The AI Wildfire is Coming to Your School: Two Ways to Face the Flames

This article builds on the wildfire metaphor developed by Dion Lim in his essay "The AI Wildfire Is Coming. It's Going to Be Very Painful and Incredibly Healthy" published in CEO Dinner Insights. While Lim applies the framework to Silicon Valley startups and the AI industry, the patterns he looks at (flammable brush, fire-retardant giants, resprouters, and fire followers) translate powerfully to K-12 education.

The Fire Season Has Begun

In a recent essay that's resonating across Silicon Valley, Dion Lim reframes the AI moment not as a bubble but as a wildfire force that doesn't just destroy but fundamentally reshapes ecosystems. His metaphor is simple and powerful: "Wildfires don't just destroy; they're essential to ecosystem health. They clear the dense underbrush that chokes out new growth, return nutrients to the soil, and create the conditions for the next generation of forest to thrive."

Dion founded NextLesson (as well as other companies before it), and I was able to work with him and his team for a few years. I learned a lot from Dion, but especially love his ability to bridge the gap between industries and people.

For K-12 school leaders, Dion’s metaphor isn't just cute, it's prophetic.

The AI wildfire is already burning through education. It's consuming the "game of school" that generations of students have played. It's exposing which practices hold genuine learning value and which are merely compliance theater. It's revealing which leaders have built systems with deep roots and which have constructed hollow structures that look impressive but ignite at the first spark.

As Lim writes about Silicon Valley: "Capital is abundant, perhaps too abundant. But talent? That's the scarce resource." For schools, the parallel is striking: Technology is abundant, perhaps too abundant. But wisdom about how to use it effectively? Judgment about what learning truly matters? Those remain scarce.

Every school leader stands at the same crossroads today. Let's walk through two divergent paths and see where each leads five years from now.

Path One: The Flammable Brush

A Few Years Ago: "We Don't Have Time for This Right Now"

You're a dry grass in a forest filling with smoke. You're managing the same challenges every leader faces: teacher shortages, budget constraints, parent demands, compliance reporting, that difficult board meeting next week. The list never ends.

When AI comes up, you make a calculation that seems reasonable: "This can wait. We have actual fires to put out."

You hear teachers mention that students might be using ChatGPT on assignments. You're not sure what to do about it, so you table the discussion. There are more pressing matters.

What's really happening: In Lim's wildfire ecology, you're becoming increasingly flammable. Dry brush looks fine on the surface—green, even—but internally, you're accumulating conditions for combustion. While you're focused elsewhere, 97% of your students are already using AI tools for academic work. They're learning AI ethics from TikTok and Roblox, not from trusted adults. The "game of school" you're managing is becoming increasingly hollow, but the grades still look fine. You're maintaining a system that students are quietly learning to game.

You're not building the thick bark of discernment or the deep roots of genuine learning. You're just adding more dry fuel.

Last Year: "Let's Just Ban It for Now"

The issue becomes impossible to ignore. A parent complains. Teachers are frustrated and asking for guidance. The smoke is visible now.

You implement what seems like a practical policy: AI use is academic dishonesty. You purchase detection software. You think you've contained the threat.

You return to what feels like the real work. The facilities management, hiring, compliance reporting, managing that difficult parent group.

What's really happening: Lim writes about fire suppression: "If we suppress all burning for too long, we don't prevent the fire. We just make the eventual burn catastrophic." That's exactly what you're doing. By completely banning AI, you're not protecting your forest, instead you're allowing fuel to accumulate underground where you can't see it.

Your teachers are confused and quietly resentful. The ban policy makes their job harder while solving nothing. The students are just less transparent now. The detection software flags innocent work and misses actual AI use, creating new problems and eroding trust. About one-quarter of your staff believes AI does more harm than good, and they're increasingly resistant to any technology.

You've created the worst possible condition, a heavy fuel load with no controlled burns. You're setting up for a canopy fire that will overwhelm even your strongest trees.

Right Now: "We Need to Do Something About Grades"

The heat is rising. Test scores are declining—not dramatically, but the trend is concerning. Teachers report that students seem less engaged, less capable of independent thinking. More students are struggling with basic tasks that require sustained attention or original analysis.

You didn't see this coming. You've been focused on measurable priorities: budgets, enrollment, discipline, compliance. You banned AI, so how could AI be the problem?

You implement new intervention programs. You adjust grading policies. You emphasize growth mindset in professional development.

What's really happening: Here's where Lim's sequoia lesson becomes devastating. He writes: "The giant sequoia cannot reproduce without fire. Its cones open only in intense heat." But he also notes: "The Castle Fire of 2020 killed an estimated 10-14% of all mature giant sequoias on Earth. Trees that had survived dozens of fires over 2,000 years died in a single afternoon. The difference? Fire intensity."

