The 3-Line Debug Log I Used in Office Hours: From Freeze to Focus
The Notes App Graveyard at 11:47 p.m.
If you’ve ever stood outside office hours with your notebook open and still walked away because your question didn’t sound “smart” enough—welcome to office-hours paralysis.
Jordan met me on Zoom from Toronto, shoulders slightly hunched like they were bracing for cold even though they were indoors. When they spoke, it came out careful—each sentence pre-approved, each word checked for sharp edges.
“It’s not that I don’t try,” they said. “It’s that… I don’t know what to ask. And if I ask wrong, I’ll sound like I didn’t even do the work.”
I asked them to take me to the exact moment it happens. Not the abstract feeling. The scene.
They didn’t hesitate. “Thursday. 11:47 p.m. Dorm room. The laptop fan’s going like a tiny jet. I’ve got the assignment PDF open, three lecture-slide tabs, and my Google Doc is… half a paragraph and a mess. There’s a cold Tim Hortons on my desk. I highlight the same sentence, un-highlight it, then open Notes and type a question—delete—type—delete.”
As Jordan talked, I watched their hand drift up toward their throat, thumb pressing lightly at the base as if trying to keep their voice from locking up. That body-memory—the tight chest, the jittery hands—was doing as much talking as they were.
“You want clear, direct guidance,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “and at the same time you’re terrified that the wrong question will expose you as incompetent. That’s a brutal contradiction to carry into a fluorescent hallway.”
Jordan’s eyes flicked down, then back up. “Yeah. It’s like… impostor syndrome in office hours. But physical.”
Self-doubt doesn’t always feel like a thought. Sometimes it feels like trying to breathe through a straw while your brain runs an internal approval process for every sentence.
“Let’s make this practical,” I told them. “We’re going to use tarot like a map—not to judge you, but to find the exact point where you’re stuck and the next decision that unlocks movement. A journey to clarity, not a personality test.”
Choosing the Compass: Celtic Cross · Context Edition
Before I read, I always do a small, non-mystical reset—because the point is focus. I asked Jordan to take one slow breath in, then out, like we were syncing to the same rhythm across time zones. I shuffled slowly, the way I do before a planetarium show when I’m about to guide a roomful of strangers through a sky that looks chaotic until it clicks into pattern.
“Today,” I said, “we’ll use a spread called Celtic Cross · Context Edition.”
For you reading this: I chose it because Jordan’s question isn’t only what should I ask in office hours to get unstuck? It’s a whole chain—freeze behavior, communication friction, deeper authority/belonging fear, and then what happens after they leave the room. The Celtic Cross is good at showing that chain without getting lost in it.
In this version, Position 6 is tuned to something specific: the most clarifying question to ask in office hours. And Position 10 isn’t “fate.” It’s integration—how to carry the clarity into a next step so you don’t slip back into analysis paralysis the second you’re alone again.
“I’ll read through the core cross first,” I told Jordan, “because that’s the stuck loop. Then we’ll go to the root—what office hours mean to your nervous system. And then we’ll move toward the one question that cuts through the noise.”
Air as a Trap: The Stuck Loop in Office Hours
Position 1 — The freeze in the 60 seconds before you ask: Eight of Swords (upright)
I turned over the first card. “Now revealed is the card for the stuck moment as it shows up right before or during office hours—the concrete freeze behavior.”
Eight of Swords, upright.
“This card is famous for one thing,” I said. “Feeling trapped—while the bindings are looser than they look.” I tapped the blindfold with my fingernail. “The stuck is real. The constraint is… partially self-installed.”
I translated it into Jordan’s week, exactly where it lives: This is like when you’re technically free to ask anything, but your internal editor creates invisible rules about what is ‘allowed’ to say in office hours.
“Your brain is treating office hours like a stage,” I continued, “and your questions like lines you have to deliver flawlessly. So you narrow your attention to ‘how I look’ instead of ‘what I need.’ It’s like opening 27 tabs and calling it research—when the one tab that matters is the one you won’t click because it’s the messy one.”
Jordan let out a short laugh—sharp, bitter, embarrassed.
“That’s… kind of mean,” they said, then immediately softened it. “Not you. The accuracy. It’s literally what I do.”
“I’m not here to be gentle with the pattern,” I said. “I’m here to be gentle with you.”
Position 2 — The communication friction: Page of Swords (reversed)
“Now we turn over the card representing what specifically blocks you from asking a useful question—the self-editing and communication friction.”
Page of Swords, reversed.
