her fantastic book, Creative Acts for Curious People.

The entire conversation was a masterclass in leading creative teams, and it completely reshaped how I think about my own role as a leader. Here are my biggest takeaways.

It’s Not About Being ‘Creative’—It’s About Being Curious

The first thing that really clicked for me is that we put too much pressure on the word “creativity.” Sarah mentioned that for many, it feels exclusive. She offered a much more accessible starting point: curiosity.

Curiosity is the “gateway,” the entry point that helps people embrace their own creative abilities.

We got to experience this firsthand when she led us through the “Seeing Exercise.” She showed us an ambiguous picture and asked, “What’s going on in this picture?” As I always do, I tried to find the “right” answer. But the real lesson came later when someone asked what was actually happening in the photo. Sarah said she has intentionally never looked it up. She likes to “sit with that feeling of not knowing” because it’s a constant reminder of what our teams feel when faced with ambiguity.

My takeaway: My job as a leader isn’t to have all the answers. It’s to model a deep and genuine curiosity and to create situations that encourage my team to slow down, observe, and question their own assumptions.

Psychological Safety Isn’t Magic; It’s Architecture

We all talk about wanting our teams to feel safe enough to share wild ideas, but how do you actually build that? Sarah’s approach treats safety not as a feeling, but as a direct result of intentional design.

She described her “My Favorite Warmup Sequence,” and it was a revelation. It’s not a random icebreaker. It’s a carefully structured process designed to “build psychological safety piece by piece.” You start with a safe one-on-one interaction. Then, that pair joins another pair to become a quartet, and the activity becomes a little more playful. It gently eases people into a state of vulnerability and connection, rather than demanding it all at once.

My takeaway: I need to stop thinking about team-building as just “fun activities” and start thinking about it as a structured process. True psychological safety comes from designing interactions that strategically build trust over time.

You Have to Make the Work Visible

When a project gets really complex, it’s easy for a team to feel overwhelmed and paralyzed. I learned that a leader’s critical role here is to fight that fog by making abstract challenges tangible and visible.

Sarah mentioned a concept called “distributed cognition,” which is about taking the ideas out of your head and putting them into a shared space so you can expand your ability to think about them. She offered two specific assignments from the book that I can use right away:
- Map the Problem Space: At the beginning of a project, this helps a team get all their thinking out and organized, creating a shared view of the landscape.
- The 100-Foot Journey Map: When you’re deep in a project and drowning in data, this tool helps you physically map out every step of a complex process, bringing immense clarity to the system.
My takeaway: I can’t expect my team to navigate complexity inside their own heads. My role is to provide the structures and frameworks that allow us to get it all out on the wall, see it together, and find the key leverage points.

The Biggest Risk Is Often Doing Nothing at All

Perhaps the biggest mindset shift for me was how Sarah reframed risk. We often focus on the risks of trying something new, which can scare teams into inaction. But she challenged us to consider the other side of the coin.

What is the risk of not acting? What is the risk of continuing on the current path?

This question alone changes the entire conversation. To put it into practice, she pointed to the “Expert’s Assumptions” activity in the book. The process is simple: have the team list all the assumptions and constraints they believe are true for a project. Then, pick one, flip it, and spend just 10 minutes imagining what you could build if that constraint didn’t exist. It’s a structured, low-risk way to give people permission to be radical.

My takeaway: My job is to reframe the conversation around risk. By helping my team challenge their assumptions and consider the cost of inaction, I can unlock a more innovative and courageous approach to problem-solving.

Final Thoughts

Leaving the book club, I realized the most profound shift for any leader isn’t in finding better answers, but in learning to ask better questions and build better rooms. Modern creative leadership isn’t about being the source of every great idea; it’s about being the facilitator of them. The real work is architecting the environment where your team’s collective genius can finally show up. The most powerful question we can ask ourselves isn’t, “What’s my vision?” but rather, “Have I created the conditions for theirs to emerge?”
October 14, 2025
Why Leaders Need Trail Markers

When I’m off-roading, there’s a moment every adventurer knows well. You’re deep on the trail, the terrain is uneven, and suddenly, you realize you haven’t seen a trail marker in a while. That’s when doubt creeps in. Am I still on the right path, or am I about to waste daylight backtracking?

One time, I missed the markers completely because I was chatting with a friend who had joined me. By the time I realized it, I was 20 miles further than I had planned and ended up staring at the Salton Sea. It wasn’t catastrophic. I still had gas, daylight, and options, but I lost time, energy, and focus. The trail had taken me somewhere, just not where I meant to go.

