You’re teaching heroes

How overdoing it kills your students’ learning

I used to be a monster at building workshops.

I packed in everything I could. Everything that felt too good to skip. Theory, tools, insights. Nothing but value.

Tons of value.

I was trying to be everything at once: presenter, instructor, motivator. All pulling in different directions. Believing that if I just covered enough ground, I could guarantee their transformation.

My students were mostly confused. Some disappeared and never returned.

While I was busy trying to provide value, in reality, I was just taking up all the space. Desperately trying to anticipate, deliver, and impress.

It was way too much of just me, me, me.

So yes, a monster at building workshops. Just not in a good way.

Chimera

There’s a creature in Greek mythology called the Chimera.

She’s a truly monstrous, fire-breathing creature, built from randomly stacked parts that look like they were never meant to be stitched together. Composed of a lion’s head, with a goat’s head sticking out of her body, and a serpent for a tail.

She’s what I become when I try to do too much. When I over-teach, over-structure, over-explain. When I’m filling every silence trying to fit it all in. I turn into a fire-breathing monster.

It’s never what I set out to be. But I can’t always help myself.

Tinkering with my curriculum is just too much fun. I’m so incredibly passionate about all these “golden nuggets” that I want to share that I unconsciously turn them into darlings that I’m going to have to kill later. But I never do…

When I try to stuff intense amounts of value in my students’ faces, I not only stop being helpful and supportive, I’m basically making sure that they shut down. Overwhelmed, overloaded, unsure what to do with all this.

In that moment, my fiery breath is actually burning them.

I’m not alone in this. Online workshops and courses have been my jam for years now, and I’ve seen many creators fall into the same trap.

It’s all well-meaning and value-packed, but scattered and frantic. Like we’re trying to do the work for our students. And that will never work.

For me, it took learning how to coach to realize that underneath all that urgency and effort is a lack of trust.

In ourselves, but more importantly, in our students’ ability to learn, to grow, and to find their own way.

No wonder we end up looking like the Chimera.

Chiron

We’re all hybrids. A mixed bag of many voices, roles, and impulses. But that doesn’t mean we have to become monsters.

All the way on the other end of the spectrum of Greek “monsters”, there’s a calm and friendly centaur called Chiron.

He was known for his wisdom, composure, and sense of care.

An obvious hybrid himself, he was half man half horse. Not a collision of creatures like the Chimera, but something much more integrated and balanced. The stability and force of a horse. The dexterity and awareness of a human.

Most centaurs were nothing like him. Wild and reckless, driven by instinct.

But Chiron was different. He was born of unusual parents, and raised by Apollo himself. That mix of lineage, learning, and character made him the mentor of many heroes like Achilles, Hercules, Jason, and others.

What set him apart wasn’t his authority or knowledge, it was his attitude: present, observant, and inviting.

He trusted each student’s path, welcoming their unique pace, process, and ability to grow. Not trying to shape them into his image but letting them become who they were meant to be.

And that trust made him a better teacher than all the others.

Teaching heroes

These days, I still build a solid curriculum. I still care about structure, clarity, and presentation.

But since I’ve learned to teach with a coach’s attitude, I don’t overdo it. I don’t try to teach by firehose anymore.

Where I used to teach ten topics, I now teach one. I cover the core ideas in a short video, accompanied by a cheat-sheet that fits on a single page.

The live sessions are where the real learning happens. Instead of a non-stop lecture, we use our time to discuss, pull apart, and grapple with the material together. Making sure they get to engage, reflect, and practice. I still guide but mostly, I get out of their way.

I used to scratch my head after sessions, wondering why no one spoke up. Now, I can barely finish my opening before the room fills with energy.

Of course, I still feel the urge to do too much. To tinker, to add one more module, one more “essential” insight.

But when I do, I know what’s happening.

The Chimera’s back.

And I remind myself: I’m teaching heroes here.