Learning at 30,000 Feet
by Autumn DeGroot | Senior Learning Program Manager
I’m going to start this post with a moment of truth: I tend to be a risk-averse person. I am a calculator of safety, a contingency planner, and a constant counter of heads (a nod of solidarity to those who have ever chaperoned a school field trip). I’m sure there’s a point when I was a carefree, go-with-the-flow kid, but at some point in my personal development, I became hyper-aware of risk.
Staying at a cabin in the woods? But what if bears attack? Walking on a frozen lake? But what if the ice cracks? Riding a looping roller coaster? But what if the harness doesn’t hold? Flying somewhere? Well, don’t get me started on the “what ifs” of airline travel. Most often I pushed through my fearful thoughts and did the thing anyway. But the what-ifs and worst-case scenarios were always tapping my shoulder to quietly remind me they were there.
On the flip side, I also like to have adventures, travel, experience different cultures, and enjoy times of spontaneity and silliness. These two distinct facets of my personality can feel like a balancing act at times. As an adult, I’ve done a fair amount of self-reflection to uncover the source of some of my apprehensions and discover ways to overcome them, rather than just muscling through uncomfortable situations. Through trial and error, I found I was able to lessen some of my anxieties using the power of information.
To become more relaxed with woodland visits, I dug up information about bears. I developed a better understanding of their habitat and patterns, became aware of scents that draw them in, learned what triggers their protective instincts, studied how to safely store food, and acquired tactics to deter them if they should come into my area. With practical safety measures in place, I graduated from not only feeling safe in a cabin in the woods but even feeling comfortable in a tent! Information for the win!
To decide whether I’d venture back out onto a frozen lake, I did some more probing. I learned how the thickness of ice varies at different temperatures, over different lengths of time, and in different bodies of water. I learned that there’s (virtually) no way I’m going to fall through ten inches of solid ice, which gave me a practical basis to assess when and where I feel safe. Bring on the skates (in the right conditions)!
With worries sneaking up before an amusement park visit, I did a quick dive into roller coaster safety. I learned how harness mechanisms work, that secondary safety measures are often in place, that most issues are rider error, and how looping coasters have a centrifuge effect that helps hold passengers safely in their seats. Feeling more confident in my own safety, I enjoyed the day at the park, and even tried a few coasters that would have previously been a big “nope.” And I’m happy to say that I was not the one who went home with motion sickness.
Flying, however… this was the “stickiest” fear for me. I read up and tried so many strategies to “logic” myself out of the fear I felt whenever I boarded an airplane. I recalled comforting facts such as Statistics are proof—it truly is the safest way to travel. Newton’s third law of motion—it’s basic physics! People do this all day, every day—and they’re fine. I reminded myself that I LOVE traveling and visiting new places—and flying is the only reasonable way to make this a reality. When logic didn’t pan out, I tried strategies for distraction. I invested in noise-canceling headphones and created playlists that could help me slip into a different mental space while flying. I stayed up late the night before a flight so I could force myself into slumber at 30,000 feet. When turbulence hit, I tried to imagine off-roading in a muddy Jeep.
I was in my own head—learning, debating, and distracting, with one single goal: to stop feeling afraid. It wasn’t working.
The combination of knowledge and distraction may have dulled the edge of my fear, but they were just Band-Aids. But then, one evening, there was a clear turning point in my learning journey: I had the good fortune to be seated next to a kind airline pilot on a flight from Chicago to Grand Rapids, Michigan. I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled at having a nervous neighbor. (Another one who just doesn’t get it.) I’ve been told I wear my emotions on my sleeve, so I assume my nerves were apparent despite my best efforts to conceal them. We struck up the usual “seat neighbor” chat and I must have shared something that revealed my apprehension because this kind soul took it upon himself to make me a student of flying that evening.
As we were zooming down the runway for takeoff, shimmying left and right—a motion that always made me white-knuckled and certain we were about to careen off into the abyss—he explained the concept of wake turbulence. He asked me if I’d ever been on a boat; then he explained that the turbulence that causes that shimmy is like the wake of a boat, but in the air. I grew up on a lake, and this concept hit home. I understood. I was calmed.
My new hero shared tips like this with me throughout the short flight over Lake Michigan. I learned about routine noises, motions, and signals that had always left me guessing. When we saw lightning nearby, he explained to me how airplanes are designed to withstand lightning strikes, and he shared what it’s like if it happens. Our conversation gave me an entirely new perspective. His understanding, empathy, and willingness to share his knowledge combined to give me peace of mind that I had not been able to achieve on my own.
When I closed my professional chapter in education and embarked upon a career in LXD, I began to consider the characteristics of effective learning experiences for adults. As I reflected, I drew upon these different personal memories and moments of learning. For me, these examples highlight the power of learning and knowledge, but—even more importantly—the powerful influence of empathy and connection. Sleeping in the woods, ice skating, and riding roller coasters all turned out to be topics I could explore on my own and gain enough knowledge to get me over the hurdle. But my deeply-rooted anxieties about flying posed different learning challenges. The information I discovered on my own had not helped me reach my goals and objectives. I was stuck in the same rut, using the same strategies and getting the same results. I didn’t experience change until a “teacher” truly saw me, understood my needs, and delivered the learning in a meaningful and impactful way.
Learning designers can create informative, academic, rigorous content all day long. Yet when they share it with the world, there’s a chance it may not resonate with the audience or that it may not meet the audience members’ needs. When designing learning experiences, we need to consider: What can we do to increase the likelihood that a learning experience will make a memorable impact?
When we practice empathy with our learners, we strive to understand their wants, needs, goals, and objectives. Putting ourselves in the shoes of the learners, we can begin to design an experience that will resonate with them, avoiding design elements that might miss the mark. Knowing the learners guides us to use the right language and tone, and helps us construct relevant and meaningful content. My seatmate immediately empathized with me, recognized my needs, and set out to help me in a calm and informative way that set the stage for a lesson that will last a lifetime.
Thinking of the most impactful learning experiences I’ve encountered, there’s also a clear theme of connections—with both people and content. Genuine interpersonal connections can set the stage for authentic learning. When learners feel truly seen and understood, a door can open for mutual respect and exchange of information. Content connections are equally important. A learning experience is far more likely to stick if it’s relevant, practical, and allows the learner to make real-world connections. As a former educator, I always knew the content had connected when I saw the “ah-ha” moment on my learners’ faces. On that airplane, these moments took place for me when I learned the wake of a jet was like the wake of a boat, and when I was able to make new sense out of noises or movements that I never understood in the past.
Some learning environments lend themselves to empathy and connection more readily than others. Seated next to one another on a flight, it was easy for the pilot to make a personal connection with me and align learning with what was happening in the real world, in real-time. We don’t always have this luxury as learning designers, especially when we are designing a virtual or eLearning experience. But with creative planning and a solid, empathetic understanding of our learners, we can incorporate design elements that facilitate connections and help bring content to life.
And if we’re lucky, we may share a lesson that will last a lifetime.