Leadership feels like that more times than not. The obstacles are different, sure. Things like competing priorities, stretched budgets, multiple staff asking if you just “have a moment”… but the risk is the same: drifting further and further off course, only realizing later how far you’ve gone.

That’s why Charlotte Burgess-Auburn’s book You Need a Manifesto should be required reading for all leaders. She describes a manifesto as a compass, not a map. It doesn’t spell out every twist and turn. Instead, it’s the equivalent of those markers on the side of the trail that reassure you you’re still on track, even when the terrain is unknown.

As Chief Academic Officer with 25 years in education, I see how often schools operate without these markers. We hand teachers a vision statement or a beautiful Portrait of a Graduate poster, but it doesn’t show up in the day-to-day decisions. When leaders are unmoored, every trail looks the same, and that’s when we burn precious energy circling or overshooting instead of moving forward with intention.

A manifesto changes that. It anchors decision-making in values you’ve actually named. It gives you language that cuts through noise and offers reassurance in complexity. On the trail, that’s the difference between pressing forward with confidence and burning miles in the wrong direction. In schools, it’s the difference between progress and burnout.

A Challenge for Leaders

Don’t wait until you’re lost at your own “Salton Sea moment” to wish you had trail markers. Write a manifesto that’s small enough to remember, clear enough to use, and visible enough to check when the fog rolls in.

Because whether you’re off-roading in the desert or steering a district through turbulent times, one truth holds: the terrain will test you. The question is whether you’ll have trail markers when you need them.

October 3, 2025
Thrive by Lisa M. Lawson: Rethinking How We Support Adolescents in Education

Lisa M. Lawson’s new book, Thrive, doesn’t read like a policy manual. It feels more like a long-overdue shift in how we view young people, especially teenagers.

Adolescents have always challenged the systems around them (Trust me, I know! haha). They question rules, seek out new experiences, and care deeply about what their peers think. We’ve spent decades treating those behaviors as problems, which is ironic considering we had the same behaviors as teens. But what if that’s exactly what teen brains are designed to do?

Brain science is finally catching up. Researchers now understand that adolescence is just as important a developmental stage as early childhood. The prefrontal cortex doesn’t fully mature until around age 25, which I remind myself every time my daughter makes me want to cringe. And because the adolescent brain is still flexible, it can grow and recover, even after hardship, when the right support is in place.

Lawson explains:

“We have to stop treating normal adolescent behavior like a problem. The science is clear: Teenagers take risks, push boundaries and follow their peers because their brains are still developing. Instead of blaming them, let’s build systems that understand them – with more mentors, more positive opportunities to engage their active minds and more real-world learning.”

That kind of shift doesn’t start with programs. It starts with people.

In Thrive, Lawson outlines five essentials that create a strong bridge to adulthood: stable relationships with caring adults, meaningful education pathways, support for basic needs, opportunities to earn and manage money, and spaces where youth feel seen and heard. Not someday. Now.

And if we’re listening, technology can help. AI can support teachers by recognizing patterns and offering insights they might miss. VR can open doors to experiences many students wouldn’t otherwise have. But tools don’t build trust. People do.

If we’re going to talk about thriving, then we need to look beyond performance charts and compliance checklists. We need to pay attention to what teenagers are telling us in the ways they show up, tune out, or act out. And we need to design learning that respects where they are, not just where we want them to be.

When we choose to see adolescence as a window of opportunity rather than a stage to survive, we’re not just helping students thrive. We’re investing in a better future for all of us.

P.S. Share this with someone who is struggling to understand the teenagers around them.

September 30, 2025
Designing Belonging: What a Pizza Box Taught Me About Connection

I’ve written before about the time I ordered a pizza to reconnect my ex-husband to the outside world. No car. No phone. No internet. A disconnection, both literal and emotional. We used Domino’s delivery notes as our 21st-century carrier pigeon. It worked, but only because someone made the effort to reach out, to bridge the gap, to make belonging possible when the system failed.

I was thinking about that moment when I read Design for Belonging by Susie Wise.

“The work of belonging is to counteract [othering]. It is to open up spaces and places so that all people regardless of their backgrounds can join in and contribute.”

I can’t stop thinking about how often we overlook the micro-moments where belonging breaks, and how many more we ignore where it could be rebuilt.

