Ethics in Learning Development

Just how much damage could I do…?

Alright, so no one’s going to die if by accident or design, I don’t do my job properly. Much as I’m committed to my work as terribly meaningful and important, there’s a limit to the harm I could cause.

And yet… just as a thought experiment, let’s imagine Evil Me as a Learning Developer. Imagine, through mischief, neglect or pure ill will, what havoc I could wreak in my job….

  • I could deliberately or accidentally get a student accused of academic misconduct…
  • I could make a student fail their assignment, module or degree by giving misleading advice…
  • I could ghostwrite essays for students…and teach them how not to get caught
  • I could spuriously convince a student that they must be  dyslexic/autistic/ abnormal/mentally unwell…and that I could help
  • I could offer preferential treatment or withhold provision, in exchange for “favours” or to punish…
  • I could ask them prurient questions which have nothing to do with helping them with their studies to satisfy my salacious curiosity…
  • I could convince a student that they are stupid, hopeless and will fail…
  • I could lead them to believe that I’m a subject expert to indulge my fantasies of academic respectability…

And that’s just off the top of my head. Actually, there’s quite a bit of damage I could do.

There’s lots of ways in which I could just not be doing my job properly. And that’s common to any job – not doing the work agreed in exchange for the payment offered. What makes a professional job, however, is the particular role and function we occupy. As professionals, we profess to have specialist expertise that the lay person does not, but which they need us to exercise on their behalf. This expertise, this knowledge base, skillset and practice,  gives us authority and a measure of power over those we work with. They trust us to do…whatever mysterious thing that we do, and act in their interests. They don’t necessarily need or want to know what it is beyond the broadest sense. They may not even know enough to know if we aren’t doing our job properly. The more abstract a profession is, the more this is true. And this opens up the possibility of abuse or neglect of that power and that trust. We have greater potential to do harm. This is why professions have values, ethics and codes of conduct, and professional bodies to set standards and enforce them. It’s a moral imperative.

Ethics aren’t the same as values. Values inform us as to how to do our job well. Ethics prevent us from doing actual harm. There are ethics common to all professions, things like transparency, accountability, respect, duty of care, not abusing your status for personal gain, not sleeping with your patients/students….  They basically guard against three main things: neglect, abuse of power and exploitation, and grandiosely misrepresenting what you can do.

As people who see themselves as ‘professional’ in the most everyday sense, we learning developers will each our own individual ethical code, things which we set ourselves as standards or which are for us beyond the pale. What makes professional ethics so powerful though are that they are commonly held by a professional community, represented and articulated by a professional body. This means that there is consistency and therefore transparency for the lay people we work with, and an element of policing, whether it’s just a shared sense of ‘that’s not how we do things, that’s not on’ or in some professions, being struck off.

Does Learning Development need a code of conduct, a statement of its ethics? I’d certainly argue that we can do harm. To our students, the academic community and – as we gain recognition as a community of practice, to our own and each others’ reputations. This potential for harm is specific to and derives from our expertise as learning developers. It may be that the generic professional ethics cover us, or it may be that the kinds of harm we could do might merit a specific LD code of conduct. I can’t see the LD police striking anyone off, but it would be interesting to see if as a community we could agree on what our ethics should be. And if we want to be taken seriously, just as professional as counsellors, doctors, lawyers, then a code of conduct is one of the defining traits of a profession.




Tailoring for levels of study

One of the central tenets of Learning Development is that the skills we teach aren’t generic, but take different forms according to the discipline – hence ‘academic literacies’ are spoken of in the plural. It’s also surely true that these skills vary according to the level of study – that everything from academic writing and critical thinking to note-taking and time management will take different forms depending on the expectations of that level of study. For example, the ‘authorial voice’ expected of a first year undergraduate vs a PhD student in the same subject will differ quite markedly according to the originality and authority they are expected to project through their writing. These new demands also put a strain on students’ existing study practices, as they are qualitatively more complex, as well as quantitatively longer, and students may need to adapt or risk their habitual strategies failing under the strain.

As someone outside the discipline though, it’s sometimes quite hard for a Learning Developer to pitch a session right. For many reasons, there’s quite a lot of variation between levels across different subjects. Some subjects just do focus far more on acquiring knowledge than others, especially in the first year (often medical and physical sciences), some programmes are designed as ‘conversion’ courses to a new subject and may not necessarily represent a step up, at least at first, from the previous level of education (undergraduate programmes in subjects not represented at A-Level, some masters courses). And as each subject has its own epistemology, it’s hard to know from the outside what the expectations around concepts such as critical analysis are in a particular subject – each has its own concept of what constitutes knowledge.

A very useful leaflet on originality was circulated on Twitter recently by the University of Melbourne, to help PhD students understand the expectations of that defining characteristic of doctoral level work. I like it a lot, but there was some discussion when I retweeted it about how it positions originality against lower levels of study. If originality is the defining characteristic of the PhD, then understandings of undergraduate and even masters work have to be positioned as lacking it, and there were some justified comments on Twitter about how this mapping didn’t align with assessment critieria in subjects which demand analysis, and therefore a creative contribution, right from year one of undergraduate, not just the reproduction of knowledge.

As with most conceptual issues like this, I tend to reach for a food-based metaphor to help students understand abstract expectations. I like food – everyone likes food – it’s universally comprehensible and very often a very apt metaphor for learning!*

Here’s my analogy.

At Undergraduate level, particularly in the first year, you are learning to cook. To do so, you learn the basic techniques, learn how to check that your ingredients are of a suitable quality, and that they’re what the recipe calls for, and how to interpret and follow a recipe. Even though you are following set recipes, you are still creating – ok, maybe it’s nothing that hasn’t been made a hundred times before before by someone else, but you’re still actively creating it for yourself. In the first year, it might be more akin to using a meal kit with the ingredients largely assembled for you, and by final year, you might be choosing a recipe and shopping around for ingredients yourself.

