Edwin was there every day in Ms. I’s English class, slouched so low in his desk that only his forehead showed above the desktop horizon. When called on, he’d emit something between a sigh and a grunt. Pure Eeyore energy radiating from a body that seemed to be melting into the floor.
The maddening part? Edwin’s diagnostic scores were sky-high. Top quarter of all students. This wasn’t a kid who couldn’t grasp the material. This was a kid who had apparently decided that doing the work wasn’t worth the effort of sitting upright.
Teachers tried everything. Carrots and sticks. Incentives with manga books (his obsession). Extended detention. The full motivational arsenal that usually works on middle schoolers.
Nothing.
Then came the day Ms. I called me for backup. I walked in to find Edwin in his signature slump, maybe asleep. She tapped him on the shoulder and nodded toward the door. Hallway conference.
He dragged himself out and leaned against the wall. That’s when it hit me.
The manga books. The superheroes. The ace test scores buried under a disinterested demeanor.
“Edwin,” I said, matching his slouch, “you know Clark Kent, right?”
His eyes flickered. “Superman.”
“Right. We need an alter ego for you.”
His face twisted into a question mark.
“You’ve got everyone fooled,” I told him, dead serious. “But I know who you really are.”
“You do?"
“You’re not the kid I just saw in that classroom. Superman has Clark Kent. Edwin [REDACTED] needs his own alter ego. Tell me what it is.”
Without hesitation: “Rick Narsh.”
I didn’t smile. I let the name hang in the air.
“Rick Narsh. That’s solid. From now on, I need Rick Narsh in there.” I pointed back toward class. “We’ve got enough civilians. But I need someone I can count on. Can I?”
He stood taller. “You can.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rick Narsh.”
I patted his shoulder and sent him back inside. From then on, he was never the same. He went on to become a student ambassador, one of the highest honors at our school.
The Lie We Tell Ourselves
Think that story sounds made up? Ask any founding member of the Nashville Prep team—they’ll remember Rick Narsh.
I tell it because one of the most destructive lies we believe is that people can’t fundamentally change. My years coaching kids, political candidates, and entrepreneurs say otherwise.
Big change, as they say, isn’t easy. But it is possible . . . under the right conditions.
The first is desire, usually born from painful realization. By the time I found Edwin slumped in that hallway, he was already near his breaking point. A string of disappointments had left him raw and ready, though he didn’t know it yet. His “invisible resistance” strategy was costing him more than it was protecting him. Deep down, he knew that.
Yet pain and disappointment are just as likely to be destructive as helpful. That’s why you need the second condition, what researchers call the fresh start effect.
Wharton’s Katy Milkman coined the term to describe the surge of energy we feel at natural transition points—New Year’s Day, birthdays, the start of a school term, a move, a new relationship. These landmarks help us mentally disconnect from our past selves.
“This is a moment of new beginning,” Milkman told me over the phone.
But the power isn’t in the calendar or the life event. As Charles Duhigg reminded me: January 1st is no different from December 31st or January 2nd. The difference is anticipation. We prepare. We plan. We circle the date.
When Milkman’s team tried to manufacture fresh starts, it failed. The moment has to matter.
For Edwin, meaning came in that hallway (and I was the one who did the anticipating for him). The name “Rick Narsh” became his clean break, as powerful as moving to a new city.
Part of the challenge wasn’t just how he saw himself. It was how others saw him. Many had already filed him under “lost cause.”
I know something about that.
In middle school, after my dad disappeared, I drank heavily, cut class, got arrested. Everyone saw me as a screwup, and I played the part.
I got two fresh starts. In high school I improved, but in college I transformed. The difference? In college, I deliberately changed the people around me. They didn’t know the screwup version of me, so they had no reason to expect it.
The formula was simple but hard: I had to both believe I could change (and want it) . . . and I had to be around people willing to see me differently.
That lesson shaped how I led as a principal. By the time kids landed in my office, they’d heard every lecture about what they’d done wrong. My job was different. My job was to look them in the eyes and say: I see your potential. We all do. You’re Rick Narsh.
(There’s an art and science to those pep talks, something I will expand on in future posts)
Your Secret Identity
The most profound changes happen when we stop letting our mistakes define us and instead seize the chance for a fresh start.
Maybe yours is January 1st. Maybe it’s your birthday. Maybe it’s the day you start therapy, move cities, or make one new friend. The date or moment matters less than what you make of it.
But remember: both pieces are essential. You need to believe change is possible, and you need people who see you as more than your past. Sometimes that means finding new friends. Sometimes it means giving the old ones permission to see you differently . . . or making them.
And sometimes it just means finding someone to look you in the eyes and ask: What’s your superhero name?
I use a version of this technique myself. Each year when I tackle a new skill, I don't just circle January 1st on the calendar, I work on building a new identity to go with it. I am a writer, and here's my writer persona. I am learning Spanish, and here's who I become when I speak it. Sometimes I even give myself new names for these identities.
And no, I'm not sharing those names with you.
Edwin's transformation wasn't magic. It was recognition of potential that had always been there, waiting for the right moment and the right person to bring it into the light.
But here's what I want you to consider: What story are you telling yourself about who you are? What character have you been playing that no longer serves you?
Maybe you're the person who "isn't good with money." Maybe you're "not a morning person." Maybe you're someone who "doesn't do relationships" or "isn't creative" or "can't change."
Those stories feel true because you've been living them. But they're just stories.
And yes, I know: this is veering dangerously close to me pacing a stage in a headset mic, shouting “Unleash the Power Within!” But bear with me here for a few more seconds.
Your fresh start is coming—January 1st, your next birthday, Monday morning, or the moment you finish reading this. The calendar doesn't matter. What matters is your willingness to step into a new role.
So tell me: What's your superhero name?