“This is student-energy,” I said, “but reversed it’s like curiosity gets hijacked by self-consciousness.” I watched Jordan’s fingers fidget with the edge of their sleeve as if they were trying to keep their hands from shaking in a hallway that wasn’t even here.
I gave them the modern translation plainly: This is like when you open your mouth in office hours and the internal captioning system starts editing in real time, turning a simple question into a performance.
“Reversed Page can swing two ways,” I said. “Either you go vague—‘Could you go over the concept again?’—because specificity feels risky. Or you over-explain at high speed to prove you did the work, and the professor can’t find the real stuck point in the flood.”
Jordan nodded, fast. “I do both. I either ramble or I… disappear.”
“This isn’t a character flaw,” I said. “It’s a coping strategy. Your brain thinks it’s protecting your belonging.”
Position 9 preview — The fear fuel behind the loop: Nine of Swords (upright)
I glanced at the right-hand staff and told Jordan, “We’ll get there later, but I want you to know: the cards are showing a strong Swords cluster. Lots of Air. Lots of thinking.”
Jordan’s mouth tightened in a half-smile. “That checks out.”
Office Hours Aren’t a Courtroom—they’re a Workshop
Position 3 — The root belief about authority and belonging: The Hierophant (upright)
“Now revealed is the card for the deeper root: what you believe office hours mean about authority, standards, and belonging.”
The Hierophant, upright.
In my day job, I stand under a dome of projected stars and translate something massive into something usable: “This is Orion. This is why it rises when it does. This is how to find it again.” The Hierophant carries that same energy—shared method, shared language, a system you’re allowed to ask about.
“This card is a permission slip,” I told Jordan. “It says: you don’t have to guess the rubric in isolation.”
And the modern life scenario landed cleanly: This is like when you realize office hours aren’t a courtroom; they’re a place to ask, ‘What does a strong solution look like according to your rubric?’
Jordan blinked. “I never ask that. I always feel like… I should already know.”
“That’s the root,” I said gently. “You’re treating ‘not knowing’ like evidence you don’t belong, instead of normal data in a learning process.”
Position 4 — Past evidence you can learn in public: Three of Pentacles (upright)
“Now revealed is the card for your past learning pattern—how you’ve handled feedback before.”
Three of Pentacles, upright.
“This is the workshop card,” I said. “Skill grows when it’s reviewed, not when it’s hidden.”
I gave them the modern translation as a scene: This is like when you print a draft or open your code and say, ‘Here’s what I have—can you help me verify my approach?’
Jordan’s shoulders lowered by a millimeter, like their body recognized something it had forgotten. “I used to do that in high school. Like, I’d show my math teacher my attempt.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So we’re not building a new personality. We’re returning to a method you already know—one that got overridden by higher stakes.”
Position 5 — The identity you want to protect: The Magician (upright)
“Now revealed is the card for your conscious goal—what you’re trying to achieve in office hours on an identity level.”
The Magician, upright.
“You want to walk in and feel capable,” I said. “Not just finish the assignment—feel like you belong in the program.”
And the modern life translation: This is like when you bring your current attempt and say, ‘I want to understand the method, not just finish the task—what’s the next move I should test?’
“Here’s the growth edge,” I continued. “The Magician uses one tool at a time. You’re trying to hold every tool at once—your slides, the prompt reread like a legal document on Canvas, Reddit rabbit holes, Discord threads at 1 a.m.—and it makes you look busy while you stay stuck.”
Jordan exhaled through their nose, slow. “Yeah. It’s like I’m building a Notion template called ‘Study System’ instead of doing the next step.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Your brain is craving control.”
When the Ace of Swords Became a One-Sentence Sword
Position 6 — The best question to ask to get unstuck: Ace of Swords (upright)
When my hand reached for the sixth card, the air in my little reading corner felt different—like the second before a planetarium lights-out, when the room hushes and everyone waits for the first star to appear.
“Now we’re turning over the card for the most clarifying thing to ask in office hours to create immediate traction,” I said. “This is the pivot.”
Ace of Swords, upright.
I didn’t rush. “This is clarity. Precision. The clean cut that separates the real problem from the noise.”
I anchored it in the modern scenario: This is like when you stop trying to ask for ‘everything’ and instead bring one screenshot or one paragraph and ask for the next decision point.
Then I brought in my own lens—my Black Hole Focus. “In astrophysics,” I said, “a black hole’s event horizon is the boundary where things stop behaving the way you expect. You can’t ‘explain your way’ past it. You have to locate it.”
