Learning Ecosystem Integration Framework (LEIF)

My current idea for the instructional design project centers on developing the Learning Ecosystem Integration Framework (LEIF), a professional learning module that equips educators and instructional designers with strategies to ethically and effectively integrate artificial intelligence, Universal Design for Learning, and experiential learning principles into cohesive, data-informed ecosystems. I first conceived this idea after reading a LinkedIn discussion about the urgent need for frameworks that help instructional designers adapt to emerging AI tools while maintaining human-centered, ethical practices. The conversation resonated deeply with me, and it inspired me to create a model that bridges theory and practice in a meaningful, measurable way.

At this stage of development, I feel most confident in my ability to structure the module using backward design principles. My learning objectives, assessments, and instructional activities are tightly aligned, and the LEIF framework provides a strong conceptual foundation for ethical, reflective, and adaptive learning design. I also feel confident about the tools I have chosen, though I am still experimenting with them, which support accessibility and encourage collaboration and reflection across different learner preferences and modalities.

One challenge I am still working through involves sequencing the content and ensuring that learners experience a clear, logical progression from understanding the theory to applying it in practice. I am also considering how to measure abstract outcomes such as ethical decision-making, design reasoning, and reflective growth within an asynchronous online environment. Finally, I continue to reflect on how to maintain balance between offering learners autonomy and providing sufficient guidance within the digital space.

Overall, this stage of the process has helped me better understand how instructional designers can model the same thoughtful, inclusive, and data-informed design practices we want learners to adopt. While there are still questions to explore, I feel confident that the LEIF framework represents a timely and practical response to the evolving demands of the instructional design field.

Needs assessment process

This week’s exploration of needs assessment prompted me to question many of the assumptions I’ve held about instructional design, particularly the belief that every performance problem can be solved through better training. I’ve realized that this assumption, while well-intentioned, can lead to misplaced effort and even learner fatigue. The readings and scenarios challenged me to see that instructional design is as much about restraint and analysis as it is about creativity.

One of the scenarios that resonated most with me was The Partner Presentation Fail. It mirrored situations I encountered as a high school teacher, where students struggled not because they lacked collaboration skills, but because the task design itself was unclear. In the past, I might have responded by creating yet another mini-lesson or guide on teamwork, believing that more instruction was the solution. This week, however, I recognized that the real issue may have been a design misalignment between learning objectives, task structure, and assessment clarity. That realization was uncomfortable because it forced me to confront my own role in perpetuating over-teaching rather than diagnosing.

Emotionally, I found this realization both humbling and empowering. It was humbling to admit that some of my students’ struggles were not due to their lack of motivation or skill, but due to my own design blind spots. Yet it was empowering to recognize that through needs assessment, I can cultivate a more evidence-based and learner-centered approach. The feeling of relief that comes from knowing I can investigate, rather than assume, what learners truly need is significant. It shifts my identity from a “fixer” to a facilitator of discovery, someone who helps uncover root causes rather than immediately generating content.

Analyzing the six-step needs assessment process from Designing Effective Instruction (Morrison et al., 2019) and Devlin Peck’s practitioner guide helped me connect theory to practice. I was especially struck by the idea that needs assessment is a diagnostic tool, not an afterthought. This perspective reframed the act of design itself, from building instruction to designing solutions. In my own context, I can see how applying this process might have prevented issues like student disengagement or redundant professional development. A more systematic front-end analysis could have saved time, improved alignment, and increased learner buy-in.

Writing this reflection made me feel fully present as both an educator and an emerging instructional designer. I now see that design decisions carry ethical weight; poor analysis can waste learners’ time or reinforce inequities. Going forward, I plan to integrate needs assessment methods such as stakeholder interviews and root-cause analysis into every design project. This process also reinforced the emotional intelligence required in design: to listen deeply, question assumptions, and balance empathy with evidence.

