One fortunate day in 2013, I received an e-mail from Dr. William Rhine, a mentor of mine. Dr. Rhine had been the Director of Neonatology at Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital for many years, and is an avid supporter of breastfeeding, breastmilk and kangaroo care in the NICU. Having held so much loss, sadness, joy and hope for families in the neonatal ICU, not to mention raising six boys with his wife, he has a clear appreciation for life, and exudes kindness and attentive concern for anyone who crosses his path. “Jules, do you know how I might be able take a class at the d. school?” Of course, I knew who to connect him with, I had recently graduated with an MFA from Stanford’s Joint Program in Design. I wrote back, “Yes of course, I can connect you with the appropriate people there, however, I think you should teach a d.school class on the subject of NICU design.” Then the phone rang. He said, “Hi Jules, I like this suggestion, could you co-instruct the course with me?” I entertained this idea for a few silent moments. I shrunk a bit. “I’m sorry Bill, I don’t know anything about teaching.” I felt somewhat guilty turning him down, since he had helped me with one of my projects. He went on, like he didn’t hear me, “the class could be called, “Redesigning The Hospital Birth Experience.” The way he said the class name made it already seem real. The title so deeply resonated with me that for an instant I didn’t care if I didn’t know anything about teaching. I guess I’d figure it out with him, if the d. school agreed to entertain the idea. I couldn’t say “no.” It was a moment where an important person in my life was telling me what I needed to do, and it felt a bit magical. At this point in my story, the first lesson about teaching was revealed to me…

1. Courage

I’ll begin with a straightforward definition of teaching: the act of imparting knowledge or skills to another person. To become a teacher implies that I possess valuable information or abilities and that I am capable of transmitting these effectively to others. I had spent six years as a student of design, and many more than that as a professional in the field. One would think I had a wealth of golden nuggets ready to spill forth for the eager minds at the d.school. Yet something made me uncomfortable about teaching a design class on a topic that felt very personal to me. It was a subject I was still mulling over in my head due to my own disappointing and scary hospital birth experience two years earlier. What was it about sharing what I knew that left me feeling awkward, and vulnerable to judgment?

Where was the confidence I'd read about in Vogue, The New Yorker, and Psychology Today—the assuredness that supposedly arrives with midlife? The famed "I don't give a damn" mentality had utterly eluded me. I doubted whether what I had to share with students could truly shape their perspectives, challenge their assumptions, inspire them to think critically about their own work and the world around them—all the aspirations I had held as a college and graduate student.

I reminded myself that the things I'd learned to do well in my life required equal parts discipline and love. Teaching would be no different, we all have to start somewhere. After this realization, somewhere between changing diapers and completing a drawing for a new client, I felt myself being drawn—easily and imaginatively toward the curriculum of my first class, “Redesigning the Hospital Birth Experience." It seemed so elusive, and challenging but once I agreed, I was all in. I had found the courage through Bill’s enthusiastic request.

2. Setting the Stage

Before I started teaching at Stanford, a like-minded colleague I’d met during a freelance stint at Clorox recommended a book: Meditation in Action by Chögyam Trungpa. Published in 1969, it is a foundational text that explores weaving Buddhist meditation into the tapestry of daily life. Trungpa, a luminary who helped bring Tibetan Buddhism to the West, argued that meditation wasn't confined to silent moments on a cushion. Instead, it was a way to engage with the world—with mindfulness and compassion.

The book delved into many facets of living meditatively, including the art of teaching. Trungpa spoke of "setting the stage for teaching," emphasizing themes like mindfulness and presence, authenticity and openness, compassion and empathy, and embodying the very teachings one hopes to impart. In essence, preparing both the physical and emotional landscapes to nurture learning.

In our class—titled “Redesigning The Hospital Birth Experience”—and in the nine additional healthcare design courses I would co-teach over the next six years, I embraced this concept of “setting the stage” quite literally. My clinical teaching partners and I would transform medical school simulation labs into our own learning playgrounds. There, students became silent observers and note-takers during simulated emergency C-sections, neonatal resuscitations, postpartum hemorrhages, lactation consultations, or intimate conversations between doctors and parents of children with complex needs. These scenarios unfolded with lifelike mannequins, dedicated physicians and nurses, and trained actors playing patients.

In other sessions, interdisciplinary students stepped into the roles of the clinicians themselves, navigating simulated events, learning to perform medical procedures. Through these immersive experiences, they didn't just acquire knowledge—they cultivated empathy. They felt the weight of responsibility, the urgency of critical moments, and the profound impact of compassionate care. It was learning that went beyond textbooks, reaching into the visceral understanding of what it means to heal another person. Through these transformational experiences problems were identified and various solutions, (products, systems and services) were developed and tested.

Cadence

The word "cadence" traces its lineage to the Latin "cadentia," meaning "a falling," derived from "cadere," to fall. It journeyed through history, slipping into Middle English through the Old Italian "cadenza," first finding its home in the realm of music. In music, cadence is the resolution, the rhythmic flow that brings a piece to its natural conclusion. It's that subtle shift, the pause or the final note that signals to the listener that something has ended, or perhaps that something new is about to begin.

When I contemplate the cadence of a class, I'm drawn to this notion of rhythm and flow—the deliberate pacing of the learning experience crafted by the teacher. Just as a composer arranges notes to evoke emotion, a teacher orchestrates lessons for maximum engagement . The cadence in music or speech profoundly influences how an audience receives and processes information; similarly, the cadence of a class shapes students' comprehension, and overall learning.

