Author: Tina

I recently stepped into a leadership role and I still remember my boss’s three words when I asked what she wanted me to do first:

“Rock the boat.”

I didn’t take those words literally. Instead, I kept them close, took time to understand my team’s functions and challenges, and thought deeply about how to make things more effective.

My earliest observation was how the biannual learning calendar was being shared. It was functional, a simple Excel sheet uploaded to the shared portal, but not exactly inspiring. The information was there, yet the experience was missing. The content structure wasn’t standardised: some programmes listed learning objectives, others didn’t; some included topics, while others listed outcomes as topics; programme levels were unclear, target audiences weren’t specified, and even the fonts varied. It was obvious that the document had been compiled by multiple people, and it didn’t speak with a unified voice.

A month later, I met my boss again and shared my idea to reimagine the calendar. Instead of a flat spreadsheet, I proposed transforming it into a visually structured PDF, built in PowerPoint. The goal was to create a learning publication that was informative, consistent, and reflective of the organisation’s culture.

But the idea wasn’t welcomed. My boss explained that change was not what the team needed at that time. What they needed was more hands on the ground.

I respected her perspective and decided to focus first on strengthening the basics.

Few months later, the department had a new Director (my boss’s boss). Visionary and metrics driven, he noticed the same gap: the learning calendar wasn’t inspiring engagement.

He put it simply, “Enrolment isn’t low because people don’t want to learn. It’s low because our invitation doesn’t invite them!”

He called for us to re-design the learning calendar and my team was assigned to champion the project.

My boss wasn’t wrong. The change required tremendous effort – a cross-functional collaboration. It may sound like a simple design update, but it carried major operational implications. We needed buy-in from everyone: programme designers, learning specialists, communications, LMS administrators, and even the CHRO’s office.

Previously, the learning calendar process was fragmented. Each team worked in isolation — learning specialists filled in their sections whenever they could, sometimes even after a programme had already started. The LMS setup only began once a manual request form was submitted, often accompanied by the enrolment list — last minute and entirely ad hoc. There was no clear timeline, no central coordination, and little sense of shared ownership. The calendar came together eventually, but it felt more like a compilation of disjointed efforts than a cohesive plan.

Under the new structure, everything changed. The calendar could no longer be updated on the go — it had to be finalised by a fixed deadline before any LMS classes were created. This meant that planning, vendor engagement, quotations, proposals, and agreements all had to be completed at least one month in advance for review and approval.

The shift demanded operational discipline and real teamwork. Suddenly, teams that once worked independently had no choice but to align — programme designers and learning specialists had to plan together, the LMS team required finalised programme codes earlier, and communications needed confirmed dates and themes for design consistency.

Even on the design front, collaboration deepened. The visual layout now went through the communications team to ensure corporate identity alignment, while the CHRO’s office reviewed key messages to reflect organisational priorities. Timelines tightened, but so did coordination.

The change turned what was once a loose sequence of handovers into a connected workflow. Instead of waiting for others to finish their part, everyone now moved in sync. It was no longer about completing individual tasks in silos — it was about delivering learning as one integrated team.

With a lean team, many of whom were nearing retirement and resistant to change, I often found myself doing most of the work alone. It reminded me of my boss’s earlier words that change was not what the team needed at that time. She was right in one sense: change was demanding. I nearly burned out managing everything—storyboarding, curating programme outlines, coordinating with designers, handling LMS creation, and producing the final calendar layout myself.

But we did it.

By mid-that year we successfully launched the revamped Learning Calendar in a completely new format: a visually designed PDF built from PowerPoint. It included a clear table of contents, key messages from the CHRO, and thematic sections highlighting the year’s core learning focus areas such as leadership, digital transformation, and professional excellence. The design guided employees to identify which programmes aligned with their personal and professional goals.

That journey called me to remind everyone on the importance of operational discipline. Some may say operations are disruptive, but in truth, disruption only happens when structure is missing.

