When I found out we were having a child, the first thing I bought for him was a globe. There were plenty of much more useful items that should’ve been at the top of my list. Yet I immediately went out searching for a globe. Somehow his impending arrival gave me the impulse to buy him the entire world. This sounds ridiculous, I know. He’d clearly be too young to appreciate the sentiment, but that wasn’t going to stop me. Not thinking clearly and determined to get that kid the world, or some physical representation of it, I bought a globe and placed it in a special spot in his nursery. It was an old globe. Several of the countries on it no longer existed. Much of it was inaccurate. Yet it’s still our planet, and I wanted him to know about it.

At the time I didn’t quite realize this, but I was tapping into something impressed on me by my fifth-grade teacher. There’s much about fifth grade I can’t recall. I remember only a fraction of it, and sadly it isn’t the part where we learned about fractions. I think the teacher would be happy to know that a deeper lesson stuck with me. It was a simple spark that has only grown since.

We were preparing for a giant test on maps. This maps test had been hyped up for weeks. The teacher had distributed study guides. It was a very big deal, or so we were told. In the midst of this test preparation, a brave classmate boldly interrupted the teacher.

With an annoyed grumble, he initiated a classic teacher-student conversation. He posed a question, but it didn’t seem like he really wanted a reply. None of us really expected one. The eight little words he spoke have been part of education discourse since the very first school bell rang. He raised his hand and said, “When are we ever going to use this?”

A classic, right?

The teacher did not explode. Her response wasn’t gruff. I’m certain she was annoyed, but her reply didn’t show it. She calmly reached up to pull down the retractable classroom map of the world. With her back to all of us, she turned to look at the map. She motioned toward it and said, “Look! This is where you live. This is your home. I’d think you’d want to know about it.”

Now, I’d thought of my house as a home. I’d even thought of my classroom desk as a safe home. Yet I’d never thought about our planet as a home. The map was big and I occupied merely a teeny-tiny pinpoint spot on it. That’s it. Just a pocket-sized mouse tucked away safely with no intention of going beyond my little hole-in-the-wall.

I didn’t have the courage to get up to go to a pencil sharpener, much less another part of the world. But that day, my idea of who I was on this planet and my place in it expanded. You don’t forget days like that. Though I’ve forgotten many of the details of fifth grade, I have not forgotten that teacher or that moment. My sense of self and my perspective widened.

Great grownups have a habit of helping you do that.

Look! This is where you live. This is your home. I’d think you’d want to know about it.

In an effort to bring more playfulness into my classroom visits, I created a map. Not just any map, mind you. This was a treasure map. The idea was to have something I could share with students that would spark even more discussions. Often they would ask me questions, and while I wanted to be polite, I was there to listen, not speak. Because many of the students had watched videos I’d created or read things I’d written as part of their classes, they would often ask how I made things. Now, instead of giving an answer they might forget or misinterpret, I could provide them with a tool that might possibly help unlock their own making.

In an age of GPS and maps on our phones, we no longer get the satisfaction of unfolding a crunchy paper map and charting our course. Though students might be coming of age in a much different wayfinding era, the magic of having a treasure map in one’s hands has never been lost. Each time I unrolled the map, eyes would light up. My favorite moments were in small classrooms where I could lay the map in the middle of the floor. The entire class—teacher included—would gather around to see. There’d be an electric hush as everyone moved in to get a view. I’d then ask, “So, where are you on the map?”

This is when things would get really interesting. The responses were always, quite literally, all over the map. Without hesitation, students shared the places they either were currently or had been recently. I loved how instinctively they’d pick up on the meaning behind different places. These were not physical locations, but internal ones: Inspiration Island, Doubt Valley, Meadow of Memory. All these are places one might find oneself at any given point in a day.

Originally, the map was created as a representation of places I’d visited. The treacherous waters of the Sea of Sharing have tossed me about for years, and I’ve practically kept a houseboat at the Sea of Insecurity. Many days have been spent in the sticky grasp of the Tar Pits of Approval. I’ve experienced success and seen a glimpse of the full beauty and grandeur of the journey as I stood atop Wonder Mountain. Yet I’ve also left the mountaintop to immediately wander lost and without aim through Doubt Valley. These were, in my mind, silly ways to depict very grownup feelings. The students, though, helped remind me that these were not silly, nor were they just grownup feelings. These were very human feelings.

