I picked up a book called Lab Girl by Hope Jahren this summer. It’s an option on Del Oro’s AP Language summer reading list, and I try to keep up with all of these books if I can.
I’m glad I did.
I expected a book about science. It turned out to be a little science mixed together with a lot of friendship, curiosity, persistence, and the quiet beauty of paying attention to the world.
Jahren brought more meaning to plants (especially trees) than I had ever considered. She made plants feel like stories instead of specimens. After a while, you stop thinking of trees as scenery and start seeing them as living things with incredible strategies for surviving and adapting.
More than anything, though, the book made me long for adventure.
Not the kind where you’re hanging off a cliff or jumping out of an airplane. The kind where you find people you genuinely enjoy working with, tackle problems that seem impossibly big, and spend years figuring them out together. As a principal, I get glimpses of that every year. Creating a culture, helping students find belonging, supporting teachers as they grow… those are big problems worth spending a career on. Reading Lab Girl reminded me how meaningful that kind of work is (especially because I get to do it alongside people I love and trust).
The friendship between Hope Jahren and Bill is really the heart of the book. Their relationship isn’t flashy or sentimental. It’s built on showing up, solving problems together, surviving setbacks, and believing in each other’s work. It made me think about the people I’ve been fortunate enough to work beside over the years and how much any meaningful accomplishment depends on those relationships.
And then there’s the oak tree.
Lab Girl left me wanting to plant one.
There’s something deeply hopeful about planting an oak. You do it knowing you’ll never experience it as it was meant to be experienced. You’re investing in shade you’ll never sit under, branches you’ll never climb, and acorns you’ll never collect. It’s a quiet reminder that some of the best things we do aren’t really for us.
Education can be a lot like that.
Every decision we make, every tradition we begin, every student we encourage, every teacher we support is a little like planting an oak. The results often don’t show up immediately. Sometimes they don’t show up until years later, long after students have graduated and moved on. But that doesn’t make the work any less worthwhile. In fact, it may be exactly what gives it meaning.
So yes, I think I’m going to plant an oak tree.
Maybe years from now, one of my grandkids will sit beneath it without giving much thought to who planted it. Honestly, that feels about right.
Mr. Zerwas 