That pizza box moment was belonging by design, even if I didn’t have a name for it then. It was messy. Unconventional. A little ridiculous. But it worked.

And maybe that’s the real design challenge: how do we notice when belonging is fractured? And more importantly, what do we do next?

When Wise talks about the “design levers” of rituals, roles, spaces, systems, it isn’t just a nice framework for planners and strategists. It’s a lifeline for educators, leaders, and humans trying to hold fragmented communities together. Especially when those communities are separated by distance, devices, and distraction.

I’ve seen this in classrooms. In Zoom faculty meetings. In Twitter (“X”) threads that start with good intentions and devolve into ego matches. And I’ve felt it in the silence after someone says something unintentionally harmful, followed by… nothing.

That’s where the work is.

We talk a lot about invitation. How do we invite students into learning? Colleagues into collaboration? Families into school systems that weren’t built with them in mind?

But Wise pushes us further. She explains that invitation isn’t just about showing up. It’s about showing up in a space that sees you. Hears you. Values your perspective.

That only happens with intention.

I think about how many times I’ve created systems that worked “in theory” but didn’t feel like belonging in practice. The school-wide email that no one read. The virtual office hours that no one joined. The peer feedback protocol that favored the loudest voices. None of those were belonging, even if they were well-designed.

Because belonging isn’t the form. It’s the feeling.

Wise also talks about dissent and repair—two words we don’t sit with enough in schools.

We love our norms and expectations and “we’re all in this together” mantras. But what happens when someone pushes back? When they say, “This space doesn’t feel safe for me,” or “That comment hurt”?

Too often, we go straight to defense. Or worse—silence.

But real belonging means we stay. We sit in the discomfort. We acknowledge the impact even if it wasn’t our intent. We ask what repair could look like—and then we act.

Sometimes that action is a redesign.
Sometimes it’s an apology.
Sometimes it’s a damn pizza box with a handwritten message to reboot the phone so messages arrive. haha

I don’t have a neat ending here. Belonging is squiggly like that. It’s a process, not a product. But what I’m learning from Susie Wise, and remembering from my own messy, human moments, is this:

We can design for belonging in every space we touch.
Even the ones that feel too big, too broken, too remote.
Even the ones held together by pizza and Post-it notes.
Especially those.

September 16, 2025
Creativity, Failure, and Starting Late

There’s a bit of irony in the title of the first book I picked up from the d.school book club: Make Possibilities Happen. Because I joined the club months ago, full of energy and good intentions, and promptly… fell behind. Haven’t made it to a single Zoom meet. Still playing catch-up on the reading.

So maybe this is my version of possibility-making. The slow, quiet kind. The kind that happens in between work calls and late-night note scribbles. The kind that shows up long after the calendar reminder has passed but still feels meaningful.

As I work my way through the books and recorded discussions, I’ll be sharing reflections here. Consider it my asynchronous book club journey, with plenty of margin for detours and delayed starts.

Creativity Isn’t a Trait. It’s a Practice.

One of the biggest myths we carry, especially in education, is that creativity belongs to a select few. You’ve probably heard it (or said it) before: “I’m just not creative.” It’s the same script as “I’m not a math person,” and it does just as much damage.

The truth is, we’re all creative. We just haven’t all been given the space or encouragement to practice it.

Grace Hawthorne doesn’t let you off the hook with that kind of thinking. She reminds us that creativity isn’t something you have. It’s something you do. And doing it means letting go of the pressure to get it perfect the first time.

That shift matters. In classrooms. In leadership. In design. When we treat creativity like a skill instead of a talent, we open up space for trying things before we’re ready. We make room for mess. For feedback. For growth.

Whether you’re planning a lesson, testing out AI, or brainstorming a new learning experience, creativity isn’t about brilliance. It’s about movement.

Small Mistakes Matter

There’s a line in the book I keep coming back to: make small mistakes so you can course-correct along the way.

It’s simple, but it cuts through so much noise. In education, we’re often so focused on getting it right the first time. But what if we shifted the goal? What if we built space for mistakes that teach us something?

When I support teams who are exploring things like AI or designing immersive VR learning experiences, I remind them: we don’t have to launch with perfection. We just have to start. Reflect. Adjust. Keep going.

It’s not failure. It’s feedback.

The Power of Putting It on Paper

Another gem from Grace: when the idea feels too big, get it out of your head.

Sounds obvious, but how many of us let big ideas swirl until they turn into stress?