Ultimately, this week transformed my understanding of what it means to be an instructional designer. A thorough needs assessment doesn’t just create better learning, it cultivates reflective practitioners who design with integrity, curiosity, and care.

instructional designer

This week has been transformative in how I view myself as an emerging instructional designer. The discussions about real-world practice, its ethical tensions, competing priorities, and creative possibilities, pushed me to examine my own assumptions about what this work truly entails. For a long time, I saw instructional design as a natural extension of teaching: a way to make learning engaging and accessible through technology. Now, I see it as something far deeper, an act of translation between pedagogy, psychology, and human experience. This shift has challenged my belief that good design simply means creating polished materials; instead, it demands empathy, ethical awareness, and a willingness to interrogate who benefits from our designs and who might be unintentionally excluded.

As I’ve been completing my portfolio and beginning to apply for instructional design internships, I’ve noticed my inbox slowly filling up with newsletters from Devlin Peck, Dr. Luke Hobson, and other industry voices. At first, it felt overwhelming, every article seemed to reveal another tool I didn’t yet know, another skill I should develop. But instead of intimidation, I began to feel a sense of belonging. These emails became reminders that I’m part of a growing professional conversation, and that I’m not simply preparing to enter the field, I’m already participating in it. That small but constant stream of insights and advice has been a tangible symbol of transition for me, a daily nudge that I’m moving in the right direction.

This transition has also created a genuine disorienting dilemma. I’ve had to confront self-doubt about leaving the familiarity of the classroom and stepping into a space where my teaching expertise must be reframed. Yet this tension has clarified my purpose: I’m not abandoning education, but expanding it. Seeing my classroom experiences translated into design artifacts, storyboards, learner personas, and prototype modules, proved that I can merge pedagogy with design thinking in meaningful ways.

Emotionally, I’ve moved from anxiety to affirmation. Revising my portfolio forced me to revisit my learning philosophy, tracing how my commitment to inclusivity, experiential learning, and self-efficacy can manifest in digital environments. What motivates me most is not the technology itself, but the possibility of creating belonging and agency for learners, especially those who have felt unseen or underestimated. That emotional insight reframed my understanding of instructional design as not only a technical craft, but also a moral and relational practice.

Through this week’s exploration, I’ve developed a more nuanced sense of meaning. I now understand instructional design as both an art and an ethical responsibility, to humanize learning in systems that often prioritize efficiency over connection. This realization has strengthened my resolve to approach design work critically, to question the cultural, social, and emotional implications of every learning experience I create. I’m leaving this module with renewed clarity. I want to design learning that empowers, includes, and transforms, and this week confirmed that this is not just the career I can do, but the one I’m meant to pursue.

Literacy & Digital Media Tools

I am required to use NoRedInk as part of our district’s ELA curriculum. Every few years, however, we are handed a new digital platform, one that the district may or may not renew the following year. This constant turnover creates a steep learning curve for teachers and students alike, forcing us to spend valuable instructional time relearning interfaces instead of deepening literacy skills. Until recently, I accepted this pattern as part of modern teaching. But this module’s readings, along with my comparison of NoRedInk and Quill, pushed me to question the assumption that frequent tech adoption equals progress.

Hodges et al. (2020) reminded me that true online learning requires planning and learner support, not just access to digital tools. Similarly, Green (2021) warned that “instructionally sound” design is not about novelty but about purpose, while Tutt (2025) exposed how unchecked enthusiasm for technology can overshadow pedagogy. Comparing NoRedInk and Quill revealed a deeper ideological divide; NoRedInk’s behaviorist, compliance-driven model contrasts sharply with Quill’s constructivist, reflective design grounded in Universal Design for Learning principles.

Emotionally, I felt both frustration and clarity. Frustration that mandated compliance often eclipses creativity and inclusivity; clarity in realizing that I can meet district requirements and design better learning experiences. Going forward, I will continue to use NoRedInk to satisfy required district diagnostics but will intentionally integrate Quill to foster authentic writing, equity, and metacognition. Using Anstey and Watson’s (2018) Rubric for eLearning Tool Evaluation as a framework will allow me to justify these decisions professionally and advocate for more sustainable, learner-centered technology use in my school community.