I put my structured mindset to work by creating step-by-step procedural guides, defining responsibilities, and embedding accountability into KPIs. With a lean team, I encouraged cross-functional learning and mutual support. My principle was simple: if I could do the work of seven people, then each of us could support one another.

Progress was slow but meaningful. I developed procedural documents and made them easily accessible. There was no more, “I don’t know how to do it; I need to wait for someone to teach me.” SOPs were ready, clear, and live.

The result?

By the following year, the Learning Calendar was entirely the team’s work. It wasn’t perfect, but I only stepped in at the final review stage, not throughout every process.

That, to me, was a win. It was progress.

And the calendar? With its new look and feel, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Managers referred to it in meetings. Employees explored it more actively. There was a renewed sense of structure and pride in how learning was communicated.

For me, this wasn’t just a design project. It was a reflection of how visual communication and operational discipline come together to enhance engagement. It proved that learning doesn’t begin in the classroom; it begins with how we present opportunities—clearly, creatively, and with intent.

Change doesn’t happen when we demand it — it happens when we design for it. Structure, empathy, and clarity turned a simple calendar redesign into a lesson on how visual communication can unite people around a shared purpose.

Structure is power. 

The last time I had attended an interview was back in 2016 until this one — I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I came prepared with a presentation on a Quality Management System Framework. It was the same model I had once designed for my previous organisation — an “operating system” for quality, defining how things should be done to maintain consistency, control, and continuous improvement across the organisation. I tweaked it slightly to suit the business model of the organisation I was interviewing for, but the essence remained: a system built on structure, clarity, and purpose.

What unfolded that day was less of a formal interview and more of a professional exchange — almost like a discussion between client and consultant. They asked about the structure, localisation, blueprint turnaround, and training plans. We spoke in depth about how such a framework could be adapted to sustain organisational growth. By the end, I realised the conversation had shifted — it was no longer about what I knew, but how I thought.

Two weeks later, I received a call: an offer was confirmed. In November that year, I joined the organisation as a Senior Executive.

At that time, the organisation was undergoing a qualification quality review for its flagship programme. It was a critical phase — one that demanded both restructuring and rebuilding. Among the top priorities was developing the organisation’s very own Qualification Framework. As a junior staff member, I wasn’t in a position to lead such a major initiative. But I was in the best position to learn. So, I observed — how decisions were made, how expertise was gathered, and how a framework slowly took shape from ideas, discussions, and documentation.

It also became an opportunity for me to reflect on the educational theories I had encountered during my years in academia and see how they came alive in practice.

Step 1: Set the Purpose

The process began, as it always should, with purpose. A few questions guided our early discussions:

• Why should this qualification exist?
• What gaps is it addressing?
• What outcomes should it deliver for the industry?

This step resonated strongly with Ralph Tyler’s (1949) Objective Model, which emphasises that curriculum development must begin with clear purposes and aims. Tyler believed every element of a curriculum should serve a defined educational objective.

In our case, the purpose was clear and noble:

“To professionalise the banking sector through education that mirrors real practice.”

That clarity anchored every decision thereafter. It shaped not only what we built, but why it mattered. Through this exercise, we also identified five key areas in banking that would form the curriculum’s specialisations (domains).

Step 2: Diagnose Before Design

The second step was understanding the industry’s needs — a process that echoed Hilda Taba’s (1962) Grassroots Approach, which begins with diagnosis before design.

We conducted a comprehensive Learning Needs Analysis (LNA), reaching out to banks through the Human Resource Networking Group to form an Industry Curriculum Committee. This committee became our compass — comprising experts from the five key domains in banking: Credit, Risk, Audit, Compliance, and Anti-Money Laundering.

We didn’t start with assumptions; we started with listening – Surveys gave us data, but conversations gave us context.

The industry revealed long-standing skill gaps and helped us see the curriculum not as a product but as a bridge — connecting academic learning with workplace realities. This diagnostic phase was crucial. It embodied Taba’s principle that curriculum should grow out of real needs rather than top-down mandates.

