The Power of Small Changes

There is something quietly disruptive about action research in the classroom. Not the glossy, conference-slide version. The real version. The one where you notice that something feels slightly off on a Tuesday afternoon in Period 5, and instead of blaming the class, the timetable, or Mercury being in retrograde, you run a tiny experiment.

Action research is simply this: plan, act, observe, reflect, refine. A disciplined curiosity about your own practice. It is the scientific method, but wearing a lanyard.

As a Head of Computer Science, and someone who is deeply invested in coaching culture and student flourishing, I have found that the most powerful improvements have not come from sweeping reforms. They have come from micro-adjustments. Small, intentional changes, tested in real classrooms with real students. And those small changes compound.

The first shift was introducing structured group projects where students peer coach one another. Not “group work” in the traditional sense where one student does everything and another perfects the art of looking busy. Instead, we explicitly trained students to ask coaching-style questions.

• What is your goal here?

• What obstacle is getting in the way?

• What could you try next?

The dynamic changed. Students moved from dependency to agency. They began to articulate their thinking rather than waiting for mine. There is something neurologically powerful about verbalising strategy. It recruits metacognition, which strengthens executive control networks in the prefrontal cortex. In simple terms: when students coach each other, they build the mental muscles of planning and self-regulation. And because this emerged through action research, I could refine it. Add sentence stems. Build accountability structures. Embed reflection prompts. Observe where it broke down and adjust.

The second micro-change was implementing WOOP target setting. WOOP, developed by Gabriele Oettingen, stands for Wish, Outcome, Obstacle, Plan. It is deceptively simple and beautifully evidence-informed. Instead of vague goal setting (“revise more”), students identify a concrete wish, imagine the best outcome, anticipate the internal obstacle, and create an if-then plan. The magic lies in the obstacle. Not pretending everything will be fine. Naming the friction in advance.

When Year 11 students write:“If I feel overwhelmed by Paper 2 programming questions, then I will complete one 6-mark question and check the mark scheme before attempting another,”they are rehearsing resilience. Again, I did not roll this out as a grand policy. I trialled it. Observed who engaged. Noticed where scaffolding was needed. Adjusted the prompts. Over time, it became part of our revision culture.

The third shift was reframing mock exam results. Mocks can become identity markers. “I am a C student.” “I am not good at algorithms.” That narrative can harden quickly.

Through action research, I experimented with changing the language around mocks. Instead of “this is your predicted future,” it became “this is a diagnostic snapshot.” We treated papers as data. Which command words caused loss of marks? Where was cognitive load too high? Which knowledge gaps were actually retrieval failures rather than understanding failures?

The emotional temperature changed. Students became more analytical and less defensive. They started asking, “Where are my inefficiencies?” rather than “Am I clever?”

That shift in perspective matters enormously for adolescents, particularly those who are neurodivergent or prone to anxiety. When assessment is reframed as feedback on strategy rather than judgement on self, students remain psychologically available for learning.

The final micro-change I will share was embedding cognitive apprenticeship strategies into exam technique teaching. Cognitive apprenticeship, rooted in the work of Collins, Brown and Newman, makes expert thinking visible. Instead of telling students “write more detail,” I began modelling my internal reasoning explicitly. "I can see this is a 6-mark question. That tells me I need three developed points. I’m scanning for command words. I’m linking back to the scenario. I’m checking for technical vocabulary.”

Students often assume teachers write good answers because we are “naturally good.” In reality, we are running structured mental scripts. When those scripts are externalised, students can appropriate them. Through cycles of action research, I adjusted how much modelling was needed, when to fade support, and how to move from demonstration to independent practice. Over time, exam responses became more structured, more precise, more efficient.

Here is what fascinates me most. None of these changes were dramatic. No new building. No expensive technology. No revolutionary curriculum overhaul. Just disciplined, iterative refinement. Action research restores professional agency to teachers. It positions us not as deliverers of content, but as designers of learning environments. It invites intellectual humility: perhaps my current method is not optimal. It also invites optimism: I can test a better one.

There is also something psychologically protective about it for teachers. Instead of internalising frustration, we externalise it into inquiry. Not “my class are disengaged,” but “what variable might I adjust?” That shift alone reduces helplessness. In a coaching-oriented culture, this becomes contagious. Students observe adults modelling reflective practice. They see iteration as normal. They experience learning as something dynamic rather than fixed.

And the outcomes? In my own classes and department, I have seen improvements in exam technique, but more importantly in ownership. Year 11 students who analyse their mock scripts independently. Upper Sixth students who can articulate precisely why they lost marks and how they will recover them. Year 9 groups who hold each other to account with genuine intellectual kindness.

Action research is not glamorous. It is patient. It is cumulative. It is grounded in evidence but alive to context. It respects the complexity of classrooms while refusing to be paralysed by it. If education is a living ecosystem, then micro-changes are evolutionary adaptations. Small mutations, tested in the environment. The ones that help students flourish survive.

And the beautiful part is this: we do not need permission to begin. We only need curiosity, rigour, and the courage to treat our classrooms as places of inquiry rather than performance.