Resistance to Hollow Innovation

This module prompted me to confront one of, what I perceive to be, the biggest tensions in digital education, the desire to stay innovative without losing pedagogical clarity. The sheer number of tools like Flip, Miro, Canva, ChatGPT, MagicSchool, Merge EDU are overwhelming. Like many educators, I initially focused on what each tool could do rather than why it mattered. The readings and videos, particularly the EDUCAUSE article “Using Technology as a Learning Tool, Not Just a Cool New Thing” (Oblinger & Oblinger, 2005), reminded me that meaningful design begins not with technology but with theory. The “cool new thing” becomes valuable only when it supports authentic learning, reflection, and community.

Emotionally, I moved from curiosity mixed with fatigue to a sense of purpose. The Pear Tree Education video emphasized that technology should never be the solution to 21st-century education, but a tool that amplifies critical thinking, creativity, and collaboration. I realized my discomfort wasn’t resistance to innovation, it was resistance to hollow innovation. As Devlin Peck (2024) noted in his analysis of emerging eLearning trends, designers must use artificial intelligence and automation to enhance, not replace, human connection.

Engaging with multiple perspectives helped me analyze my own practice more deeply. The eLearning Industry (2025) article on immersive and mobile-first design expanded my understanding of accessibility; effective design is no longer confined to a desktop but must live in the learner’s hands. Similarly, Articulate’s (2025) “What’s In and What’s Out” underscored a shift toward learner agency and storytelling. These pieces collectively reframed my role from content creator to learning architect, responsible for curating experiences that balance efficiency, equity, and engagement.

In practice, I am applying these insights by developing a “pedagogy-first checklist” for my future Course Design Plan. Before adopting a new tool, I ask three questions: Does it meet a real learning goal? Is it inclusive and accessible? Can it be sustained over time? These criteria align with my broader instructional philosophy, grounded in experiential, human-centered learning, and help me make intentional, evidence-based design choices.

I still wonder how we can better integrate digital ethics and emotional literacy into every course design rather than treating them as supplemental topics; yet, I am encouraged by the movement toward personalization and learner autonomy. Ultimately, this module reminded me that staying “future-ready” is less about mastering every platform and more about remaining reflective, adaptive, and deeply committed to the learner experience.

UDL as a Mindset and a Research-Backed Framework

This week’s readings deepened my understanding of UDL as a mindset and a research-backed framework. The meta-analysis by King-Sears et al. (2023) especially stood out because it confirmed that UDL measurably improves outcomes across subjects and age groups. I was struck by the finding that UDL produced the strongest results in small-group contexts. That made me rethink how I’ve pictured UDL in practice. I used to imagine it mostly in large, whole-class design decisions, but the evidence suggests it may be most powerful when learners work closely together, where choice and representation can be personalized.

The faculty development review (Al-Azawei et al., 2022) also challenged me. It made me realize that UDL isn’t something faculty can just “add” after one training session. Instead, the most successful implementations came when professional learning was ongoing and faculty were given space to collaborate. That resonated with my own experience; some of the most inclusive teaching practices I’ve used weren’t things I came up with in isolation, but ideas I borrowed and reshaped after talking with colleagues. The NJ DOE UDL Walkthrough (2016) helped me visualize what this actually looks like in classrooms: students setting their own goals, teachers posting multiple formats of materials, and routines that normalize flexible pathways for engagement. Seeing those concrete strategies reminded me that UDL is not just conceptual, but it shows up in everyday design choices.

In thinking about the application, I want to be more intentional about weaving UDL into design from the very start. In my own classroom, I’ve relied on pacing checklists and reflection prompts to help students regulate their learning, but the readings made me wonder what that could look like in an online or blended course where I won’t be there face-to-face. My new curiosity is how technology might expand the possibilities of UDL, like adaptive tools that personalize pacing or interactive media that give learners real choice in representation. Rather than just scaling UDL up for larger groups, I wonder how digital platforms could open up entirely new pathways for engagement that I haven’t fully explored yet.