At final year of undergraduate when working on a dissertation, and at Masters level, you’re not just working with knowledge, you’re really learning how knowledge is made. An understanding not just of the techniques of cooking, and how to follow a recipe, but of the principles that underlie it, why it works (or not…). With this understanding, you can adapt recipes, combine them, add your own tweaks, maybe create some of the ingredients (data) from scratch and grow your own rather than using prepared ones. Maybe you can even cook a well-known dish without a recipe, working it out yourself.

At Doctoral level, you’re creating new recipes, new dishes (new foods?), ones that no one’s made before.  It might be a novel twist on an old favourite, it might be using a familiar ingredient in an unexpected dish, it might even be an entirely new technique or flavour.

I like this analogy, as it allows for creativity and originality at each level, and sees originality from the student’s perspective. And because it’s a metaphor, it’s not overly concrete or prescriptive – it’s a framework that’s flexible enough to encompass disciplinary differences. Students can use it to make sense of the expectations of their own discipline and level of study – I ask them how this applies in their own context, getting them to fill in the details where, as a disciplinary outsider, I can’t.


*exception – apart from attempts to position students as consumers of learning – that doesn’t work for me!

Discipline specific


I’m not, for once, talking about subject discipline, but actual classroom management, dealing with disruptive student behaviour. I don’t know if this is one of those issues that raises its head about this time every year (isn’t it getting dark early? aren’t students getting more badly behaved?), or whether it’s genuinely getting worse, but I’ve had several discussions recently about how we address behaviours in our group teaching which are… well, shall we say not conducive to learning, and not professional or respectful. I know I’ve had a few troublesome experiences this term, and anecdotally have heard the same from colleagues in my own institution (subject lecturers as well as student services colleagues), and my counterparts elsewhere.

I mean, I know compared to teaching colleagues in primary and secondary education, we have it pretty easy – no one, by and large, is pulling anyone else’s hair, throwing chairs, hitting each other or shouting and swearing. We’re teaching adults, after all. And the vast majority of them are a joy to work with.

As learning developers, the way we work raises a number of issues which may be contributing factors.

  • Not only do we not know the students, but they don’t know us – we very rarely have any kind of ongoing relationship with a class we teach beyond one or two sessions. We have to build rapport and good will very fast, in the knowledge that it’s an investment on both sides which is ephemeral, for an hour or two only. We have to find a way of making that investment worth it for the students.
  • We’re often working out of context, outside the students’ expectations of the ‘norm’. We don’t ‘teach’ in a traditional way – we are not the authorities imparting subject knowledge at the front of the lecture theatre, we’re facilitators of workshops with reflection and development. However, if we are teaching a session embedded in a module, standing at the front of the lecture room in the same weekly timeslot as their subject lecturers, it’s very hard to run a proper workshop against all the connotations and associations and baggage of traditional teaching which that situation brings. Students may be unsettled and not sure how to respond.
  •  We’re often working in a very reflective way, swimming against all the currents of remedial, deficit model assumptions often made about study skills. It can feel very exposing to students, who may not feel comfortable making themselves so vulnerable among their peers or admitting that they are not sure how to approach their studies. Our non-judgmental ethos is easier to maintain in the one to one; harder to ensure when publically losing face in front of peers is at stake. In a new group of first years or masters students, or in a ‘generic’, cross-university session, not only do they not know us, they may also not know, or trust, each other yet. We need to find a way to make students feel safe.
  • We’re often an (optional) extra, factored into the timetable. sometimes at unpopular timetable slots, on top of all the other things they have to do. Not another thing…. we need to make it worthwhile in the students’ eyes.
  • We have no teacherly authority over students, real or imagined. Not that lecturers really do either – universities are not in loco parentis any more and even lecturers can’t really ‘punish’ students as teachers (used to) do. Students may however imagine that poor behaviour towards their lecturer might mean poor marks later down the line… Not from us though. No bad references for future employers. Nor will they necessarily ever see us again after the one session – no awkwardness to face for the rest of the term or the degree. The only authority we have is one that students invest in us, due to the value of what we can offer them and how we work with them.

Against this, it’s perhaps natural that students can be confused or unsettled in our sessions, and that this can lead to or exacerbate behaviours that challenge the learning environment. Again, I’m not talking about anything major – overtly inattentive body language (asleep on the desk), using social media, talking and laughing when the facilitator or another student is talking, mildly offensive or disrespectful responses (especially on digital response systems), outright refusal to engage with tasks… all minor things in some ways, but cumulatively can start to affect the dynamic of the whole group in a negative way, both other students’ attitudes and your own confidence.

Dealing with this is difficult. People who don’t teach might suggest things like telling them off, humiliating them, threatening them (with what?!), sending them out. But let’s face it, that’s not actually going to help the disruptive student learn, which is after all what we ultimately want. It might also make things worse.  Transactional analysis is useful here- the minute you treat them like a child, with yourself as the stern parent, they may well respond to that role you’ve placed them in and thus your response may exacerbate the problem. Also, how you handle it will affect the dynamic of the whole group.

There will be some – many – a majority of – students who are equally exasperated and frustrated with their disruptive coursemates. It’s easy to forget that they’re there – they won’t necessarily be vocal about it, and their behaviour won’t necessarily stand out to you as it’s the expected ‘norm’ – quietly attentive, doing what they’re supposed to. But they’re there, and they’re on your side.

