Recently, I did a presentation at my kids’ elementary school career day.

I could go on a true-but-not-particularly-interesting digression here about how much I appreciate the work that the school staff puts into Career Day, or how nervous I was to speak in front of my own kids’ classrooms.

But I’ll spare you.

The biggest win of my Career Day experience happened because of a scheduling glitch.

You can watch the full story here or read below.

After I’d done my prepared, 15-minute presentation in three classrooms, a student volunteer led me to my fourth and final classroom of the day. 

I’d been told that this final presentation should be stretched out to 30 minutes instead of 15, which seemed doable.

But as I opened the classroom door, I realized this was one of the classes I had already finished presenting to earlier in the day.

Same room. 

Same kids, with my handouts still sitting on their desks.

Same teacher, who was expecting a new presenter.

The teacher and I shared a small, tense moment as we both realized that this wasn’t how things were supposed to happen. 

I felt her gearing up to laugh it off, send me on my way, and figure out how to keep the class busy until lunchtime.

But it was also clear that—like any teacher who has ever hosted an in-class presentation—she’d been looking forward to the 30-minute respite that teachers get when someone else does the heavy instructional lifting.

I wanted that for her.

And, because I had previous teaching experience, I knew I could provide it. 

I reassured the teacher that the situation was under control; that there was plenty more to discuss from my earlier presentation. Then, I then improvised a not-so-bad lesson where the kids brainstormed ideas and “taught” them to their classmates. 

At the end, I was rewarded with three hugs from third graders I’d never met before.

But I was also excited because I’d gotten the chance to flex an underrated educator superpower.

Finessing 30 unplanned minutes of meaningful(ish) content is not a skill that most people have. 

There are a few groups of people out there who can do this: Super Bowl commentators. Standup comics with strong crowd work. A few charismatic drunks.

But most mortals are terrified of public speaking in the first place. So, unprepared public speaking? Forget it.

Brand new teachers usually don’t have this skill either. 

For new teachers, 30-minutes of no-lesson-plan time feels like a year and a half in normal-people time. 

That’s the rationale behind “The Flotation Device Activity” in my School Year Starter Kit.

But most people with teaching experience can call up this superpower when they need to. 

Why? Because, even if you’re a meticulous lesson planner, you’ll eventually run into a circumstance that forces you to wing it.

Winging it, by the way, doesn’t mean that nothing of instructional value is happening. It just means you’re coming up with the lesson as you go along. At its best, this can force you to ask questions you wouldn’t ask, or answer questions you wouldn’t answer.

And there’s another secret that—for good reasons—nobody ever tells you in teacher training. . . 

The first time you B.S. your way through 30 minutes of instructional time can be a tremendous confidence booster. 

It can even become part of your teacher origin story. 

At least it was for me.

Six months into my first year of teaching, I found myself in front of a cafeteria full of fourth graders, a microphone in my hand. 

I was supposed to be proctoring a district-wide test. 

Except the tests weren’t in the cafeteria; they were sitting in traffic on the Houston freeway, in the back seat of the testing coordinator’s car. 

She would be there “soon.” 

I was supposed to keep the kids occupied.

Luckily, in this moment of desperation, I was able to channel my inner version of my mentor teacher, Brenda Orr. 

Ms. Orr was a wizard who could entrance a crowd of ten-year-olds with suspensefully-presented mental math problems: Now, multiply the number by ten. . . but—wait, wait—don’t say it out loud. . . Now, take away one. . . quietly put up your right hand only if you know the answer. . . okay, on the count of three, we’re going to say the answer together. . . 

When the tests finally arrived, the kids were still quietly following along as I directed them, probably using Ms. Orr’s exact intonation.

This whole incident should never have happened, obviously; the tests should have been there on time.

I came home exhausted that afternoon and collapsed onto my bed. 

But I also felt the first stirrings of some previously unknown magic, like a comic book character chased off a rooftop who suddenly notices she isn’t falling. 

That day, I’d switched into the muscle memory of teaching. I had relied on an instinct that most people don’t have—an instinct I didn’t even know I had.

And now I was part of a group of people who could do this thing.

It’s a recognizable skill, if you know the signs.

Sometimes, out in the world, I’ll watch someone emceeing a wedding, or spot someone corralling a crowd at a family reunion, and think: definitely a teacher.

This is how I know that teacher on Career Day didn’t actually need me to stay. 

She certainly could have taught a last-minute lesson to her own class if she had to. 

But I was glad she didn’t have to.