After several years of teaching one-quarter classes at the d.school, I was offered the chance to teach a two-quarter class. Twenty weeks stretched out before me—a significant expanse of time for a college course. In the context of a healthcare design class, this was more than just additional weeks on a calendar; it was an invitation to go deeper. Research is paramount in identifying meaningful needs, and having the luxury of time allows for a thorough exploration that isn't rushed by looming project completion deadlines. The time permitted us to focus the entire first quarter on research with stakeholders. The second quarter we doubled down on developing and testing multiple prototypes, each one refining the last, fostering a level of rigor that is both challenging and deeply satisfying. The extended timeframe also fostered an authentic sense of community within the class. Relationships strengthened in their self-formed project groups. They supported one another, not just by dividing tasks, but by genuinely engaging with others' ideas.

As the weeks unfolded, the projects evolved in ways that wouldn't have been possible in shorter, one-quarter classes. The students weren't just creating designs; they were crafting solutions imbued with a much deeper level of patient understanding. They had the time to test their prototypes in real-world settings, to gather feedback, and to make meaningful adjustments. The rigor of this process elevated their work from theoretical exercises to practical innovations that had the potential to make a real difference in people's lives. The word "cadence" may have begun as a term for "a falling," but in the context of teaching, it feels more like "a flowing." The current that carries us along, moving us toward greater understanding and connection with the people we are aiming to serve.

Support

When I was an undergraduate at the Rhode Island School of Design, I wasn't sure which major to pursue. Up until the age of eighteen, my world revolved around drawing, painting, and printmaking. One day, during a foundational 3D class, my teacher pulled me aside. Her eyes trained on me. "What major are you considering?" she asked. I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Printmaking, maybe Illustration," I replied. She raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. "If I were you," she said slowly, "I would seriously consider sculpture or industrial design (ID). Go down to the Metcalf Building and check out the workshops, we need more women down there."

Her words lingered with me like a catchy song you heard that morning on the radio (this was back in the days when we listened to an actual radio). Curiosity nudged me toward the Metcalf Building, a place I'd never ventured before. As I stepped inside, I was enveloped by the cacophony of machine sounds. The air smelled of metal shavings, oil, wood and heat. I'd spent most of high school either playing field hockey or holed up quietly drawing in my bedroom. The world of the built object was foreign territory. I had never been exposed to such tools—the lathes, the milling machines, the drills. It was mind-blowing, like discovering a window in your house with a view you never saw.

Earlier in the year, I had met Justin Brown, another freshman whose confidence in his chosen path was palpable. Justin was energetic and friendly with a bounce in his step. He had fair New England skin and a shock of thick red hair. Justin had his sights firmly set on the industrial design major. He saw me from across the metal shop that day and recognized the mix of awe and hesitation in my eyes. "Thinking about joining ID?" he asked with a friendly grin. I laughed nervously. "I'm not sure. It's a bit overwhelming." He told me about how he spent his high school summer vacations in shops building metal parts for machines, while I watched him find his way around a lathe and a Bridgeport mill as if they were his dance partners. I envied his comfort with the materials, the processes—the joy he found in this tactile work. It felt so powerful to make three-dimensional objects with one’s own hands.

"Do you think I could do it?" I asked, voicing the doubt that weighed on me. Justin looked at me earnestly. "I'll help you, Jules. If you need a hand, just let me know." I’ll never forget when Justin assisted me with whittling down a huge piece of aluminum I had ordered to make a lamp base. The bottom had to be completely hollowed out on a lathe so I could fit a transformer inside. Reflecting on his words freshman year, I realize how profound the concept of support truly is. In the realm of teaching college students, especially within the dynamic landscape of a project-based class, support is everything.

As instructors, our support extends beyond delivering lectures or grading assignments. We become mentors, guides through uncharted territories. We help students find the resources they need to advance—connecting them with experts, pointing them toward the right research materials, offering a listening ear when they hit a roadblock. I think of the times I've sat with students, confused about prototypes that weren’t quite right, and the relief that washed over their faces when they realized they didn't have to figure it all out alone.

But support isn't confined to the teacher-student relationship. The greater community plays a pivotal role too, especially when projects intersect with real-world issues like healthcare. In many of the classes I co-instructed at Stanford, we brought in patients or their families to provide feedback on student prototypes. Watching my students present their ideas to those who would be directly affected was humbling. The insights gained were invaluable—stories of lived experiences that no textbook could convey. In these interactions, students learned the true impact of their work, understanding that design isn't just about aesthetics or functionality but about people’s lives.

Peer support within the classroom is another vital ingredient. In a project-based setting, collaboration is the underpinning of progress. Students lean on each other, sharing skills and perspectives that enrich their collective understanding. I've witnessed groups where one student's proficiency in technology complemented another's flair for aesthetics, creating a synergy that elevated their project beyond individual capabilities. It's in these moments they learn the art of teamwork—the give and take that mirrors the professional world they'll soon enter.

Of course, the university itself is a reservoir of support, though its vastness can sometimes feel overwhelming. There are resources to help navigate intellectual property rights, offering guidance to ensure that students' innovations are protected. Libraries stand ready to assist with literature reviews, enabling students to ground their projects in existing knowledge while identifying research gaps they can fill. Part of our role as educators is to illuminate these pathways, helping students tap into the support that surrounds them, albeit sometimes hidden.

My intention is to show up as every student's "Justin Brown." To be that encouraging voice that says, "You can do this," even when doubt creeps in. Just as Justin's offer of help made all the difference for me, I strive to be that source of encouragement for my students.

In 2013, the journey of my life experience, teaching, and design intertwined in ways I could never have anticipated. Reflecting now, I recognize how the intertwined lessons of Courage, Setting the Stage, Cadence, and Support have not only shaped my teaching philosophy, but also transformed me personally. Teaching is a truly reciprocal journey where we all learn and grow together. As I move forward, these lessons remain the foundation upon which I work to create meaningful educational experiences, committed to inspiring and being inspired by those I have the privilege to teach.