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I’m so old…
I was born in 1968.
That sentence alone will land differently depending on who’s reading it. For some of you, that makes me ancient. For others, it makes me a peer. And for a few of you, it makes me suspiciously young enough to still remember how to program a VCR.
But I’ve lived through a lot of change.
I’m so old I lived through the 200th birthday of the United States. The Bicentennial. Red, white, and blue everything. Tall ships. Fireworks that felt like a core memory before we even knew what core memories were. (Fun Stacy Facts: My ‘lucky number’ is the age my mom was in 1976 because she was so happy that year. I was also too young to process that I’d be old enough one day to see our country’s 250th birthday.)
I’m so old I lived in a time when there was a penny, and people actually used it. We didn’t debate whether it was worth more melted down than in circulation. We just… had pennies. Lots of them. In ashtrays. In cup holders. In those little brown envelopes teachers sent home.
I’m so old I lived in a time when toilet paper was considered scarce. Not metaphorically scarce. Not “on sale” scarce. Actually scarce. And we all learned, very quickly, that supply chains are real, fragile things and you can never have too much toilet paper on hand.
I’m so old that when I was a student, my worksheets came off a mimeograph machine. If you know, you know. Purple ink. Slightly damp paper. That unmistakable chemical smell that every kid inhaled deeply because, let’s be honest, it smelled weirdly amazing. No one was worried about fumes. Or accessibility. Or whether the contrast ratio met WCAG guidelines.
We just took the worksheet and got to work.
I’m so old I remember when research meant encyclopedias. Actual books. Heavy ones. If someone else had the “T” volume checked out, you were out of luck. You didn’t pivot to another tab, you pivoted to another topic.
I’m so old I remember when calling someone meant hoping they were home. And if they weren’t, you just… didn’t talk to them. No text. No voicemail transcription. No read receipts. Just uncertainty and vibes. Oh, and not all my friends had seven-digit numbers, now we all have 10-digit numbers!
And here’s the thing: none of this is a lament.
It’s not a “kids these days” rant. It’s not nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It’s perspective.
Because I’ve lived long enough to see that change is not an interruption to life. It is life.
Every generation has its “this is the end of civilization” moment. Calculators. Cable TV. The internet. Smartphones. Social media. AI. Every single one sparked fear, skepticism, and resistance. And to be clear, some of that concern was justified. Some changes are harmful. Some need guardrails, governance, and thoughtful implementation.
But fighting change simply because it’s change? That never ages well.
As a species, adaptation is literally how we survived. As individuals, it’s how we grow. And as leaders, it’s how we avoid becoming the cautionary tale that starts with, “They were great once, but then…”
In education and EdTech especially, I see this tension constantly. We say we want innovation, but only if it doesn’t disrupt anything. We say we value lifelong learning, but only if it doesn’t require us to feel uncomfortable, unskilled, or, heaven forbid, like a beginner again.
The irony is that the very students we’re preparing for the future will have to adapt far more frequently than we ever did. Jobs will change. Tools will change. Entire fields will appear and disappear. If we model resistance instead of curiosity, fear instead of discernment, rigidity instead of adaptability—what lesson are we really teaching?
I’m so old… and because of that, I’ve learned something important.
Change doesn’t ask for permission. It shows up anyway.
The question isn’t whether change will happen. The question is whether we’ll engage with it thoughtfully, ethically, and with a willingness to learn, or whether we’ll dig in our heels and get left behind complaining about the good old days of purple worksheets and pennies.
Progress doesn’t require us to abandon our values. It requires us to carry them forward into new contexts.
And honestly? If we can survive mimeograph fumes, we can survive this too.
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