Deeper Issues of Equity, Pedagogy, and Sustainability

This week’s critiques of eLearning challenged me to confront one of my own assumptions that digital tools inherently improve learning. I used to feel excitement about every new platform or media feature, assuming innovation would naturally translate to engagement. But as I read and reflected, I realized that my bias toward novelty risked overlooking deeper issues of equity, pedagogy, and sustainability. This shift in thinking was uncomfortable, but important; it forced me to recognize that my enthusiasm sometimes blinded me to learners’ real barriers.

One dilemma I keep returning to is the tension between access and inequity. On the one hand, eLearning opens doors for learners who cannot attend in person; on the other hand, it excludes those without reliable devices, sufficient bandwidth, or digital literacy. From the institutional perspective, online programs scale efficiently; from a learner’s perspective, they can either empower or alienate. As a designer, I must navigate these competing realities with care.

Emotionally, I felt both frustration and hope. Frustration at the thought that poorly designed tools can reinforce systemic inequities. Hope because thoughtful, inclusive design, grounded in UDL and accessibility, can flip that script, giving learners new ways to succeed. That emotional tension is motivating; it reminds me why equity must remain at the center of our work.

Ultimately, the meaning I’ve made is this: technology is not the pedagogy. The most impactful designs are those where the tool fades into the background, allowing the learner’s experience to take center stage. This realization strengthens my commitment to approach digital media with both critical caution and creative possibility. Going forward, I will pause before choosing tools, asking: Whose needs does this meet? Whose voices might it silence? That reflective stance will shape not only my design process but also my professional identity as an instructional designer committed to equity and intentionality.

Instructional Designers are not just Building Courses

This week, my learning centered on instructional design models and how they provide systematic but adaptable approaches to course creation. When I first entered this class, I thought instructional design was mainly about order, following a clear checklist to make sure objectives, assessments, and activities matched. I imagined it as a rigid process where success came from consistency. What I have learned, however, is that consistency does not necessarily mean uniformity. Instead, instructional design thrives on the balance between structure and flexibility. That realization required me to rethink one of my own assumptions about education, that clarity and creativity are in opposition.

The dilemma I faced this week was seeing the same models I thought were “rules” instead presented as “guides.” For example, ADDIE is often described as a generic framework, but both SUNY and UConn adapt it in ways that reflect their institutional priorities. SUNY emphasizes accessibility, quality assurance, and continuous improvement, while UConn focuses heavily on alignment through the Course Design Plan. These variations show that instructional design is not a single formula to be followed, but a family of approaches that must be adapted to the context, learners, and goals of a course. This challenged my earlier view that instructional designers strive for standardization across all environments. Instead, the real skill lies in knowing when to uphold a structure and when to modify it.

On one hand, I was excited to see how flexible design could be, because it validated my own teaching instincts. I have always resisted creating learning environments that feel mechanical or overly prescriptive. On the other hand, I felt some anxiety because flexibility requires judgment. It means I cannot simply rely on a pre-made formula; I need to weigh the needs of learners, institutional expectations, and the learning environment each time I design. Recognizing this emotional response helped me understand something deeper: that the tension I feel between wanting to be precise and wanting to be humane is exactly what makes instructional design complex and meaningful.

One way I made sense of this was by reframing the conflict. The dilemma is not “rigid versus flexible.” Instead, the more useful question is, “How can I design with both clarity and humanity?” SUNY and UConn’s models both answered this in their own way. SUNY’s focus on accessibility showed me that clarity can be an act of equity; making navigation and expectations simple is a way of caring for students who may otherwise feel lost. UConn’s emphasis on alignment reminded me that structure prevents drift, ensuring learners are not completing busywork but activities that actually lead to meaningful outcomes. Seeing the ethical dimensions of design, how choices can either empower or overwhelm students, helped me move beyond technical thinking toward a deeper moral awareness of my work.

