Don’t Fix the Mistake. Teach the Thinking.

I used to be in charge of teaching observations at a music academy. I would sit in on lessons, observe different teachers, and watch how they responded when a student struggled.

Over the years, both through my own teaching and through observing many different teaching approaches, one pattern stayed with me.

A student would try something and it wouldn’t work.

“Again.”

They would try it again.

Still not quite right.

“Again.”

And again.

And again.

What saddened me wasn’t that the student was making mistakes. Mistakes are a necessary part of learning.

It was that sometimes, nothing changed between one attempt and the next.

And when I think back, this wasn’t unfamiliar to me.

A lot of my own childhood music learning felt this way too. If something didn’t work, I practiced it again. If it still didn’t work, I practiced it again—usually assuming that I simply hadn’t practiced enough.

I don’t blame my teachers for this.

They taught me with the knowledge, experience, and approaches they had, and I’m grateful for what I learned from them. In many ways, teachers naturally pass down the ways they themselves were taught.

But looking back as a teacher now, I realize there was something I wish I had learned much earlier:

What do I actually do when “again” isn’t working?

That question has shaped the way I teach today.

Before I ask a student to try something again, I want them—or eventually, the student themselves—to understand what needs to change on the next attempt.

That doesn’t mean preventing mistakes.

I want students to try. I want them to explore, experiment, make predictions, get things wrong, and experience productive struggle.

But a mistake should give us information.

Instead of immediately correcting it, I might ask:

“What did you notice?”

“Did that sound the way you expected?”

“Where did the problem begin?”

“What could you change on your next attempt?”

Sometimes we sing before playing. Sometimes we separate the rhythm from the notes. Sometimes we isolate a physical movement. Sometimes I deliberately say very little and let the student search for the answer.

There is no single strategy for every mistake because the reason behind every struggle is not the same.

If the problem is rhythm, repeating the notes may not solve it.

If the problem is coordination, telling the student the correct note may not solve it.

If the student cannot hear what is wrong, another repetition may simply reinforce what they already did.

So before saying “again,” I ask myself:

What is this next repetition supposed to change?

That is the difference between repetition and purposeful repetition.

I’m not interested in eliminating struggle.

I want the struggle to teach something.

And I don’t want my students to become dependent on me to identify and fix every problem.

Over time, I want the questions—

What happened?

Why didn’t that work?

What can I change?

—to stop coming from me.

I want the student to start asking them.

Because eventually, I won’t be sitting beside them.

And when that happens, I don’t want them waiting for someone to say “again.”

I want them to know what to do next.