I’ll never forget a young girl named Amair and her brave response to the map. Surrounded by her fellow fourth graders, Amair leapt up. She pointed and repeatedly tapped on the Fog of Fear. “There,” she said. “I been living right there.” Her grandmother had passed away over the summer. She carried a deep sadness and was worried about losing other people she loved. There was no pause after she shared this. Her words were immediately received by caring classmates who hugged her and offered up thoughtful, encouraging words. She wasn’t alone.

Comparison Canyon was a popular spot for many students. They instantly understood the pain of wishing you were someone else. One of my favorite moments with this little spot started when a fifth grader named Noah shared. Looking around at the other kids in his class, he commented on how his legs were shorter than theirs.

He felt as if he were looking over Comparison Canyon every single day because he wanted to be able to run as fast as they could. This is when the teacher spoke up: “You know, I was actually going to say that’s where I am at, too.” The students seemed stunned. This teacher went on to share how he looked around at other teachers in their school and wished he could be like them. As the teacher shared how he, too, understood the perils of comparison, you could see a powerful classroom bond forming. In the same way that I’d forgotten the complex emotions on this map were not just for grownups, many young people were surprised to find out that they were not just for kids, either.

The Comments section was originally included as a small, personal joke. Having done so much of my work on the internet, I’ve wrestled with online comments aplenty.

I depicted this section as a spot with very little life. Some nourishment can be found if you are brave enough. There’s a cactus, but you do risk getting pricked by its needles. Beyond the not-so-subtle commentary on internet culture, many students found something beyond what I’d intended. A fifth grader named Jasmine said that she’d found herself in the Comments section and that she’d been trying to stop worrying about the things people said about her. That wasn’t why she was in the Comments section of the map, though. She revealed that she was trying to add life to the Comments section. She knew the pain words could cause and she’d been trying to fill her school with better ones. I was blown away. This whole time I was thinking that I’d included the Comments section only as a joke about the internet. This young woman made me realize that it’s an actual place we live in daily.

So much of where we are on the map is about choice—what we choose to do there and where we choose to go next. If at any time you find yourself stuck somewhere like, say, the Tar Pits of Approval, you can choose to leave.

You can go climb mountains or explore valleys. You can also just stay in one spot. The Cliffs of Comfort are an option, but you do have to be aware of its other name: Point Nowhere. It’s a spot where nothing happens. If you’re looking to grow, all these places on the map must be momentary destinations. Choose wisely.

I was amazed at how much better kids understood this map than I did. As they spoke about the many locations they’d visited, I heard them articulate things I’d never quite put into words. This was especially clear when we talked about the Unexplored Territories. I’d marked them for a reason. Good cartographers are always interested in making their work more accurate, so I asked the students to help add to the map.

The students again amazed me. They added to the map with great imagination and even greater insight.

I discovered previously uncharted places like Guilt Gulch, Happiness Hollow, and Indecision Interstate. One classroom added a special spot they called the Good Place to Cry. Another classroom decided the map needed a dance floor. Students added problematic pirate ships and joyous jet skis to the seas. I was thrilled when one student drew a small circle and told everyone it was a portal to the other side of the map. He then flipped the map over and began to draw. The possibilities seemed endless.

This handmade map became the spark for some of the most meaningful discussions of the Listening Tour. Doodles of places I’d felt stuck in and scribbles of inner feelings I’d been traveling through had been filling my notebooks. Now, as I shared them, they inspired something. Students began not only adding to my map but also creating maps of their own. I was thrilled when a fourth-grade teacher named Mrs. Pagano sent me images of several maps her students had created. She made special note of one in particular. On this map, a student had built in a spot where all his favorite things would always be. He called it the Awesome Spot. In this spot, he’d placed video games, books, ice cream, and, much to her surprise, Mrs. Pagano herself.

Before this, he hadn’t done anything that showed he especially liked his teacher. In fact, before this she wasn’t sure they were connecting at all. He’d never taken much initiative to engage beyond what was asked of him. Now, here he was, drawing a map of the many places he’d been traveling and places he’d like to go. Plus, without even knowing she would see this map, he included her in the Awesome Spot. Mrs. Pagano realized just how much more deep exploration had been happening inside this young man than she’d ever thought. Even more so, she realized that she’d unwittingly been the exact grownup he needed to help him grow and explore.