In my professional practice, I see immediate applications of these insights. For example, I plan to use a Course Design Plan not only as an organizational tool, but as a reflective map that ensures every objective connects to an activity and assessment. At the same time, I want to embed opportunities for choice and interaction so learners feel ownership of their experiences. In future courses I design, I will build clear weekly navigation and aligned objectives, but I will also humanize those spaces with discussion prompts, reflection opportunities, and multimedia that invite students into a conversation rather than a checklist. I hope that students will feel both guided and free, that clarity and creativity can work together rather than against each other.

Ultimately, this week reshaped how I view instructional design. I now understand it not only as a technical process but as an ethical and relational one. Instructional designers are not just building courses; they are shaping how students encounter knowledge, how they experience learning, and even how they feel about themselves as learners. This carries a responsibility that is both daunting and inspiring. My lingering question is: How can I continue to cultivate this balance between structure and humanity as I move into more complex design projects?

Intentionality, Ethics, and Learner-centered Design are Non-Negotiables in Instructional Design.

The most impactful reading for me this week was Hodges et al. (2020) and their distinction between emergency remote teaching (ERT) and online learning. I realized that I had been assuming these two terms were interchangeable, shaped by my experience teaching during the pandemic. That assumption reflected a bias toward thinking that if instruction was delivered online, it automatically counted as “online learning.” Hodges et al. challenged me to see that online learning must be intentionally designed, structured, and grounded in pedagogy, while ERT is a temporary response to a crisis. This has consequences; if I conflate the two, I risk excusing poor design choices as inevitable, rather than striving for quality.

I felt a mix of recognition and unease as I read. Recognition, because I have seen firsthand how rushed online transitions left students disengaged. Unease, because I realized I have sometimes relied on ERT-like strategies when pressed for time, without fully considering how that undermines learner experience. This connects to Devlin Peck’s (2024) statistics, which show that well-designed online courses improve retention and engagement dramatically compared to poorly designed ones. That data reinforced my emotional response that quality design isn’t just theory; it has measurable outcomes for learners.

At the same time, Pappas (2025) expanded my perspective by highlighting how AI can accelerate content creation while requiring careful oversight. I had assumed AI might eventually displace elements of instructional design, but Pappas reframed it as a tool that can support designers when used responsibly. This left me reflecting on the balance between speed and intentionality. AI can generate assessments or multimedia quickly, but without human editing and ethical consideration, its outputs can be inaccurate or exclusionary. That tension mirrored my earlier dissonance about ERT; efficiency cannot replace thoughtful design.

Finally, Peck’s (2023) discussion of Learning Experience Design (LXD) and the Virginia Tech (2003) eLearning Theories & Models reminded me that learner experience and accessibility must be central to design. Constructivist theories assume that learners actively participate in authentic, social contexts. If design choices don’t prioritize usability and interaction, those theories can’t hold. Every week now, I am coming back to the same reflection: am I prioritizing learner engagement, or am I sometimes defaulting to what is most efficient for me as a teacher?

The meaning I take from this week is that intentionality, ethics, and learner-centered design are non-negotiables in instructional design. Moving forward, I want to carry Hodges et al.’s warning about ERT with me, using it as a reminder that design should never be reactive when it can be planned. I also want to experiment with AI in ways that save time, but keep me fully engaged in reviewing outputs. My lingering question is how instructional designers can advocate for design practices that honor theory and evidence when institutions often push for efficiency and speed.

