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“Dr. Kottler,” he said one day, addressing me formally even though I preferred the use of my first name, “what exactly is the reason for requiring that our papers describe interviews the way you suggest?”

“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure what he was driving at.

“I mean, if your intent is to get us to reflect on what we learned during this field study, wouldn’t it make sense for us to use direct quotes rather than just descriptions of what people said?”

I heard a few classmates snicker. Was he challenging me? “Your point is well taken,” I said finally. “I’m looking for a balance between what you observed and the sense you make of those experiences.”

As he nodded, I saw looks of admiration from his classmates. Everyone else had been so timid about speaking up, but Jason just jumped in, treating me as a colleague.

My first impression was that he might be a difficult student. Indeed, his eager-to-please attitude toward me—and combative, competitive tone with peers—did create a certain degree of turbulence. Yet in spite of these challenges, I found Jason to be unusually smart, inquisitive, ambitious, and outspoken—and not afraid to advance opinions that might be unusual or unpopular. His style, though provocative and at times trying, actually proved a catalyst for drawing out other students who were quite timid.

The semester-long seminar progressed nicely, perhaps one of my favorites in terms of depth and breadth of issues explored. The only thing that bothered me was the extent to which this group of students was concerned—make that obsessed —with achievement. So many of their questions revolved around how various actions would affect their final grades.

In a class of hard chargers, Jason stood out as especially intense. He found reasons to approach me after many classes, wanting very specific directions about future assignments. While at first I was annoyed by these overtures, which seemed transparently driven toward getting an A, I soon recognized that Jason was reaching out for help.

It became our pattern to escort one another to our next classes. During these strolls across campus, Jason confided in me about his plans for the future, conflicts with his family, and the relationship with his girlfriend. In everything he talked about, and everything he did, he struck me as incredibly driven. I urged him to lighten up a bit, to stop trying so hard to do everything perfectly. Perhaps I recognized more than a little of myself in him. I too was an avid approval seeker who found it difficult to slow down.

I noticed that in spite of all that Jason had accomplished thus far in life, as an athlete, a scholar, and personality on campus, he didn’t seem to be having much fun. Actually, he seemed haunted.

He was a straight-A student, chief justice of the student government, president of the psychology honors society, and a leader in community civic organizations. As we walked around campus, students, faculty, even administrators whom I barely knew by sight seemed familiar with him.

At times he would press me for advice about personal matters, and each time I’d deftly put the focus back on him, as a counseling professor can easily do. I’ll admit to feeling flattered he was willing to trust me: I could tell it was difficult for him to open up.

As the semester wound down, Jason and I got together for our last meeting. He thanked me for a stimulating class, then caught me by surprise by abruptly changing the subject. Shyly, he invited me to attend his honors thesis presentation.

I reluctantly agreed. These presentations, which were usually about some obscure area of research I could barely follow, could be quite boring. In fact, I couldn’t help grimacing as I reflected on the last one I’d attended. Dealing with political corruption in East Africa, it might have been interesting if there hadn’t been so much sparring among the faculty committee members, each of whom was eager to demonstrate his expertise.

As the day for the event approached, I felt a little better about going. I didn’t really have the time, but it