As the tour went on, the map reached beyond classroom walls. Teachers began asking if they could use it with the rest of their schools’ staff. School principals began pinning it up. Creative teams began using the map to discuss where they were in their process. One especially unforeseen use of the map came when a few different prison-rehabilitation programs discovered it. They found the spirit of it to be a helpful way for men and women to express where they were and where they’d like to be as they reentered society. Through silly scribbles, I’d begun seeing people explore some serious things. I began carrying maps with me everywhere I went.

One spot on the map seemed to resonate with many grownups, though most students didn’t gravitate toward it at all. Maybe kids weren’t clear on what it was, or maybe they’re just that wise. It was once one of my favorite spots, too: the Mines of Hustle.

Oftentimes people would ask me where I was on the map. I’d tell them I’d like to think I was in the Mines of Hustle. I tried to encourage people to move into these mines. This spot on the map was an expression of a lesson I’d been learning on the deep value of inner work. My thinking was that what we each need, and what the world at large needs, is more heart-led work.

Once, the person seated beside me on an airplane opened up about her struggles starting a new business. I handed her a map and told her how much we needed her in the mines, hustling not just for financial gain but also for diamonds of heart. There in the mines you can easily work for the wrong thing. She cut me off.

She explained that this new business was her heart. She had poured so much of herself into every part of this project. She was completely drained. The mine was empty. As she spoke, I could hear her exhaustion and it made me wonder if I’d been wrong about the mines. Maybe kids were wise not to gravitate toward this spot. In her voice I recognized the same dead-eyed burnout I’d experienced. The canaries had sung, and yet I’d continued the hustle to the point of illness. In my exhaustion I was trying to pull other people into the mines, too. She and I had both spent way too long in the mines. It was time to chart a different course.

I still visit the Mines of Hustle often, and I’d encourage you to do the same. But now I mine for a different kind of diamond. However, it’s no longer the spot where I want to spend all my time. The place I encouraged my friend on the plane to go as soon as possible is the same place I’d discovered the wisdom of children: the Campfire. It is gathered around the warmth of the campfire where you can share the diamonds you’ve uncovered.

It is also there where you can pause and find nourishment in the warmth of community. It is where we share and feed both ourselves and each other.

Huddled around this map in classrooms, children helped me understand this. We have the ability to create bonfires of belonging wherever we go. We can also lose this gift if it isn’t carefully tended to. Together, we can help remind one another of our place at the fire.

As someone trying to be a better grownup, my hope is for the people around me to see anew the world and their place in it. They belong and they are a spark to the fire. I now look at the globe I bought my son with different eyes. While I want to explore this planet with both my children, and while I want them to understand their significant place on Earth, there’s much more that I long for them to know. I want them to know about the beauty of the world, but more so I want for them to know the beauty of themselves. Like my fifth-grade teacher pulling down the map, I want to pull down a diagram of their hearts:

Look! This is where you live. This is your home. I’d think you’d want to know about it.

I want to be the kind of grownup who hands out treasure maps to kids and goes digging for the good stuff with them. I want to help them explore the world around them and the hearts inside them. Because the thing about exploring within is that it helps in every place on the map you might land.

You will not only know about the world around you, but you’ll also have the courage to change it, reshape it, and invite others into it.

If we can create safe spaces to be inner explorers of fears and doubts, mysteries and wonders, and explore those places together, we’ll see a world with more heart. More listening. More sharing. More exploring. More inviting.

Handwritten and somewhat hidden in the lower right corner of the map is a Latin phrase: Per aspera ad astra, which translates roughly to “through difficulties to the stars.” It’s a little bread crumb—a tiny reminder that this is a process. There are no cheat codes to the good life. There is no shortcut to the stars—that Story-Filled Sky. It’s a long journey. It’d be a lot easier to arrive at our destination in an instant, but were we to do so, we’d miss out on something vital. We need Doubt Valley and Curiosity Crossing, just as we need the wisdom learned from time spent there to be shared around any bonfires of belonging we might create. This is all a journey, and it’s far better when not taken alone.