Transactional Distance Theory (TDT), the Community of Inquiry (CoI) framework, and Connectivism

This week, engaging with Michael G. Moore’s Transactional Distance Theory (TDT), the Community of Inquiry (CoI) framework, and Connectivism challenged me to rethink what I assumed about effective distance education. Previously, I believed the strength of technology platforms primarily shaped online learning. If the platform was user-friendly, interactive, and reliable, I assumed meaningful learning would naturally follow. Now, I see that technology alone is insufficient; the real work lies in how we design learning around communication, presence, and networks. Moore’s (2013) Transactional Distance Theory reframed my thinking by showing that “distance” in distance education is not merely geographic but psychological. The gap between teachers and learners is shaped by how much structure, dialogue, and learner autonomy exist within a course. This made me reflect on my own teaching practices. I realized that when lessons are too rigid, scholars often disengage because they cannot see themselves in the work. On the other hand, if I give scholars complete freedom, some feel overwhelmed and uncertain about expectations. Moore’s theory suggests that the art of distance education lies in calibrating these three dimensions to reduce transactional distance and keep scholars engaged.

The Community of Inquiry (CoI) framework (Garrison, Anderson, & Archer, 2000) builds on this by focusing not just on design, but on the kinds of “presence” required for meaningful online learning. Cognitive presence allows learners to construct meaning through sustained communication; social presence ensures that learners project themselves as real people; and teaching presence ties everything together through design, facilitation, and direct instruction. The CoI framework resonates with my values as an educator because it emphasizes relationships and interaction as the foundation of deep learning. What struck me, though, was how this model highlighted gaps in my current practice. While I consistently emphasize teaching presence and cognitive presence, I may not always give enough attention to building social presence, especially in digital contexts where scholars can feel anonymous or disconnected.

Then came Connectivism (Siemens, 2005), which unsettled me even further. While TDT and CoI largely focus on the dynamics within a class or course, Connectivism shifts the frame to the larger networks of knowledge in which learners are embedded. According to this theory, learning is no longer about internalizing static content but about building the capacity to connect with sources, people, databases, and artificial intelligence. Connectivism argues that “the pipe is more important than the content within the pipe,” meaning that the ability to access and navigate networks matters more than memorizing information. This raised a new question for me: Am I preparing my scholars to thrive in a world where knowledge is constantly shifting and distributed across networks, or am I still tethering them too tightly to traditional classroom structures? A dilemma I continue to wrestle with is how to reconcile these frameworks when learners’ needs diverge. For example, Moore’s TDT suggests that scholars in high-structure, low-dialogue environments must develop greater autonomy, while CoI emphasizes the importance of strong teaching and social presence to sustain learning communities. Connectivism, meanwhile, assumes a level of autonomy and digital fluency that not all scholars possess. As an educator, I feel both inspired and uneasy about how to calibrate these competing demands. Should I scaffold heavily for scholars who are less prepared for autonomy as ninth graders, or should I push them to develop networked learning skills even if it means they will struggle at first?

Emotionally, this exploration left me both affirmed and challenged. I felt affirmed because these theories validated my instinct to prioritize dialogue and relationship-building. Dialogue, for me, has always been the heartbeat of the classroom, whether face-to-face or online. Yet I also felt discomfort, realizing that my preference for high-dialogue environments may not always prepare scholars for the more autonomous, networked learning that Connectivism envisions. This forced me to confront a bias in my teaching: I sometimes assume that what feels engaging to me must also feel engaging to scholars, when in reality, learners’ needs vary widely. In terms of analysis and meaning-making, what stands out most is how these theories intersect. TDT explains the psychological dynamics of distance, CoI shows how presence sustains meaningful learning communities, and Connectivism reframes learning as a distributed, networked process beyond the classroom.

Taken together, they suggest that effective instructional design is not about choosing one model but about integrating insights from all three. For example, TDT can guide me in balancing structure, dialogue, and autonomy within a course. CoI can remind me to cultivate cognitive, social, and teaching presences intentionally.

