Thorn in Her Paw

Our three year old came home from school one day with a splinter in her thumb. In her mind, this was the most fascinating event that had ever happened in her life. She explained, in great detail, how she got the splinter on a piece of bamboo during craft time. She talked endlessly about how her friends had gathered around to share in her excitement and gawk at her finger. She gabbed on and on about her teachers' reaction to her splinter, and she boasted proudly about how brave she was through it all. We could barely get her to eat dinner for all the talk of timber.

But as the night wound down and her bedtime drew near, we informed her that we would have to take out the splinter.

Her big saucer eyes blinked at us with confusion.

We explained that we didn't want the splinter to cause an infection. We couldn't leave it in her finger.

Blink. Blink.

Then we reached for the tweezers.

From that point forward, the most fascinating experience of our child's life turned into the most traumatic three days in our house.

Morning and night we pleaded with our screaming child. Begged her to just hold still for one minute so we could pluck the log from her thumb. Instead of relenting, she would wail dramatically and crawl up to the highest point on the nearest piece of furniture. We asked for help from her teachers, but they are not legally allowed to pull out splinters. They stood quite firm on this. And not a single teacher would bend to my attempts at backdoor bribery.

Finally, I had the bright idea to wait until our child was sleeping. We would sneak into her room with a flashlight and tweezers and gently extract the plank from her precious thumb. So that night, we bathed her, read her a story, put her to bed and waited.

When we heard her coherent talking shift into her sleep talking--a shift we are experts in discerning--we snuck up the stairs. Jim carried the flashlight and I had the traumatizing tongs at the ready. But as we grabbed her hand and turned it toward the beam of light, we saw a pink, vacant slit in her thumb.

The splinter was gone.

It had worked its way out on its own.

This semester I taught four courses. And for one of the courses, Research Methods, I taught two sections. One was held during the day, and one at night. After the first few weeks of class, I began to see a startling difference in the way the two classes would respond to various assignments, lectures and tests. One section was better at presentations; the other had higher exams scores. One was more laid back; the other more serious. One preferred group projects; the other wanted to work on their own.

I felt as if I was conducting a research experiment between two test groups.

The most notable difference between the two sections came during their final project. They had to use the almighty scientific method to form and test a hypothesis on themselves. For this, they needed to identify a problem in their lives--study habits, stress levels, social media addiction, etc.--and determine an intervention that could alleviate it.

Students had to meticulously track numerous variables for a week, then impose the intervention on themselves, and then track their progress for another week. They had to statistically analyze all the quantitative and qualitative data, then write up and graphically illustrate the findings.

I urged students to think about something in their lives they were already wanting to change. Give thought to a behavior or habit they felt was an obstacle to overcome. Allow this project to be a great excuse to improve their lives.

Both classes seemed skeptical. And hesitant.

Due to the personal nature of the project, I decided that instead of individually presenting their findings with a formal presentation, we would instead, sit in a circle and have a discussion about the triumphs, and failures, of their research.

It's my personal opinion that empirical research doesn't have enough open dialogue.

Or hugs.

The first class gathered around the last night in a large circle with reports and charts in their laps. Their strange, nervous energy had me wondering if the assignment was an epic failure.

A student volunteered to speak first. She had experimented with reducing stress through daily meditation. She found that twenty minutes of meditation in the morning showed a statistically significant difference in her stress level scales. She even found that when controlling for the stress variable of Thanksgiving, meditation was still effective.

The next student also wanted to reduce stress and assumed that having an hour of downtime in the morning would help. She found it did. Not only did she feel less stressed, but she also saw a spike in her productivity, especially on the days she spent her down time away from electronics. Another student wondered if his stress could be lowered if he listened to classical music for a set amount of time in the afternoon. His data was less conclusive, but the anecdotal evidence was promising.

Another student increased the amount of quality time he spent with his girlfriend in an attempt to reduce the stress on their relationship. While he had mostly positive results, the girlfriend did not enjoy discovering, after the fact, that she was part of an experiment. One student went a week without any form of social media to see if it increased happiness. She had the most significant data to present, but warned that the withdraws were difficult and relapse was inevitable.

On and on, student after student talked about the one small modification they made in an attempt to affect positive change in their lives. While most students had significant success with their experiment, a few didn't. Those who didn't have success were reflective. Perhaps they measured the wrong variables. Others bemoaned a lack of rigidity with the intervention. Some wondered if they computed their calculations incorrectly.

But despite all the differences in the outcomes, there was one constant among the night class--they almost all chose to affect their stress levels.

I tried to look at that as a coincidence and not a reflection on my course.

The next day's class alleviated my concerns. We gathered around in a circle in the sun-soaked classroom and everyone seemed relaxed. Numerous students volunteered to speak first. The first student said she had incorporated thirty minutes of exercise to see if it helped her sleep quality. She found that she not only had a significant increase in sleep quality (as tracked by a sleep monitoring devise under her pillow), but she also stopped having headaches and lost 5 pounds.

Another said she decided to stop watching TV at night in an attempt to get better sleep. Not only did she find statistically significant difference in her sleep quality, but she didn't need to use the alarm clock. Another tried reading 15 minutes at night to see if it improved her sleep. Not only did it improve her sleep significantly, but she also realized she's a Harry Potter fan.

Student after student spoke excitedly about their experiments. Again, most had success and others wished they could tweak their intervention or track different variables.

But in the day class, almost every single student tackled the issue of sleep.

I knew that wasn't on me.

After a long semester of exploring the rich details of research design, I felt the students finally understood the importance of experimentation and the power of validated results. They seemed hopeful, excited, empowered.

I was proud of how creative and introspective the students were about their behaviors and the outcomes from their changes in them. Students seemed surprised at how easily their lives were improved and appreciated having hard data to substantiate their improvements.

Was it possible that I not only showed them the importance of research by personalizing it, but did I also help everyone improve their lives?

Assuming I had indeed, I posed the same final question to each group of twenty: Did they continue with the intervention after the assignment was over?

And in both classes, heads lowered.

Most everyone had immediately stopped their interventions and resumed their behaviors as normal.


The morning after my daughter's splinter had magically worked its way out by itself, we awoke to the sound of her excited screams.

"It's out! It's out!" she exclaimed, running around her room with her thumb triumphantly thrusted skyward.

We danced around with her, excited for her victory. And even more excited that that portion of our life--the one in which we pleaded with a screaming child in an attempt to reduce the chance of infection while promising her candy corn for letting us--was over.

And it happened all on its own.

Reflecting on my two classes' individual research projects, I'm able to draw one substantial conclusion.

Change cannot be forced.

You can fear it, you can dread it, you can run screaming from it like it's a tweezer-wielding parent.

But you can't force it.

I suppose if my students really wanted to change a habit in their lives, they would. If they wanted to be on Facebook less, they would. If they wanted better sleep, they'd get it. If they wanted a better relationship, they'd have it.

Because bad habits and negative behaviors are like menacing obstructions buried deep beneath the skin. At some point, it needs to be removed. And there's plenty of research that points to the most probable outcome:

It will work itself out.