You've avoided controlled burns for so long that when the fire comes (and it's coming) it will be catastrophic. Your students are developing a dependency on AI assistance while simultaneously learning to hide it from adults. They're not developing discernment. A 2025 review of 151 studies found that adolescents are highly confident in their ability to spot misinformation yet struggle to do so in practice. Your students are even more vulnerable because they've received no guidance on working with AI thoughtfully.

The compliance-based education model you're defending has fully collapsed internally. Students who perceive work as repetitive or low-relevance are outsourcing it to AI. But because they can't be transparent about this, they're not learning to use AI as a tool, they're learning to use it as a crutch and a shortcut. You're growing a generation without root systems.

Year Five: "How Did We Fall Behind?"

The fire has arrived. Not metaphorically—actually. Families are leaving for schools that advertise "21st-century skills" and "AI fluency." Your best teachers are frustrated and exhausted, not from the work of teaching, but from managing a system that feels increasingly disconnected from reality.

A particularly motivated student asks during a school board meeting: "Why are other schools teaching us how to work with AI while ours pretends it doesn't exist? Don't you want us to be prepared for college and careers?"

You don't have a good answer.

Your board asks pointed questions about enrollment trends and teacher retention. The board wants to know why families are choosing to homeschool.

What's really happening: You've become what Lim calls "flammable brush"—the dry grasses and resinous pines that "look vibrant in a season of easy money but have no resistance once the air gets hot." He writes: "When the heat rises, when capital tightens or customers scrutinize ROI, they go up in seconds."

For schools, the equation is similar: when parents scrutinize relevance, when students compare experiences, when teachers evaluate working conditions—you have no resistance. You ignite.

While you were putting out fires, the nature of fire itself changed. The challenges you'll face in years six, seven, and eight will be fundamentally different from those you faced in year one—but you're using the same tools, the same mindset, the same approaches.

You've worked harder than ever. You've been sincere, dedicated, and responsible. But as Lim notes about flammable companies: "They're fueled by hype and ebullient valuations. When the heat rises...they go up in seconds."

You were fighting the wrong battles while the real transformation happened without you. Your school has become a place that prepares students for a world that no longer exists.

Path Two: The Fire-Adapted Oak

A Few Years Ago: "We Need to Understand What We're Facing"

You're drowning in the same immediate crises. Teacher shortages. Budget constraints. Parents demanding answers. That difficult board meeting next week. The list never ends.

But when AI comes up, you make a different calculation: "This isn't separate from our other challenges, it's connected to all of them. I need to understand this."

You don't have much time, but you carve out space. You start learning. Not just about tools, but about what AI actually means for learning, thinking, and assessment.

What you're actually doing: Lim describes the fire-retardant giants as having "thick bark, deep roots, and moisture reserves." You're beginning to grow all three. The thick bark is your developing judgment about when AI should and shouldn't be used. The deep roots are your connections to research, other leaders, and thoughtful teachers. The moisture reserves are your willingness to invest time in understanding before acting.

You realize that AI Fluency isn't technical training—it's a multidimensional capacity blending technical competence with ethical judgment, critical discernment, and human agency.

You identify three teachers who are already experimenting thoughtfully with AI. You learn from them. You give them release time to document what they're discovering. You're not suppressing fire, instead you're learning to conduct controlled burns.

Last Year: "Let's Build This Together"

You assemble a cross-functional team: administrators, teachers, students, and parents. You acknowledge uncertainty openly: "We're all learning. We don't have all the answers. But we're going to figure this out together."

You don't implement a ban. You don't purchase detection software. Instead, you develop a draft framework for ethical AI use, co-created with students, not imposed on them.

What you're actually doing: You're conducting what Lim calls "regular burns"—cyclical corrections that clear brush before it becomes dangerous. He notes that sequoias thrived for millennia with "low-intensity ground fires that burned every 10-20 years. These fires were hot enough to open cones and clear undergrowth, but cool enough to leave mature trees unharmed."

Your framework distinguishes between AI-resistant practices (learning that relies on irreducibly human qualities like spontaneous dialogue and emotional nuance) and AI-compatible practices (learning that transparently leverages AI as a tool). Both are valuable. Both are necessary.

You're building trust. Teachers report feeling supported rather than policed. Students appreciate being treated as partners in solving complex problems rather than potential cheaters to be monitored.

Most importantly, you're shifting the fundamental question from "Did the student use AI?" to "Did the student remain the author of their thinking?" This changes everything.

You begin piloting new assessment approaches: iterative drafting cycles, "defense of learning" protocols where students explain their reasoning and decisions, process portfolios that make thinking visible. These are controlled burns that strengthen your forest rather than threaten it.

