Interns can be hard on me and I'm hard on them. They have no

Hear the voice of Sonja Morgan, who speaks with candor about the trials of teaching and the burden of expectation: “Interns can be hard on me and I'm hard on them. They have no experience and I have little patience when they don't know how to address an envelope or can't put a date in the calendar properly (I mean literally, like with the right floor number or proper cross streets).” At first, these words seem sharp, almost humorous, yet within them lies a lesson as old as civilization itself: that the meeting of the untested with the experienced is always marked by friction, and that growth requires both discipline and endurance.

She calls out the interns, the young apprentices of the modern world, who step forth without experience, eager yet unpolished. Their errors are small in form—an envelope miswritten, a date misplaced, an address wrongly set—but they are large in meaning. For these simple tasks are not merely clerical details; they are the building blocks of responsibility. To falter in small things is to reveal the unsteady foundation of greater tasks. Thus the teacher grows impatient, not because of the task itself, but because she sees the long road still ahead.

Yet Morgan admits also her own failing: little patience. This is the eternal struggle of the mentor. For those who have labored long, the basics feel too obvious, too simple, too slow to teach again. But the young have never walked this path, and so what is instinct to the seasoned is mystery to the beginner. This clash is ancient: the master craftsman sighing at the clumsy apprentice, the general frustrated with the raw recruit, the elder impatient with the child. The cycle repeats across generations, and always the burden of patience must be borne, if wisdom is to be passed on.

History offers us a reflection in the tale of Aristotle and Alexander. The young prince, filled with ambition, did not always welcome the philosopher’s teachings, nor did Aristotle always delight in the prince’s impetuous nature. Yet through years of discipline, Alexander absorbed lessons of leadership, strategy, and vision that later enabled him to carve an empire across the known world. Without patience on both sides—the mentor to endure, the student to learn—the greatness of Alexander may never have been realized. So too, today, the intern who fumbles with an envelope may one day command vast enterprises, if guided rightly.

But there is also another truth in her words: that discipline is not cruelty. To demand accuracy in detail is to prepare the young for the seriousness of life. For if a letter goes astray, a meeting may be lost; if an address is wrong, an opportunity may vanish. Small errors multiply into great failures. Thus, when Morgan insists on correctness—even in something as simple as “the right floor number or proper cross streets”—she is not petty, but training minds to honor precision. For the wise know that mastery of the small paves the way to mastery of the great.

The wisdom to draw forth, then, is that both sides must labor in humility. The student must endure correction without pride, and the teacher must endure mistakes without wrath. Impatience can wound, but indulgence can spoil. Only through the balance of firmness and compassion can the young grow strong, and the old find peace in their teaching. This is the eternal dance of learning: strictness tempered with grace, eagerness tempered with humility.

The lesson is clear: do not scorn the small tasks, for they are the soil in which discipline takes root. If you are a student, honor the details, for in them lies the path to trust and responsibility. If you are a teacher, remember that your impatience may wither the very seeds you hope to see bloom. Be firm, but also kind, for greatness requires both correction and encouragement. In this way, the struggle between youth and age becomes not a battle, but a bond—and from it, the future is shaped.