The key is I think to somehow make disruptive students aware that not only do you disapprove of their behaviour, but so do the majority of the group, their peers. It’s easy to kick off against a perceived authority figure, even if that’s not how you yourself position yourself as a learning developer. It’s less easy to set yourself against your peers, who want to engage and learn. The engaged (enraged!) students won’t necessarily want to be made visible though. And they will want to see that you are dealing with poor behaviour – that’s your job. One good suggestion I’ve heard recently is to say that there ‘have recently been student complaints about X behaviour’, so it’s the student peer voice which is setting the tone, albeit anonymously. And you will almost certainly have come across similar complaints so it wouldn’t be untrue. I recently had a one to one with a student who said they felt ‘lonely’ – not in a social sense, but in the way they felt isolated as one of the few who wanted to learn. It made me very sad for them, but also determined to do better for them and the many others who quietly felt that way, in the way I teach.

On the other hand, the minute the majority of the students start to feel sorry for the disruptive student, if they feel you’re humiliating them (particularly telling them off like a child), or they feel you’re being disproportionate and fear that you might turn on them too next, then you’ve lost the whole group. And if you don’t address disruption, if you don’t care about creating an optimal learning environment for them and value their learning, then they will understandably become disengaged themselves.

Practically, this isn’t easy. Making it clear you’ve noticed and that they aren’t as invisible/inaudible/anonymous as they thought can work. Long, uncomfortable silences can work (I kind of enjoy those…). Looming near offenders as you address the whole group can make them feel uncomfortably visible as all eyes are directed to their part of the room. Gentle humour can work as long as you’re not ‘punching down’ but showing that you too understand the trials of the Monday 9am lecture or the dubious joys of referencing. Showing that you value their participation and learning can make them value it more. And sometimes you do just need to tell students off. Positioning this as adult to adult, however you phrase it, is the key, I think – it’s hard to find the right words in the moment sometimes. I’m still reflecting on managing classroom dynamics and managing disruptive behaviours – as learning developers we are operating within a slightly different set of circumstances than others who teach and don’t always have the same strategies available to us for managing the classroom. I’d love to hear other people’s strategies. Maybe you’re fiercer than me!

Advising on audience

The question of how to pitch a piece of academic writing for assessment is a tricky one. Who exactly is the audience, how much knowledge or interest can be assumed, what needs to be clarified, in order for an essay or report to be easily understood by the reader? Getting this wrong can result in an assignment not doing justice to its author’s learning, and a lower mark than deserved.

Academic writing is ‘writerly’* – the responsibility for ‘meaning-making’ lies with the author, freeing the reader up to do what they need to do – critique, assess, learn, synthesise, think. This is the opposite to creative writing, which is ‘readerly’* – the enjoyment of a novel or poem is in the reader’s input, figuring out what it all means, what might happen next, ‘whodunnit’. In an academic essay or report, the student needs to make a number of decisions about the reader, to judge what work they themselves need to put in as writers. The tricky bit lies in the hierarchy of experience and knowledge of the discipline- which lies more with the reader than with the writer in this instance.

To help make decisions about pitch, students are often given the advice to ‘write as if for a lay audience – someone intelligent who doesn’t know much about the subject’. This advice is intended to help them identify the assumptions they’re making about the reader and what might be ‘clear’ to them, work harder to make the writing appealing, and help them figure out what meaning-making work they need to do on the reader’s behalf, so their arguments come across clearly. In essence, to err on the side of caution in deciding what they need to be explicit about.

But if you think about it, it’s odd advice.

The audience for a traditional essay is not a lay audience. It is not someone who knows little about the subject, or who has little intrinsic motivation to read about it. It’s the precise opposite – most academic writing for assessment is created for people who know quite a bit more about the subject than the student does, and have a vested interest in reading it. This odd dissonance – writing for someone who knows a lot, as if they knew nothing – can actually create more problems than it solves. Firstly, ‘a lay audience’ is in itself very diverse yet not very precisely defined – what kind of lay person are we pitching this to? An uninterested schoolkid with little wider context, someone who did a degree years ago and maintains a lingering interest, literally ‘the man in the street’? This advice doesn’t help the student decide what level of clarification is needed – they know they can’t assume no knowledge and go right back to explaining the very basics from scratch, but where between ‘no knowledge’ and ‘more knowledge than me’ should they pitch their writing? And in puzzling this out,  they’re circling around the issue that the ‘lay readership’ is inauthentic anyway – the writing is primarily, perhaps solely, for the audience of their marker. Why pretend otherwise?

Instead, I tend to reframe it this way – yes, you’re writing for your lecturer. Yes, they probably know and understand more than you do. But they don’t know how much you know. They know how they would interpret your data, but they don’t know that that’s how you interpret it. They know how they define that term, but they don’t know if you understand it in the same way. They know what obvious conclusion they would draw, but they can’t assume what conclusion you’re coming to. They know what they’ve taught you, but they don’t know what you’ve learned. They’ve already done their learning; they want to see evidence of yours.

I suggest that students remember that they’re writing for assessment, and consider this question- what knowledge, understanding, etc, do you need to demonstrate to your reader to show you meet the assessment criteria at the right level? I ask them, ‘if you were marking this, what evidence of what learning would you want to see?’

And forget about ‘being clear’; ‘clear’ is not an objective term. It means different things to different people. Instead, I suggest that students aim for lack of ambiguity:

is there any room for your reader to understand your meaning differently to the way you intended, or to be unsure whether you’re reaching the same conclusions that they are, for the same reasons, or to doubt that you know what you’re talking about? That’s where you need to think about pitching it.


*the terminology is from Barthes, but I tend to use them the other way round with students, as out of context, it’s confusing to talk of a writerly text being one in which the reader makes the meaning!