Step 3: Build the Structure

Once the needs were clear, we began constructing the curriculum structure — defining domains, levels, and progression pathways.

Every framework needs a skeleton. For us, that meant categorising competencies into clusters such as Banking Operations, Strategy, Ethics, and the five key domains, each with distinct learning outcomes mapped to professional levels — from foundation, intermediate to advanced suiting the needs of the professionals at entry levels to senior executives.

This aligns with the systemic approach advocated by Tyler and later reinforced by UNESCO’s Curriculum Framework Guidelines, which stress coherent progression across levels.

This structure brought clarity. It allowed us to see how each learning area connected to the next — ensuring continuity and preventing fragmentation.

Step 4: Curate the Learning Outcomes

Translating needs into learning outcomes was perhaps the most intellectually demanding part of the process.

It was no longer enough for learners to know — they had to apply, demonstrate, and internalise what they learned. We shifted from knowledge-based learning to competency-based outcomes, crafting statements such as:

“Apply risk assessment tools to daily credit operations.”

“Demonstrate compliance aligned with regulatory expectations.”

This reflected Biggs’ (1996) Constructive Alignment theory and Bloom’s Taxonomy — the idea that learning outcomes, teaching activities, and assessments must align to create meaningful learning.

Coming from an academic background myself, I was very familiar with Bloom’s Taxonomy and how it guides the progression from remembering to creating. But what came naturally to me as a lecturer was, understandably, less intuitive to our industry experts. For them, “real life doesn’t roll the same way.”

That tension — between academic precision and industry realism — became one of our greatest challenges. Thankfully, our consultant from the UK, helped us bridge the two schools of thought. Together, we translated academic rigour into practical relevance, ensuring that our outcomes were not just pedagogically sound but operationally meaningful.

The outcomes became our north star, ensuring every module, every assessment, and every resource pointed toward a shared goal, ensuring every module, every assessment, and every resource pointed toward a shared goal.

Step 5: Collaborate and Iterate

Framework design is never a solo act. We worked closely with our consultant in the UK and a curriculum committee of C-suite officers from across the sector.

Because of time zone differences, our meetings often stretched late into the night. I still remember drafting notes and recommendations past midnight, catching up with Edinburgh just as their workday began. It was an iterative process — strategy one day, refinement the next — reflecting Lawrence Stenhouse’s (1975) Process Model, which views curriculum not as a static product but as an evolving dialogue of design, discussion, and reflection.

During that time, it was already 2020 — and I was pregnant with my first child. Nights were long and often blurred between work and motherhood-in-waiting. I would read discussion notes, meeting minutes, module outlines, study text transcripts, and passcard drafts over and over again, determined to get every detail right. Some of my colleagues would joke that my baby would be a “QQR baby,” named after our Qualification Quality Review project, because she quite literally breathed and absorbed its context from the womb.

Looking back, I smile at the truth in that jest — she did grow with the framework. And perhaps that’s what this journey symbolised: creation in its purest sense, both personal and professional. Through that process, I learned that collaboration builds ownership. The more stakeholders contribute to a framework, the stronger their belief in its relevance and sustainability.

Step 6: Design the Learning Experience

Once the structure and outcomes were set, the next challenge was translating the framework into tangible learning experiences.

This phase involved designing learning modules, assessment blueprints, and trainer guides that aligned with the overall purpose. We asked critical questions:

• What methods best support the desired outcomes?
• How can learning be experiential rather than theoretical?
• What assessments best mirror real-world application?

At times, it felt like being back in the classroom again, being learner-focused, ensuring every activity, reading, and evaluation had a visible link to the intended competency.

One of the most meaningful milestones came with the publication of the official textbook — developed to serve as both a learning and assessment reference. In an age of information overload, the e-book offered a single source of truth — credible, curated, and consistent. It reflected Stenhouse’s belief that curriculum materials should empower teachers (and in our case, facilitators and learners) to engage critically and reflectively with the subject matter.