Right Now: "Learning Looks Different Now"

The changes are becoming visible. Teachers are redesigning assignments to eliminate low-value compliance work, you know, the kind that AI can complete instantly. They're focusing on work that requires genuine human judgment and decision-making.

Students are more engaged. Not because the work is easier, but because it's more meaningful. They're learning to use AI as a research partner and thinking tool while maintaining ownership of their ideas.

You face new challenges (of course you do). Some parents are confused. Some teachers are struggling with the shift. Many students want to go back to the game of school they’ve become so accustomed to. But you've created structures for ongoing learning and dialogue.

What you're actually doing: Lim writes about how wildfires "return nutrients to the soil." You're experiencing this directly. The low-value busywork that burned away? Those hours are now available for deeper learning. The anxious focus on grade inflation? That energy now goes toward actual skill development.

More profoundly, you're experiencing what Lim calls "talent redistribution." He notes that after Web 1.0 crashed, "many of Google's best early employees were founders or early employees of failed Web 1.0 startups." The same dynamic is happening in your school—teachers who struggled in the old compliance-focused system are thriving in this new environment. Their creativity, previously constrained, is now fueling innovation.

AI isn't "one more thing" on top of everything else. It's the catalyst that helps you eliminate outdated practices and focus on what matters most. Your teachers are becoming designers and innovators, not just curriculum deliverers. You've allocated time and resources for teacher-led innovation. You celebrate thoughtful risks regardless of initial outcomes.

The culture is shifting from "don't get caught failing" to "document your learning from experimentation." You're growing a forest that can withstand future fires.

Year Five: "We're Part of the New Forest"

Other districts are visiting to learn from your approach. Your teachers are presenting at conferences. Your students speak articulately about using AI as a tool while maintaining their own voice and judgment.

More importantly, your students are developing what cannot be automated: discernment—the ability to evaluate, interpret, and judge information critically. This capacity becomes more valuable as AI capabilities expand, not less.

Parents choose your school specifically because of your approach. They see that you're preparing students for the actual world they'll inhabit, not a nostalgic version of school that adults remember.

What you're actually doing: You've become what Lim calls a "fire follower"—the wildflowers whose "seeds are triggered by heat. They can't even germinate until the old growth is gone." But you're also more than that. You've developed the characteristics of fire-adapted species:

You have thick bark: Strong judgment about AI's appropriate role, resilient policies that flex with changing technology, and the institutional confidence to experiment.

You have deep roots: Connections to research, to other innovative schools, to teachers and students who understand that learning is more than grades.

You have moisture reserves: A culture that values learning over appearances, that prioritizes genuine understanding over compliance, that treats uncertainty as opportunity rather than threat.

As Lim writes about post-fire forests: "The next great AI-native companies will likely emerge here." The same is true for schools. The institutions that will define education in the AI age aren't those that pretended the fire wasn't coming. They're the ones that learned to work with fire, that used controlled burns to strengthen their forest, that emerged from the flames not just intact but transformed.

You still have challenges (you always will). But they're the right challenges: How do we deepen learning further? How do we support students in developing even more sophisticated ethical judgment? How do we continue evolving as the technology evolves?

These are problems worth solving. You're no longer fighting to preserve a system built for a world that no longer exists. You're part of building the new forest.

What Separates These Paths

Dion Lim's wildfire metaphor reveals something crucial: "Some species ignite instantly. Others resist the flames. A few depend on the fire to reproduce."

Both school leaders face the same overwhelming pressures and are equally dedicated. But their relationship to fire of disruption and change determines everything.

The Flammable Brush Leader accumulates fuel and hopes the fire won't come. They suppress small burns (avoiding hard conversations, postponing AI decisions, maintaining comfortable illusions) which only makes the eventual fire more devastating. When it arrives, they have no resistance. They ignite instantly.

The Fire-Adapted Oak Leader doesn't try to prevent fire. They learn to work with it. They conduct controlled burns that strengthen the forest. They develop thick bark (judgment), deep roots (genuine learning), and moisture reserves (cultural resilience). When fire comes, they not only survive—they use it to reproduce, spreading their seeds into the cleared ground.

The difference manifests in three critical choices.

1. Fire Suppression vs. Controlled Burns

The brush leader tries to prevent all change, all disruption. Ban AI. Block websites. Pretend the old system still works. This is fire suppression, and it never works. The fuel just accumulates underground.

The oak leader conducts regular controlled burns: pilot programs, transparent experiments, explicit conversations about what's not working. These burns are uncomfortable. They create smoke. Some things get charred. But they prevent catastrophic fire.

2. Ignoring Heat vs. Building Heat Resistance

The brush leader believes that if they don't acknowledge the heat, it won't affect them. They focus on appearance: grades look fine, compliance is maintained, everyone's following the rules.