Losing Control: Student-led sessions

“Running a workshop is a stressful form of teaching as it does not allow the levels of control most teachers are used to; nor does it allow a facilitator the authority derived from being the ‘master’ of the workshop’s content. ” (Peelo 1994, p.113)

I came across this quotation again a few months ago while researching for the training I am developing for new learning developers. I must have first read it over a decade ago, when I was myself new to the role (and relatively new to teaching, despite my PGCE), and found any form of teaching stressful! Coming back to it years later, with more experience with which to compare subject teaching and learning development, the truth of it struck me far more forcefully than it did on that first reading. Reading it again made me reflect deeply on my professional journey as a learning developer, and how it helped me find a peace with workshop teaching and a way to let that stress go.

I’ve written recently about issues of control in the LD classroom in terms of managing problematic student behaviour, but I think Moira Peelo, a trained counsellor by background, meant something a bit different by “control”. I think it’s more akin to a post I wrote a while ago about learning outcomes in LD – how they aren’t *ours* but belong just as much to the subject lecturer whose students we work with, and also to the students themselves, who are the experts in their own learning. We aren’t the only ones who have a say in what we teach; it’s not our curriculum. We facilitate workshops, we don’t teach classes.

As a young lecturer, there were many sources of stress in teaching, but at least I had the consolation that I was the expert, and I was in charge. I knew what I was doing, even if I wasn’t doing it particularly well. Having constantly to be that authority and master of the content was in itself a source of stress of course (what if the students ask me something I don’t know?! What if I make a mistake!?), but it was a comfort too. As a new learning developer though, I had no subject expertise to be master of, just a remit of rather intangible and mutable ‘skills’. I had no say in and often no knowledge of the courses, modules and assessments which I was supporting, which led to uncertainty and a few nasty surprises. Making the transition from subject teaching to LD was, initially, terrifying.

The natural response is to try to retain this control and authority, to treat learning development like any other form of teaching. That’s what I had been trained to do, that’s what I felt should be ‘right’. Apart from the stress – that never went away. In fact, the harder I tried to hold onto some measure of control, or to assert my authority, the worse it got. And, I now suspect, the worse a learning experience the students had. I piled up slide after slide, learning outcome after learning outcome, activities with clear cut right and wrong answers, trying to crowd out any loss of control or authority through sheer weight of content.

I’m not sure what exactly changed my approach, but it did change. I think, looking back, that the turning point was probably a couple of sessions which were going badly from a teaching perspective, but which from a learning perspective somehow ended up going rather well. Sessions when I didn’t feel I had a clue what to cover, or when I didn’t have quite enough time to prepare a tightly structured, ‘controlled’ session. But I do know exactly what it was that I did differently, that lifted that stress caused by that need for control and authority. I gave it up and let go.

It’s traditional, at the end of a lecture or class, to invite “any questions?”. But I began to ask it at the start. And I learned to forget about having the answers.

I realised that although I didn’t really know enough about the courses to determine what the content of my teaching should be, the students did. So I started my workshops by asking students what questions they had, what they wanted to address, and focussing the rest of the session around that. This did take some confidence, but it also boosted my confidence as I now knew how to tailor and spin my material to what the students needed, to their learning outcomes and context – they could help me do the work of contructively aligning my session to their learning. I started to share that control and authority with them, and collaboratively develop the workshop with them as we went. And it went down a lot better.

I still take too much material with me, but now it’s a deliberate strategy – I’ll bring my bag of tricks, and the students themselves can decide which of them they want and how they apply to their learning. Powerpoints have got much less linear, using embedded links to jump between slides (thanks to Phil Race for this trick!).  I’ve also moved away from very rigidly structured lesson plans and closed outcome activities – I’ve found that a better approach is to bring a text (an assigment, a case study etc) into which are written and embedded a number of issues, and see what the students pick up on, where they want to direct the discussion, what the ‘narrative’ of the session should be. These activities are far more open ended, and students often surprise me by picking up on things I hadn’t realised were there, even if I’d written the text. Even if, due to group size, I do have to have a more structured, ‘teacherly’ session, I can at least sound out the students first, ask for FAQs, take votes on priorities, and comment on how the content meets their requests. Or – in some cases, if I’ve pitched it entirely wrong, abandon what I’ve brought and run it as a Q&A.

There are a few tricks to doing this successfully. Setting clear parameters to your role and expertise will head off any disappointed queries about subject content, statistics analysis software or journal databases. Paying attention to the timing – very early in the academic year, students may themselves not know what they want to know. Open ended activities help free up the direction we choose to take. Most importantly, building trust and making students feel safe in asking what they fear might be ‘stupid’ questions or ‘maybe it’s just me’. I often use anonymous methods like giving each student a post-it note to pose a question (or in larger groups, a digital tool to post questions or vote), or asking them before  the session, if possible. In groups who know each other and have grown more confident, they might be happy just to shout out. And most of all, trusting yourself – you’re a learning developer, not a teacher, and your job isn’t to have the answers. It’s to ask the questions that prompt reflection and learning. Wherever it ends up after that, however unpredictable, is where it needs to be.

Not only have I lost the stress which used to come with teacherly assumptions of control and authority, I have also learned a lot about what students really want to know and how they articulate those questions. And best of all, I have more engaged students, as they’ve had a say in the learning outcomes and the session is doing what they want it to do.


Moira Peelo, 1994. Helping Students with Study Problems. Maidenhead: OUP.

Teaching Introverts

“Get into pairs and discuss with the person next to you…”

It’s the go-to model for workshop activities. One to ones are by definition dialogues, and we also try to capitalise on the social constructivist nature of learning in our group sessions. The whole of my PGCE beautifully modelled social constructivist principles in the way it was taught. And the amount of independent learning in Higher Education means there’s plenty of time for students to work on their own outside class, if they want to. However, I’m becoming increasingly uncomfortable with how many of my workshops include paired or group discussion as a first resort.

Why? Because I can’t stand it myself as a student.