“Your work has an event horizon,” I told Jordan. “The exact line where your attempt breaks. The moment your confidence drops and you start editing yourself instead of debugging the task. Office hours should be where you point to that boundary and say: here. Not where you recite everything you know to prove you deserve help.”
Jordan’s throat bobbed as they swallowed. They were outside the door again in their mind—fluorescent lights, faint coffee and printer toner, the sound of someone inside saying, “Okay, show me what you tried.”
And then I delivered the turning-point line I wanted them to take with them—clean, sharp, usable:
Stop auditioning for competence and start cutting straight to the stuck point—let the Ace of Swords be one clean sentence that names what you tried and what you need next.
I let it hang for a beat.
Setup: Jordan had been rehearsing ten versions of a question outside the office-hours door because asking the wrong one felt like it would expose them—not just their work.
Reinforcement: Their body reacted before their mind did. First: a tiny freeze—breath caught high in their chest, fingers hovering over their notebook like they didn’t know where to land. Second: the cognitive shift—eyes unfocused for a second, like they were replaying every time they’d walked in and said, “I think I’m fine, just checking in,” while their real stuck point stayed zipped in their bag. Third: the release—one long exhale that sounded like relief and grief mixed together.
“But…,” they said, and there was a flash of irritation—at themselves, at the whole situation. “If I do that, doesn’t it mean I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time?”
“It means you’ve been trying to survive,” I said. “Different category.”
I slid a practical tool across the table in words. “Set a 7-minute timer. Open your draft and create a tiny debug log you can literally read out loud: (1) Goal—one sentence. (2) I tried—two bullets. (3) It breaks here—paste the exact line or screenshot. (4) My best guess why—one sentence. (5) My question: ‘What’s my first wrong turn, and what should I try next?’”
“If your throat tightens while writing,” I added, “pause. Two slow breaths. Reduce it to just pasting the ‘breaks here’ line. No explaining required yet.”
Jordan looked down at their phone like they were already imagining copy/pasting that template. “Okay. I can do that. It’s… specific. It’s not a speech.”
“That’s the shift,” I said. “From performative learning to process-based learning. From ‘please approve my belonging’ to ‘help me find my first incorrect assumption.’”
Then I asked the question that locks the insight into real life: “Now—with this new lens—think about last week. Was there a moment you were stuck where bringing one breakpoint would’ve changed everything?”
Jordan didn’t even have to search. “Yeah. Question 3. There’s one line where I decide on an assumption, and after that everything gets weird. I never showed that line. I just asked for… the whole concept.”
“A vague question buys comfort,” I said softly. “A specific example buys movement.”
Position 7 — Your inner posture in the room: Strength (reversed)
“Now revealed is the card for your inner stance—your self-trust level and how you relate to vulnerability while learning.”
Strength, reversed.
“This isn’t about being weak,” I said. “It’s about being harsh with yourself right when you need steadiness.”
I translated it into the moment Jordan described: This is like when your hands shake over your notebook and you choose politeness and silence over asking the one useful question.
“So we make the vulnerable moment smaller,” I said. “We script it once.”
I gave them the simplest version: “Practice one 10-second opener out loud before you go: ‘I tried X, expected Y, got Z—can you point out my first wrong turn?’ If your voice shakes, that’s not failure. That’s your nervous system learning a new route.”
Position 8 — The environment and what it rewards: Queen of Swords (upright)
“Now revealed is the card for the office-hours environment—the professor/TA vibe and the communication it rewards.”
Queen of Swords, upright.
“This is clarity-first energy,” I said. “Brisk doesn’t mean cruel. It usually means: let’s isolate the issue fast.”
I offered the modern translation: This is like when you realize the professor isn’t waiting to be impressed; they’re waiting for a clear description of the problem so they can respond.
I even role-played it for a second, Queen-of-Swords style:
“‘Show me where it breaks.’”
Jordan swallowed. “And I can say, ‘Okay—here.’”
“Yes,” I said. “Clarity over comfort. That’s the gift here.”
Position 9 — The fear loop and the hope underneath: Nine of Swords (upright)
“Now revealed is the card for hopes and fears—the thing you’re most afraid will happen if you ask directly.”
Nine of Swords, upright.
I didn’t dramatize it. I named it. “This is the doomscrolling of your own worst-case scenario.”
And the modern translation: This is like when you replay a hypothetical office-hours conversation ten times and convince yourself one stumble will mean you don’t belong in the program.
“Your mind turns a ten-minute interaction into an all-night trial,” I said. “But rumination isn’t a forecast. It’s your brain doing overtime.”
