My son spends hours researching dinosaurs without any promise of reward, then refuses to study multiplication tables for tomorrow’s test.
Last night, I found him at 10 PM still awake. Reading. Not homework. A book about Cretaceous period. Completely absorbed.
“It’s past your bedtime,” I said.
“Just one more chapter. Did you know Spinosaurus might have been semi-aquatic? That’s so cool!”
His eyes were bright. Excited. Fully engaged.
This morning, I tried to help him prepare for the math test.
“Let’s practice multiplication tables.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You need to know this for the test.”
“It’s boring.”
“But you spent three hours yesterday learning about dinosaurs that lived millions of years ago.”
“That’s different. That’s interesting.”
And there it is. The difference between curiosity and coercion.
Curiosity operates as self-sustaining fuel—burning bright without external validation, driving exploration for pure pleasure of discovery.
Nobody forces him to learn about dinosaurs. No test. No grade. No reward except the joy of knowing.
Yet he pursues this knowledge relentlessly. Watches documentaries. Reads books. Draws pictures. Creates elaborate timelines of different periods. Memorizes complex names I can barely pronounce.
This learning is effortless. Natural. Self-sustaining.
Grades function as borrowed motivation—effective temporarily but requiring constant reinforcement, creating dependency on external approval rather than internal satisfaction.
The multiplication tables require constant pushing. “Study for the test.” “Practice more.” “You’ll get a bad grade.”
Each session requires negotiation. Bribery sometimes. Threats of consequences. External motivation constantly applied because internal motivation doesn’t exist.
The autonomous mind craves agency over its attention.
When learning serves personal fascination, engagement becomes effortless. My son can focus on dinosaur documentaries for hours without distraction. Time disappears. He enters flow state naturally.
Flow states emerge naturally when curiosity leads rather than curriculum commands.
But forced to study multiplication? His attention wanders within minutes. He fidgets. Complains. Finds every excuse to stop.
Not because he can’t focus. Because he doesn’t want to. The task is imposed rather than chosen.
But institutional learning transforms education into transaction—study this, receive that grade, earn this degree, access that opportunity.
“Why do I need to know multiplication?” he asks.
I give practical answers. “You’ll need it for everyday life. For more advanced math. For your future.”
But the real answer the system gives him: “Because you’ll be tested on it. Because you need good grades. Because grades determine your future.”
Knowledge becomes currency rather than treasure, means rather than end.
The intrinsic joy of understanding gets buried beneath extrinsic pressures of performance.
He doesn’t wonder about how numbers work. Doesn’t marvel at mathematical patterns. Doesn’t experience joy of sudden comprehension.
He just wants to pass the test.
The research confirms what experience teaches: external rewards can actually diminish internal motivation.
Students who love reading begin to hate it when forced to write book reports. The pleasure of getting lost in story gets replaced by pressure of analyzing it for grades.
Artists lose passion when creativity becomes assignment. The painting that brings joy when freely created feels like chore when teacher assigns it for evaluation.
The introduction of grades changes the relationship between learner and subject from love affair to business arrangement.
Children enter school as natural scientists—questioning everything, experimenting constantly, learning through play and wonder.
My son at age three asked “why?” about everything. Genuine curiosity. Insatiable desire to understand world.
The educational system gradually trains this curiosity out of them, replacing organic interest with artificial incentives.
Now at age nine, he asks: “Will this be on the test?”
The shift from “why?” to “will this be tested?” marks the death of natural curiosity.
By high school, most students study for grades rather than understanding.
I remember my own education. Memorizing information long enough to pass exam. Forgetting it immediately after. Never questioning why I should know this. Just accepting that good grades meant success.
The tragedy deepens in higher education, where grades determine graduate school admission, scholarship eligibility, career prospects.
Students master the art of grade optimization—choosing easier courses, safer topics, professors known for generous marking.
Academic achievement diverges completely from intellectual growth.
The smartest student isn’t the one who learns most. It’s the one who games the system most effectively.
Yet curiosity persists in hidden corners.
Students still fall down Wikipedia rabbit holes at 2 AM, pursuing knowledge that serves no grade. My son isn’t alone in this.
They watch documentaries about subjects not covered in any course. They engage in passionate debates about topics irrelevant to their majors.
The curiosity the school system tried to kill survives in secret. In the margins. In the spaces between assignments.
The internet reveals curiosity’s power—millions creating and consuming content without grades, degrees, or institutional validation.
YouTube educators build massive audiences through pure enthusiasm. Wikipedia contributors spend countless hours improving articles with no compensation beyond satisfaction of sharing knowledge.
Nobody grades these efforts. Nobody tests this learning. Yet it happens. Prolifically.
Professional environments often repeat academia’s mistake—using external motivators to drive work that requires internal passion.
The most innovative companies recognize this, creating space for autonomous exploration, encouraging pursuit of interesting problems without guaranteed outcomes.
Google’s famous “20% time.” 3M’s culture of experimentation. Companies that understand curiosity drives innovation better than quotas.
The neuroscience explains why curiosity motivates better than grades: dopamine releases peak during anticipation of discovery, not receipt of reward.
The brain rewards the seeking more than the finding. The hunt for knowledge brings pleasure. The knowledge itself is secondary.
Curiosity creates sustainable motivation because each answer generates new questions.
My son learns about Spinosaurus. This raises questions about ocean ecosystems. Which leads to questions about evolution. Which leads to questions about timeline of life on Earth.
One answer births ten questions. The learning sustains itself.
Grade-driven learning creates fixed mindset—focus on appearing smart rather than becoming smarter.
“Don’t try challenging problems. You might get them wrong. Stick to what you know for the test.”
Curiosity-driven learning develops growth mindset—embracing challenges, learning from failures, viewing effort as path to mastery rather than sign of inadequacy.
“This dinosaur fact contradicted what I thought I knew. Let me research more. Let me understand the disagreement.”
Perhaps the solution isn’t eliminating grades but de-emphasizing them—using assessment as feedback rather than judgment, creating space for grade-free exploration alongside evaluated learning.
The best educators kindle curiosity first, then provide structure for pursuing it.
My son’s science teacher does this. Starts with questions that spark wonder. Lets students explore. Guides without controlling. The grades exist but they’re secondary to the discovery.
In her class, my son loves learning. Even when it’s challenging. Because the curiosity comes first.
Tonight I’ll follow my curiosity wherever it leads.
Rediscovering the joy of learning for its own sake rather than for anyone else’s approval. Because the mind that learns from love learns deeper and longer than the mind that learns from fear.
Maybe I’ll learn about dinosaurs with my son. Not to help him with school. Just to share his fascination.
Maybe that’s what he needs to see. That learning can be joyful. That knowledge has value beyond grades.
That the dinosaurs we love teach us more than the multiplication tables we hate.
Both have their place. But only one sustains itself.
Only one burns bright without external fuel.
Only one creates learners rather than students.
Curiosity. Always curiosity.
The dinosaurs he studies at 10 PM teach me what the multiplication tables he resists cannot.
That real learning comes from within. Or it doesn’t come at all.