I’m an introvert. I like to think things through carefully and work out what I think and how to articulate it before I then bounce that idea off others. I don’t find that starting off with discussion helps me to develop my understanding of a topic. Discussion helps later to refine it, sure, but dialogue with peers isn’t the thing that first helps me put those building blocks of understanding together. I’m not shy, I love a good debate as much as the next learning developer, it’s just….. just give me a moment, ok? I’m thinking. And that’s alright – we all learn differently. It’s just that in any group teaching scenario – even a good lecture needn’t be a monologue – it’s the kind of group discussion work which favours extroverts which is the one that is our first choice as teachers. Susan Cain’s book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World which Can’t Stop Talking notes this in the context of education; her description of the highly extrovert learning culture at Harvard Business School made me feel quite ill!

Why do we teachers like groupwork in workshops so much, when we suspect it may not suit all learners? Partly as we know it’s supported by theory as being good practice, of course. But I think it’s also because it allows us to see and gauge activity concretely- it’s reassuring to us to hear and see learning happen. It’s unsettling to see a student in the midst of a group gazing blankly off into space – what are they thinking? Is it anything remotely to do with what I’ve asked them to do? Or are they thinking about lunch? Game of Thrones? Nothing at all? What about the person next to them – are they being denied their chance to socially construct their learning because they’re sitting next to someone who won’t engage with them? Oh no! We wander over to engage with them, nudge them into interaction with others, check what they’re thinking.

But I’m beginning to suspect this is more about our need for control as teachers than the student’s need to learn in a way that suits them. We’re teaching adults – do we really need to exert control in that way? Either they are engaging and learning in a way that suits them rather than us (and as long as it works for them, fine), or they are bored – or distracted – or tired – but sometimes we have to let go and accept that how and whether they engage is up to them, as long as they are not disrupting the group dynamic. They’re adult, independent learners. Just because we can’t hear them engaging doesn’t mean they’re not learning.

Learning may be socially constructed, but doesn’t happen in a social vacuum devoid of anything but learning. One error I used to make was not allowing for this in sessions in the first few weeks of term. Sure, I don’t know the students- but I’m a learning developer, I don’t get to build an ongoing relationship with a cohort. I accept that and deal with it. But that early on, they don’t know each other either. Issues of creating and saving face in a new peer group may take precedence over learning. So my cheery cries of ‘Now get into groups! Turn to the person next to you! Discuss with your partner!’ may not, as intended, have had the happy bonus of helping them make friends as well as learn something, but plunged them into a fraught negotiation of priorities with potentially lasting consequences for the rest of their degree. By an unspoken shared understanding, my team never, ever use icebreakers in our workshops. We’re all pretty introverted and find them excruciating and counterproductive.

Even later in the term when a cohort has got to know each other, I feel we can overemphasise the social element of learning in our teaching. Some of that cohort will meet up later to go over lecture notes, talk over an assignment, revise together. And some won’t. They’ll be quietly processing their learning alone, as they need to. There are still plenty of opportunities to learn socially, even for the introvert – discussion in seminars, feeding back in workshops, our learning development one to ones. Even a good essay is dialogic – written for a reader – and therefore social. So I think we should pause before we automatically include yet another paired or group discussion to aid learning. What’s the balance?

It’s also a more Western model, which students from Asia may find unfamiliar and uncomfortable. I do feel that when living and studying abroad, students need to engage as fully as possible with the models of pedagogy  in the host country – as a modern languages student, I’ve had to do this myself. I do wonder though if a more inclusive teaching environment might embrace a diversity of learning styles better, whether introvert/extrovert or cultural.

So I am going to worry less if I see students in my sessions not engaging in discussion but staring into space or choosing to sit alone. I am also going to see if I can design in more workshop activities that start off with solitary work to suit the introverts, allowing them to build their understanding alone before sharing and refining it. And I am going to openly embrace the diversity by designing activities which give students the options to do either.

introvert extrovert



Switching Roles

In the course of a one-to-one session, a skilled Learning Developer might take on a number of different roles in turn, each ‘hat’ we wear carefully chosen to meet the need arising out of the conversation as it progresses. As we switch roles, adopting a range of techniques suited to each function, there’s one more thing we need to bear in mind: the role of the student.

If we are the teacher, the student is pupil. If we are coach or mentor, they are our coachee or mentee. If we are listener, they’re the one who needs to talk. Our roles might be taken on in reactive fashion, in response to the student’s first taking a position, but it’s more likely that we’re the one making that choice, and that choice determines and shapes the student’s counterpart response. The question is, do they know that?

Unlike a counsellor, we aren’t establishing a single, consistent role which is clarified and agreed at the start. We will have to make those judgements as to what role is most appropriate in the moment, as the session progresses, and integrate those roles into our mode of working without conflict or tension. We probably don’t need to present the student with a lengthy, in-depth explanation of all of this at the start of a session; time and student levels of interest are not in favour. However, the student does need to know where we stand with regards to them, and accordingly, how they then stand in relation to us. It’s partly a practical issue of an efficient working relationship, but also a values-based one of informed, consenting partnership.

You can see the potential for confusion.  For starters, two of the roles are very directive, and two very non-directive, which might well be seen as incongruent. Uniting all of our roles is, I would hope, a consistent persona which is reassuringly stable, consistent and authentic, but if a student is left in doubt as to what we’re getting at, what we’re doing, where we’re going, they may feel very lost as to what or how to respond. It’s most likely that the student will assume we’re operating in teacher mode, as they’ve come to consult us for some guidance, some answers, and in Higher Education, the role of ‘student’ is the role they’re likely to be most familiar with. And this assumption might undermine the other roles we work in.