When I’m working on early-stage lesson design, especially for VR or other emerging tech, the hardest part is getting started. The second I sketch something on paper,even if it’s a mess (and sometimes especially when it’s a mess), it stops feeling like a mountain and starts feeling like a puzzle.

Grace’s advice here isn’t just tactical. It’s kind. She respects the overwhelm but doesn’t let it win.

Detours as the Main Road

One of the most encouraging ideas from the book was that detours often become the real path.

I didn’t plan for much of the work I do now. None of it was on some neat five-year plan. But somewhere between the classroom, school leadership, and the world of instructional design, I started following threads that felt like purpose. That still surprises me.

And yet, those side trails have led to some of the most aligned work I’ve done.

Grace’s reminder gave me permission to stop apologizing for the path I didn’t plan. Sometimes the unexpected turn is the destination.

Final Thought

I may not be caught up with the book club, but I did add “catch up on the book club” to at least three to-do lists this month so that counts, right? And while I haven’t earned any gold stars for participation, I have wrestled with big ideas, highlighted half the book, and scribbled questions in the margins. Maybe that’s what making possibilities looks like sometimes: quiet, nonlinear, and slightly behind schedule.

September 9, 2025
Are You My Leader? Insights from Classic Stories

This post continues my series exploring leadership lessons in the picture books that shaped me. If you’ve been following along, you know I started with sneezing elephants and then followed Grover’s panicked pages. This one? It belongs to my little brother.

A Bird, a Brother, and the Big Question

When we were kids, Are You My Mother? by P.D. Eastman was one of my younger brother’s go-to bedtime book. He couldn’t get enough of that baby bird wandering through the world, asking every creature if they were his mother. (Maybe it’s because I told him he wasn’t really my brother…haha)

It’s a sweet, silly story on the surface. But re-reading it through a leadership lens? It hits differently.

Because let’s be honest: most of us, at some point in our personal or professional journeys, have looked around and asked: Are you my person? Is this where I belong? Who’s guiding me through this?

And for those of us in leadership roles: how often do we recognize that the people we lead are walking in, asking that question of us?

Leadership as Recognition

The baby bird isn’t just looking for his mother. He’s looking for connection and affirmation. For someone who will recognize him, respond to him, and meet his needs.

Leadership, at its heart, is about that same thing: recognition.

Are we seeing the people in front of us?
Are we helping them find where they fit?
Are we guiding them, not just directing them?

Because when people feel unseen, like that baby bird talking to cows and planes and boats, they start to doubt their place. They go looking, often desperately, for someone to say, “Yes. You belong.”

And Here’s Where It Gets Techy

Today’s world is buzzing with talk of AI and machine learning, and this supposed promise to replicate human intuition, automate connection, and even mimic empathy.

But Are You My Mother? reminds me of the limits of simulation.

At its core, the baby bird’s journey is about relationship, not recognition alone. He doesn’t just want a “yes” to his question. He wants to feel known. Seen. Held in someone’s awareness.

No matter how advanced our tools become, we have to ask: can an artificial system truly replicate that? Can it understand the nuance of belonging, or the ache of being unmoored?

Don’t Be the Bulldozer

One of the most absurd moments in the book is when the baby bird asks a literal bulldozer if it’s his mother. The machine doesn’t respond, of course. It doesn’t even acknowledge the question. It simply scoops him up and drops him back into the nest.

Was it efficient? Sure.
Did it solve the problem? Technically.
But did it provide comfort and connection? Umm, I’m going to say no to this one.

That’s the cautionary tale as we advance AI. When our solutions are cold, transactional, or mechanistic, we might get people from point A to point B, but we risk leaving them emotionally stranded along the way.

True leadership doesn’t just lift. It listens.

Finding Our People

The reunion at the end isn’t dramatic. The bird finds his mother, and in that simple moment of recognition, everything settles. It wasn’t about finding the best option. It was about finding home.

As leaders, our job isn’t to have all the answers.
It’s to be present when someone asks, “Are you my person?”
And to have the wisdom—and the heart—to say, “I’m here. Let’s figure it out together.”

Let’s Keep Exploring Together

This series has me looking at childhood stories through a whole new lens. What seemed like simple bedtime tales now feel like blueprints for how we show up – for ourselves, for each other, and for the technologies we’re building.

If there’s a book that’s stayed with you… a story you loved as a kid that now whispers something deeper, I’d love to hear it.

Drop it in the comments. Let’s keep turning the pages and discovering what they have to teach us. Together.

July 21, 2025