Position 10 — Integration after office hours: Six of Swords (upright)
“Now revealed is the card for integration—how to carry the office-hours clarity into a next step so you don’t slip back into stuckness.”
Six of Swords, upright.
“This is movement into calmer water,” I said. “Not instant mastery. A passage.”
I gave them the modern translation as a short montage: This is like when you leave office hours with a small roadmap: one correction to test, one resource to use, and one checkpoint to return with if it still breaks.
“And here’s the key,” I added, bringing in my practical side: “Do the first test step within 24 hours. Not because you need discipline-as-punishment, but because momentum decays—like a comet’s tail fading once it’s away from the Sun.”
From Insight to Action: The Office Hours Debug Log (and Your Next Decision)
I leaned back and stitched the reading into one coherent story for Jordan.
“Here’s what the spread says,” I summarized. “Right now, you’re in an Air trap: Eight of Swords is the freeze, Page of Swords reversed is the real-time self-editing, and Nine of Swords is the fear-fuel that keeps the loop running. Underneath, The Hierophant shows you’re treating office hours like authority judgment instead of shared method. But you have proof you can learn in public—the Three of Pentacles. And you want genuine agency—the Magician. The way out is also Air, but cleaner: the Ace of Swords. One sentence. One breakpoint. Then Six of Swords: you leave with a small plan and actually try it.”
“Your cognitive blind spot,” I said gently, “is thinking that sounding polished is what protects your belonging. But what actually protects you—in the real, practical sense—is bringing data. A concrete attempt. A visible breakpoint.”
“So the transformation direction is simple,” I continued. “You shift from trying to ask the perfect, impressive question to bringing one concrete stuck point and asking for the next decision you should make.”
Then I gave Jordan something they could do even on a bad day, even with a tight throat.
- Build the 3-line Office Hours Debug LogBefore you go (or before you open Zoom), set a 7-minute timer. In your Notes app, write exactly three lines you can read verbatim: (1) “The prompt is asking me to ____.” (2) “I tried ____.” (3) “I get stuck when ____ (this line/screenshot).”If you feel yourself spiraling into over-explaining, cap yourself at 60 seconds of context. Think “bug report,” not “memoir.”
- Bring the Breakpoint Artifact (make it pointable)Bring one concrete thing: a printed page, one paragraph highlighted in Google Docs, one screenshot, or one code cell. In office hours, physically point and say, “It breaks here.”Use my Shooting Star Notes rule: if inspiration hits at 1 a.m., capture the exact line/screenshot in 30 seconds—no polishing. Raw is useful.
- Ask the Ace of Swords Question—and leave with one testOpen with: “Can you help me find my first incorrect assumption, and what I should try next?” End with: “What’s one thing I should test before I come back?” Then write the answer down immediately.Do a 15-minute test run within 24 hours (Six of Swords). Treat it like a Gravity Slingshot Review: you use the meeting’s momentum to amplify your next burst of progress.
Jordan stared at the list, then nodded slowly, like their brain was finally allowed to stop improvising.
“This makes it… mechanical,” they said. “In a good way. Like I don’t have to be brave first.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “Bravery comes after you have a handle. Not before.”
A Week Later: The Quiet Proof on the TTC
Six days later, Jordan emailed me a screenshot—three lines at the top of their Notes app, bolded like a tiny contract with themselves. Under it, a photo taken on the TTC: their notebook open on their lap, one bullet point circled. ‘First wrong assumption: variable choice. Try method B.’
“I went,” their message said. “My voice shook. I still did it. The TA was kind of blunt, but it was actually… helpful? I left with one thing to test. I tried it the same day in Robarts for 15 minutes. It didn’t solve everything, but it moved.”
The victory was small and unglamorous—no montage, no perfect confidence. Just a student riding the subway home with one clear next step, feeling lighter and a little raw at the same time.
That’s what I love about this kind of reading: tarot doesn’t hand you a destiny. It hands you a lever. In Jordan’s case, clarity wasn’t a grand revelation—it was a single sentence that turned office hours from a performance into a debugging session. It was the shift from self-doubt to a more grounded, iterative self-trust.
And if you’re reading this with that familiar tight throat in your own body—standing at the doorway with a blank notepad—it’s not that you don’t have a question. It’s that you’re trying to protect your belonging by making your learning look polished.
If you trusted that office hours could be a debugging session—not a performance—what’s the one messy line, screenshot, or paragraph you’d be willing to bring in tomorrow?