One example is the difference in the use of questions between the teacher and coach roles. As teacher, our questions are directive- we know the answer, we know where the student needs to get to. We use questions to scaffold and assess. As coaches, we ask genuinely open questions, prompting reflection and exploration, with no preconceptions as to the response. You can imagine the anxiety or confusion it might create if the student isn’t sure which is which. Instead of empowering reflection, a coaching question such as ‘so what would you say your main point in this paragraph is?’ might instead prompt the student to try to second-guess ‘the right answer’ which they think we’re looking for, instead of looking to themselves, empowered and confident, to find the answer that’s right for them.

As mentors, we try to interpret academic culture, give access to others’ experiences of study (including our own) and model appropriate practices, all the while ensuring that the student retains their own agency in negotiating how to employ the experience we present. If they perceive us as acting as teachers, it’s likely that our mentoring will be seen as very directive, telling them what to do and how to fit in with ‘how it’s done round here’, which doesn’t leave them a space to negotiate and own that for themselves. Given the strong social justice, diversity and empowerment themes in LD, this might be very problematic. They might end up going along with something to please us but that doesn’t work for them, or kick against an imposed solution.

Silence is for many people not an easy thing, so if we cast ourselves in the role of listener, contributing minimally to the dialogue, but the student is unaware that we’re doing so because we feel that they are actually in the strongest position, you can well imagine how unnerving and awkward this might be for them! It might leave them entirely unsure what they’re expected to say, or close down the conversation entirely.

It’s possible however to clarify our role in any one instance with a very light touch, with self-deprecating, hesitant encouragement, body language and humour. We can watch out for signs of anxiety or confusion, and express ourselves in a way that helps signal the kind of interaction that’s going on:

“You know way more about this topic than I do – all of these points seem strong to me, I don’t know,  I wondered which you’d say was the main one?”

“There’s a number of different approaches, then, and I’ve seen students and lecturers successfully use all of them in different ways- but the main thing is that it works for you. What do you think, which would suit you best?”

“You’re way ahead of me – keep going!”

Learning Developer as….Which role?

I’ve written a lot recently about the different roles which we take on in our work as Learning Developers, in particular, the four main ones: Teacher, Mentor, Coach and Listener. There are others, of course; sometimes I’m an adviser, sometimes I’m a critical friend, sometimes I’m a signpost or a sympathetic ear. But the four main ones are the ones I find myself working in the majority of the time.

Of course, I don’t mean that I choose one role and stick to it for the rest of the session; I will switch in and out of roles potentially several times in a session, depending on what’s required. But how to know in the moment which role might work best?

In an earlier post, I portrayed the four main roles along a continuum, spanning knowledge and agency, between student and tutor. Actually, if you separate these factors out, then what we have is a matrix, one which can help us decide which role might be most appropriate.

LD role matrix

The first axis is knowledge: the understanding itself, which may be held by either the tutor or the student, to a greater or lesser extent. In some matters, we’re the expert, for example, whether or not something is plagiarism, or what critical thinking might mean in an HE context. In others, the student is the expert, particularly anything which relates to their own life and experience, and their own discipline. This knowledge may be implicit, but it’s there. This helps to divide the teacher/mentor roles from the coach/listener roles, as they are distributed at different ends of this axis.

But once we’ve determined that knowledge lies more with us, it doesn’t help us choose to employ either the teacher or mentor role. Or if it lies with the student, would we best be working in coach or listener mode? To make this decision, we need to think about where agency lies – here, I mean the ability to decide what needs to be learned, what knowledge is needed. So the second axis is agency.

  • Teacher (LDer = knowledge and agency). Both knowledge and agency might lie with us. If we’re the ones who have the knowledge of grammar, or referencing and plagiarism, and the student is unaware that their writing practices are incorrect usage or run the risk of plagiaristic practices, then agency also lies with us to say, ‘you need to learn about this, and I will teach you’.
  • Mentor (LDer = knowledge, Student = agency) . However, if we’re the experts in assessment, but the student has a very specific question about the format of a past exam paper, then we’re operating in mentor mode. The student knows what they’re after, and they have the agency to ask us to help them learn the knowledge that we have and they don’t.
  • Listener (Student = knowledge and agency). If, however, it’s the student who knows the subject of their essay inside out, and has a definite, if rather inchoate sense of what they’re trying to argue, both the knowledge and agency lie with them – all we might do is act as listener to help them untangle their thinking and what points they want to make.
  • Coach (LDer = agency, Student = knowledge). However, if the student wants to know how best to revise or study, all the knowledge of their own preferences and strengths as a learner lie with them, but they may not have reflected on it enough to know how to make sense of this to inform their revision strategies or working habits. In this case, we may not know much about them as individuals, but we do know how to tease the relevant knowledge out with the right questions, and we’re coaching.

So to decide which role might work best in any instance, we need to ask ourselves two questions:

  1. where does the knowledge mostly reside?
  2. which of us – LDer or student – knows best what knowledge the student needs?

It’s very easy to slip into teacher mode, but it’s worth pausing occasionally and asking if either the knowledge or the agency actually reside with the student, and if it would be more student-centred and more effective to be less directive and to take on a different role in the conversation.

Learning Developer as Therapist?

There was recently a very interesting discussion on the LDHEN list about the role of Learning Development in shaping the university as a therapeutic community. I was interested in the word ‘therapeutic’ as it relates to Learning Development, and my contributions were largely about whether what we do could be construed as therapy, given that we sometimes work in similar ways to therapists such as counsellors. I pursued this line of thinking further offline, in discussion with other colleagues but also with my family members, who are clinical psychologists and social workers and very insightful on the topic. This was really useful in helping me further articulate what I think LD is, and where the boundaries are. I’ve reproduced some of my comments on the email list here together with the further thoughts from discussions with my family and colleagues.