Among the modules I helped develop with our subject matter experts was Ethics — a topic that, while essential, can be notoriously dry and heavily regulated. We wanted to make it come alive. So instead of presenting abstract theories, we embedded ethical dilemmas into branching scenarios, allowing learners to ‘experience’ decision-making in a safe, simulated environment.

Instead of simply reading about right and wrong, learners faced realistic situations drawn from the banking context — conflicts of interest, confidentiality breaches, or client relationship pressures. Each decision point led to different outcomes, mirroring the real consequences of professional judgment.

This approach transformed Ethics from a compliance subject into a space for critical thinking and ethical reflection, reinforcing the organisation’s goal of promoting professionalism through not just knowledge, but behavioural accountability.

Through that experience, I learned the value of accuracy without losing engagement — ensuring rigour while designing for real learning. It reaffirmed that a curriculum framework, much like a quality management system, is only as good as its implementation strategy. A well-written blueprint means little without effective delivery mechanisms, engaging content, and clear accountability.

The publication of the e-book marked more than the completion of a resource — it symbolised the framework coming to life, bridging policy with practice.

Step 7: Sustain Through Quality

Quality assurance was at the heart of everything. We built mechanisms for document control, versioning, and review cycles — ensuring every decision was justified, recorded, and traceable.

In a fast-evolving industry like banking, where regulatory changes are constant, documentation became our anchor — preserving institutional memory and protecting the integrity of knowledge. This step mirrored Deming’s PDCA Cycle (Plan–Do–Check–Act), the same used in quality management. As the philosophy applies the same in curriculum design – we plan the framework, implement it, evaluate it, and refine it continuously. Quality is not compliance — it’s continuity. Updates should be intentional and validated, not reactionary.

When we reached this stage, I thought the process was complete. Little did I know, since this qualification was an upgrade from an existing one, transitioning learners from the old to the new was among the hardest parts.

This was where my campus collaborator experience proved invaluable. Back in my earlier work on campus expansion projects, I had led numerous mapping exercises — aligning curricula against multiple frameworks to standardise credit transfers and strengthen institutional value propositions. That practice of balancing structure, equity, and business needs became my anchor here.

We needed to map every module, credit, and outcome to ensure no learner was disadvantaged. This required not just academic precision but empathy — recognising that behind every qualification is a person whose time and effort must be honoured. Together, we developed a Recognition of Prior Learning (RPL) policy that acknowledged both experiential and educational pathways, aligning the curriculum to allow fair and direct transfer where possible. It wasn’t just a technical migration — it was a human transition. And empathy, once again, became the most powerful form of quality assurance.

By 2022, after years of drafting, refining, and validating, the qualification framework was officially launched.

Looking back, I realised that developing a curriculum framework is both science and art.

• The science lies in theories, alignment, and measurable outcomes.
• The art lies in empathy, collaboration, and foresight.

And if I were to summarise what I’ve learned, this journey has been both an emotional and professional roller coaster. With tight timelines and a full table of stakeholders — from the central bank to C-suite officers, retired banking leaders, industry practitioners, and the UK professional body accrediting the qualification — everyone involved was racing against time to make things happen.

Through it all, one lesson stayed with me: stay intact, and when in crisis, be tactful. Because when you’re navigating complexity with many voices at the table, composure and clarity become your strongest forms of leadership.

Also, the launch of the framework is not the only good news that was carved that year – at the end of 2021, I also welcomed my baby girl into the world — and soon after, I was promoted to Assistant Manager. It felt as though life had come full circle — a beautiful reminder that growth, in all its forms, happens when we stay grounded, grateful, and purposeful. Alhamdulillah.

Clarity. Continuity. Care.

Leadership lessons don’t always come from boardrooms. Sometimes, they come from the red soil of Botswana, the morning air in Uganda, or a quiet meeting room in Namibia — where cultural differences and human connection teach you more than any textbook ever could. Between 2016 and 2018, I found myself working across these countries as part of a university expansion project, helping align our curriculum with local qualification frameworks and national standards.