Connectivism can push me to design opportunities for scholars to build networks and navigate knowledge sources beyond the classroom. Moving forward, I aim to integrate these ideas by: (1) designing lessons that utilize dialogue (TDT) and teaching presence (CoI) to ensure scholars feel connected to both me and their peers. (2) Scaffold opportunities for autonomy (TDT) while encouraging scholars to build networks and practice digital literacy skills (Connectivism). (3) Leverage digital platforms not just for content delivery, but for collaboration, reflection, and knowledge creation that can extend beyond the classroom. The unresolved question I carry is whether technology can ever truly balance these demands, or whether the responsibility will always fall on teachers to design with intentionality. What feels clear, however, is that meaningful e-learning requires far more than uploading materials to a platform. It requires cultivating spaces where learners feel guided, connected, and empowered to navigate a constantly shifting world of knowledge.

Andragogy & Adult Learning Theory

This week’s readings on andragogy, adult learning theory, and Michael Moore’s theory of transactional distance challenged me to re-examine many of my assumptions about teaching. As a classroom educator, I have often defaulted to pedagogy framed around structure, control, and the belief that scholars, especially younger ones, cannot learn without constant direction. The theories I engaged with asked me to critique that assumption and consider how much of it stems from my own comfort with control rather than the actual needs of learners. Moore’s emphasis on dialogue, structure, and autonomy especially made me think about the consequences of my choices: when I lean too heavily on structure, I risk stifling scholars’ voices. When I allow too much autonomy without support, I risk leaving scholars adrift. These are not just abstract ideas. They directly affect how my scholars experience learning today and how they develop the skills to become independent learners in the future.

I was fully present in these reflections because they tie so closely to my lived teaching experiences, particularly during the COVID-19 pandemic. Overnight, my teaching shifted to online platforms, and I witnessed the sharp divide between scholars who thrived with autonomy and those who disengaged without face-to-face dialogue. I cannot read about e-learning’s evolution, or about theories that stress networks of knowledge, without recalling the isolation my scholars felt when technology failed to foster meaningful connections. My voice in this reflection is not that of a distant observer. It is the voice of an educator still grappling with how to balance hope in new approaches with the real limitations I see every day in my classroom. The central conflict that emerges for me is the tension between technology’s potential to empower learners and its unintended consequences when misaligned with pedagogy. On one hand, social networks and Web 2.0 technologies promise interaction, collaboration, and scholarly authorship. On the other hand, they risk distraction, inequity, and overwhelming educators with additional management responsibilities. Transactional distance highlights the conflict well: the variables of dialogue, structure, and autonomy shift depending on learner needs, yet educational systems often impose one-size-fits-all models. I find myself wrestling with alternative perspectives. Is it the educator’s role to constantly adapt and differentiate within these shifting variables? Or should the responsibility fall more heavily on educational technology designers to create tools that reduce the transactional gap? This dilemma challenges me to interrogate assumptions about where the burden of innovation and flexibility should lie.

Emotionally, my response is complex. There is hope in seeing frameworks that validate what I have felt intuitively, that scholars need dialogue, autonomy, and a sense of agency. At the same time, there is unease, even frustration, in recognizing how often the systems we work within fail to support that balance. I feel worried that younger scholars may be disadvantaged in an environment that assumes too much autonomy. Yet I also feel energized by the possibility that applying these theories could help me move closer to a more equitable and engaging classroom. Attending these emotions gave me insight. My discomfort is not a weakness but a signal that I am confronting the limits of my current practice and identifying areas where growth is necessary. Ultimately, these readings helped me make meaning by situating my teaching within a larger historical and theoretical context. I now see that e-learning did not simply arrive with COVID but has been evolving for centuries, from correspondence courses to Web 2.0, and each shift has pedagogical repercussions. The meaning I take from this is twofold: first, that technology will continue to evolve, but my responsibility as an educator is to focus on pedagogy, while incorporating tools. Second, I must intentionally create opportunities for dialogue and scaffold autonomy to reduce transactional distance. In practice, this might look like allowing scholars to co-create discussion questions (fostering andragogy’s principles of learner input). while still providing structure to support those who need it. Moving forward, I want to ask how schools can build systems that honor both the promise of technology and the realities of scholar diversity. This week has convinced me that the answer will not come from technology alone, but from reflective teaching that balances structure, dialogue, and autonomy in ways responsive to every learner.