I don’t think Learning Development is a therapeutic activity. For me, therapy is a healing activity – very worthwhile, but to speak of learning development as therapy therefore  implies that the student is unwell and needs to be brought to health, is disordered, and needs to be helped to good order, is abnormal and needs to be brought to normality. Learning development, on the other hand, I think, accepts that learning is by its very nature challenging, destabilising, unsettling, ‘troublesome’. Learning is more than just accumulating more facts. To learn something is to integrate new knowledge with old and reconstitute it, not just to add it, to challenge your worldview, to unlearn what you thought you knew and see it differently, to transform yourself. That moment when the lightbulb goes on and shows you the world you thought you knew in a whole different way, and everything’s changed! To experience this, you need to take risks, make mistakes, push beyond into the unknown, let go of certainties and security. We’re talking threshold concepts here, which in themselves are neutral. Students can have very strong feelings about them, though, and these feelings can be positive or negative: wonder, exhilaration, joy, or frustration, discomfort, anxiety.

As Learning Developers we do help students explore their feelings around learning, which are bound to be strong if they are really engaged and learning deeply. But I think to call this therapy implies that the feelings that come with learning are in some way problematic instead of a perfectly natural and inevitable part of the process. Or that only the positive feelings are appropriate, and the negative ones are abnormal or not a healthy response. Learning can be therapeutic, certainly; but that’s incidental and down to the individual, rather than the aim that we as professionals are trying to achieve. Learning can also be stressful by its very nature. Helping students address the feelings that learning necessarily gives rise to is part of our role. But it’s not therapy.

Where the problem arises is that due to various political agendas, universities have become a very unsafe place to experience this unsettling, troublesome activity of learning. None of this – the employability agenda, fees and student debt, the examination regime in schools, the economic climate, the commodification of HE, has really got anything to do with actual learning and in fact is profoundly unhelpful. How can students feel secure enough to take risks, explore the unknown, make mistakes in this environment? How can they, when the environment itself is so unsafe? How can they learn in such a culture? The rise in students reporting mental health issues and stress, and the pressure that we can see they are under, has led to a more problematic range of emotional issues arising in our work, and it’s no wonder. It’s heartbreaking to see, and we naturally want to help.

Where to draw the line? If something is impacting on a student’s learning, then it is my job to listen carefully to that, to take it into account in the guidance I offer, and to refer if needed. One of the Five Ps of Learning Development which I outlined in a previous post is Pertinent Factors – anything we should be aware of that is impacting on learning. But we aren’t counsellors and for individual students, I can’t support  mental health issues or other things that impact on their ability to learn. I can take them into account in my work, but I can’t help resolve them. Sometimes an individual has so much going on in their lives that the upheaval of university isn’t a good thing to add to the mix at that time. And there comes a point when a person is so distressed that learning ain’t going to happen, and further LD work isn’t possible at that time.

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs might be helpful here.


I’d say that Learning Development addresses the top two levels – we can help build confidence in learning and we can help them realise their potential as learners. Sometimes there is another level above Self-actualisation: Transcendence, or the need to help others achieve self-actualisation. Not only does this drive us as Learning Developers, but it also applies to the peer mentors we support and the group interactions in our workshops as students work together. But those levels of need aren’t possible unless the lower ones have been met; if a student is feeling hungry, ill, unsafe, unloved, then learning isn’t going to go well. I can’t help with the lower levels, but there are professions dedicated to each to which I can refer (Counselling. The Police. The Doctor. The University Canteen…) and I can help the student in making the decision to seek appropriate help.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t care, that I won’t listen sympathetically. But I have to be very clear with the student and myself that this isn’t therapy – it’s not going to help them therapeutically. Given that they are interacting with me in a professional capacity, they may have false assumptions or expectations about what this professional encounter can achieve. And I might feel awful for them and really want to do something to help (or secretly feel that helping them meets my own social and esteem needs of  feeling good about myself). But that’s not my particular professional role or my expertise and the most helpful thing I can do is to refer.

Trying to help might be actively counterproductive. Allowing them to talk to me may be distracting them from seeking real help. Why go to counselling when I’m such a sympathetic ear? In holding onto the issue, I’m blocking them from better avenues of support. And what if they won’t seek appropriate professional help? If they were sick, but wouldn’t go to the doctor, then I would still not be justified in giving medical advice or medication; if they won’t seek counselling or their personal tutor, I really shouldn’t be offering a placebo either. It might sound harsh, but we need to feel able to say ‘that’s not my job, I can’t help’. We don’t mean it in a jobsworth way, it’s not that we can’t be bothered or don’t care,  but we need to accept, and help the student to accept, that we don’t have the expertise. We can’t be what the student needs, and won’t really be helping if we try. But we do know someone who can help and signpost them there.

I can’t do therapy, I can’t heal, and learning isn’t something to be healed anyway. But I can fight for a university community which does its best to create a safe place to experience the unsettlingness of learning in a compassionate way, which is as inclusive and diverse as possible, remembering that its whole purpose is to help students learn and to assess that learning, and try to fight against the whole culture that counteracts learning. In the meantime, what I can do to help is to familiarise myself with the sources of support in the university (and to some extent beyond) who can help them, and learn how to refer effectively. I’ve done Mental Health First Aid, I’ve looked at resources such as the Charlie Waller Memorial Trust, I’ve been over to Student Services so I can physically see how it works and how a student would navigate it, and I’ve made sure to speak to colleagues in other services in the university about how and when to refer, so I can do so in a supportive, effective way rather than just waving a distressed student off to more pillars and posts.