The oak leader knows the heat is real and builds resistance to it. They develop discernment in students. They redesign assessment. They eliminate the most flammable parts of their system (low-value compliance work) deliberately, on their own terms.

3. Isolated Trees vs. Connected Forest

The brush leader tries to stand alone, protecting their individual school from outside influence. They see other districts' experiments with suspicion. They view change as threat.

The oak leader understands they're part of a forest ecosystem. They learn from other schools. They share their experiments. They recognize that when fire comes (and it always comes) the forests that survive are those where trees have developed together, sharing resources through underground root networks.

As Lim writes about Silicon Valley: "The goal isn't to prevent fires but to maintain their rhythm. Small, regular burns prevent devastating conflagrations." The same is true for schools.

The worst outcome isn't the burn itself. It's the policy that postpones all burns until the fuel load becomes explosive.

What AI Fluency Actually Means for Leaders

AI Fluency is far more than knowing how to use ChatGPT or understanding technical terminology. For school leaders specifically, it's the capacity to:

Understand when and why AI should—or should not—be used. This includes developing judgment about which educational tasks genuinely benefit from AI assistance and which require irreducibly human qualities like spontaneous dialogue, emotional nuance, and context-driven reasoning.

Recognize how AI influences thinking and decision-making. AI is not neutral. It carries biases from its training data, can produce convincing falsehoods (hallucinations), and often presents outputs with unwarranted confidence. Leaders need this awareness to make sound decisions.

Navigate the power and ethics of AI ecosystems. This knowledge is essential for protecting students, making informed purchasing decisions, and understanding data privacy concerns.

Maintain agency, authorship, and transparency. Leaders must model what it means to use AI as a tool for amplification rather than replacement of human judgment.

These capacities don't develop overnight, and they can't be delegated. They're core leadership competencies for the world schools now inhabit.

What Kind of Plant Are You?

Dion Lim ends his essay with the defining question: "What kind of plant are you?"

For school leaders, this question is real. It's operational.

Are you flammable brush accumulating fuel, suppressing burns, hoping the heat won't come? If so, understand what Lim writes about your fate: "When the heat rises...they go up in seconds." Your school may look green and healthy today, but internally, you're dry tinder.

Are you attempting to be fire-retardant, hoping your size, your reputation, your tradition will protect you? Remember that even the giant sequoias, with bark two feet thick, can die when the fire gets hot enough. Size alone is not protection.

Or are you becoming fire-adapted by developing the thick bark of judgment, the deep roots of genuine learning, the moisture reserves of cultural resilience?

The opportunity before us is not to automate education but to humanize it. AI exposes the fragility of compliance-based learning, revealing which tasks never held genuine educational value. This exposure is uncomfortable but ultimately liberating. It forces us to confront core questions: What is school for? What capacities cannot be automated? What makes learning meaningful rather than merely measurable?

As Lim writes about wildfires: "They don't just destroy ecosystems. They reshape them." The AI wildfire will reshape education. That reshaping is happening now, with or without your participation.

The question isn't whether the fire is coming. It's here.

The question isn't whether you'll face heat. You will.

The only question is: Have you built the capacity to survive it? To use it? To emerge from it stronger, with seeds ready to plant in the cleared ground?

Lim describes the sequoia's profound relationship with fire: "The giant sequoia cannot reproduce without fire. Its cones open only in intense heat." Some educators will experience this AI moment as catastrophic destruction. Others will discover that their seeds can finally open.

The choice between these experiences is not about resources, intelligence, or even time. It's about your relationship to change itself.

Both paths are understandable. The flammable brush's path feels immediately responsible. We know there are real pressures to manage, real fires to fight. But it leads to managing the decline of institutions increasingly disconnected from their stated mission and their students' needs.

The fire-adapted oak's path requires courage, learning, and comfort with uncertainty. But it leads to schools where discernment is embodied in daily practice, where AI amplifies rather than replaces human judgment, and where students develop the capacities they'll actually need for lives we cannot fully predict.

As Lim notes, the fire serves a function: "The flammable brush serves a purpose. It attracts capital and talent into the sector. It creates market urgency. And when it burns, it releases those resources back into the soil for hardier species to absorb."

If your school burns, your teachers will find positions in schools that survived. Your students will transfer to districts that adapted. The buildings will remain, but filled with different programs, different leaders, different approaches.

That redistribution isn't failure, it's actually the ecosystem working as designed.

But wouldn't you rather be the oak that survives? The species whose seeds germinate in the cleared ground? The forest that emerges stronger after the burn?

The wildfire is here. The smoke is visible. The heat is rising.

What kind of plant are you?

The answer to that question will determine not just whether you survive, but what grows in your place when the smoke clears.