The Five Ps of Learning Development

One of the initial elements of a learning development one to one is establishing with the student what they hope to achieve. This is often framed around identifying the ‘problem’ or ‘issue’ – I’m sure most learning developers would rather reframe it in less remedial terms, perhaps as the “Learning Development need”. However, clarifying precisely what this need is can be challenging. Sometimes the student themselves isn’t sure – they know that their marks aren’t what they’d like but not the cause, they’ve got stuck and they aren’t sure why, or they’ve been told to improve some vague aspect of their work such as their ‘writing’, and they ask for our help in figuring out what’s going on. Sometimes the student has identified a specific issue, possibly with the input of lecturer feedback, and yet this isn’t actually the real or most pressing issue – perhaps it’s a surface issue masking a deeper one, or a mistaken understanding of a curriculum outcome or the expectations of university culture. Maybe the lecturer themselves is wrong about what the issue really is! I sometimes see students whose lecturers have referred them to me about their grammar, and there’s nothing wrong with their grammar…

It’s worth therefore spending a little time with the student building up a full picture of what’s going on, and their perception of it, and also their perception of the lecturers’ perspective.  It may be tempting, but jumping in too soon to ‘diagnose’ the issue and resolve it can exclude the student from their own development as well as fail to clarify the issue accurately. They miss out on deeper understanding of what’s going on, if they are not involved in the process, and  the onus to identify and resolve an issue may end up resting too much with you, not them. Building a shared, co-created picture of the learning development need together with the student is of course more student-centred practice, empowers them through reflection on their study practices and beliefs, and fosters personal ownership of the learning need instead of locating it in “what the lecturers want”.

Counselling and related therapies have their five Ps which are used to construct a model of the problem from the perspective of the client– the Presenting Problem, with the Predisposing, Precipitating,  Protective and Perpetuating factors. It’s a useful tool to build an exploratory discussion around, and I propose a similar model for Learning Developers to explore with students:

the Five Ps of Learning Development

The Presenting Problem – the issue as the student first lays it out. There are two aspects to explore here. What is the problem, as precisely as the student can identity it, and why do they identify this as the problem? It may be the student’s perception, based on their own reflection on their experience of study, or it may be that of the lecturer, as communicated in feedback, so it’s worth exploring both sides with the student, looking at any feedback if it’s available. There may well be tensions or contradictions between the two perspectives which you may be able to resolve with the student; perhaps the student thought the essay was fine, but the lecturer said it needed more work, or the lecturer says it’s a good attempt, and the student reads this as damning with faint praise. And of course, the judgement of either the student or the lecturer or both may be inaccurate, on further examination! You may also find that the presenting problem isn’t appropriate or one which falls in your remit (“can you proofread my dissertation?”), but that on further discussion as to why it’s arisen, a deeper learning development need emerges which does fall under your role (“no, but I can teach you editing strategies and independent confidence in your editorial decisions”).

Pertinent factors: any relevant personal issues, past or present, which might impact on their learning, and which it would be helpful for you to take into account in your guiadance. This might be a Specific Learning Difficulty, health issue, events in their family or personal lives, or past experiences of education which have shaped their feelings about it. This can be very light touch, and the student may well themselves volunteer any relevant information. You might be able to observe it for yourself- if a student had clearly had a heavy night the night before, you may need to recalibrate how much you’ll be able to get done in the 10am session!

Perception of the Task: what the student thought they were being asked to do. You might ask them to reflect on their interpretation of an assignment brief or marking criteria, or ask them to summarise their understanding of a writing convention or grammar rule, what they understand by ‘criticality’ or what their expectations are around ‘independent learning’. This can bring to light areas of confusion, tension, misunderstanding, or simply where they’ve got the wrong end of the stick or gone off at a tangent.

Process: how the student has gone about the learning. Depending on the presenting issue you might ask them how they plan an essay, check their work, manage their time or make notes. It’s important again to ask them to reflect on why they go about it in this way. This might reveal that they’ve followed rather prescriptive, inappropriate or simplistic advice which doesn’t quite work for them individually or in this context or level of study, or that there’s a misconception or assumption been made about how one ‘should’ study, or that they’ve not really reflected much on how they learn.

Product: the concrete outcome of learning and the student’s perception of it. This might be a draft of an essay, a study timetable, or simply an account of how well revision and exam performance went for them. It’s important to keep the focus on the student’s perception of the product rather than jumping in too early to examining it yourself and coming to your own conclusions independently. Can the student identify where in the text they feel the presenting issue is manifested? Can they pick up passages where their reader’s interpretation might be at odds with what they think they said? Are there any areas where they feel their exam performance or time management didn’t match the amount of work they put in? Exploring any tensions here between what the student intended and what the reader perceives or the actual outcome is useful.

This model needn’t be approached rigidly, in any particular order or exhaustively. You may need to explicitly elicit some aspects, others will naturally come out in the course of the conversation. It would be implemented differently according to how we work. Some of us (and this is my preference) work through appointments or drop-ins where we do not read the work in advance and therefore an initial discussion around the 5 Ps can contextualise our handling of any text that the student then shows us, and ensures that the student is engaged as an equal partner in learning from the start. Others of us receive work in advance, and therefore are working alone in ‘expert, diagnostic’ mode from the start, which I feel may risk excluding the student’s agency and equality in the process – they send off their work to us to diagnose and fix, and the resulting discussion risks becoming a one-sided account of what we did to or with their work in their absence to resolve for them what we unilaterally decided the issue was. Having handed their work over to us, we still need to ensure that they retain ownership of and responsibility for not just the text but the learning. Incorporating the  5 Ps may help – perhaps through the booking system, inviting the student to give their own account first, if they are willing, or by setting aside your ‘diagnosis’ at the start of the session til you’ve discussed the student’s approach with them, or working in the 5 Ps throughout the discussion, inviting reflection before giving any opinion or advice. The 5 Ps might also underpin a group workshop too, enabling deeper reflection on the process of study, perhaps through case studies or scaffolded activities.


(with thanks to my psychologist sister for discussing professional practice with me on this and other aspects of LD work!)