At the time, I thought it would simply be about paperwork, documentation, and cross-referencing curriculum grids. My role seemed straightforward on paper — ensure compliance, map qualifications, and translate learning outcomes. But what unfolded was much more than a professional assignment. It became one of the most humbling and transformative journeys of my career — one that taught me that leadership has no borders, but context always matters.

When I arrived in Africa, the continent was in a defining phase of educational transformation. Botswana had recently restructured its Botswana Qualifications Authority (BQA) to improve governance and establish industry-aligned standards. Namibia was strengthening the Namibia Qualifications Authority (NQA) and promoting international recognition of its higher education institutions. Uganda, meanwhile, was building its Vocational Qualifications Framework — a bold effort to ensure its young population could gain employable skills to support national growth. Across the continent, governments were asking the same essential question: How do we make education more relevant to our people and our economy?

That question became my daily reality. In every country I visited, I was invited into rooms where policies were still being debated, templates redrafted, and frameworks rewritten mid-process. It wasn’t disorganisation — it was a reflection of systems in transition. Many were in the process of building, revising, and redefining who they wanted to become. And it dawned on me that transition demands a different kind of leadership — one rooted not in control, but in patience, empathy, and adaptability.

I still remember my early meetings in Namibia. The environment there was calm, orderly, and intentional. Meetings began on time, and every discussion followed a clear structure. People valued consistency and precision, and when they gave their word, they meant it. I had to learn to match that rhythm — to prepare more thoroughly, to listen more carefully, and to avoid rushing decisions. Their leadership culture reminded me that integrity isn’t about doing more — it’s about doing what you said you would do, exactly as you promised.

Botswana, on the other hand, had a warmth that disarmed me instantly. There was a deep sense of community, even in professional settings. People introduced themselves by sharing where they were from, who their families were, and what their aspirations were. It was a society where relationships came before results — where a handshake meant more than a contract. I learned quickly that if you didn’t invest time in building trust, no matter how efficient your proposal was, it wouldn’t move forward. There was no shortcut to trust; you earned it through sincerity, respect, and genuine connection.

I recall one afternoon in Gaborone when a local counterpart invited me to his home for lunch after a series of tough negotiations. Over a simple meal of rice and chicken, we spoke about our countries, our parents, and our hopes for education. By the time I left, the discussion we had struggled to progress for weeks was suddenly resolved. That day, I learned that leadership isn’t just about influence — it’s about presence. People remember how you made them feel before they remember what you proposed.

Uganda offered another kind of awakening. I remember stepping out of the airport and immediately noticing the red earth beneath my shoes — the same colour as the soil in my mother’s hometown, Muar. It felt strangely familiar. The people, the weather, the laughter — it all reminded me of home. The humility of the Ugandan people left a deep mark on me. Despite challenges in infrastructure and resources, there was an unmistakable spirit of optimism and resilience.

During one official meeting, a senior government officer paused the discussion to personally greet everyone around the table. It was such a simple act, but it spoke volumes about leadership. That gesture taught me that leadership is not about position — it’s about approachability. It’s about making others feel seen. Later, at an official lunch hosted by the First Lady’s office, every dish served was made of cassava. That puzzled me at first, until I realised that in Uganda, cassava is a staple food — a symbol of nourishment and simplicity — while rice is considered a luxury.

That moment changed my perspective entirely. It made me realise that what we take for granted in one place can represent privilege in another. Leadership, too, works that way. What seems like a simple decision from one leader’s perspective might represent a major milestone for another. The key is to lead with awareness — to understand the context before you act.

Even outside the office, every experience shaped my understanding of adaptability. As a Muslim traveller, finding halal food was often difficult. I learned to make do — fish and chips, salads, and sometimes Maggi cooked in my apartment. It sounds trivial, but those small acts of adjustment taught me quiet resilience. Leaders don’t always make grand gestures; sometimes leadership means staying grounded, flexible, and positive even when comfort is absent.

In those years, I began to understand that education systems are a reflection of leadership systems. The way a country designs its curriculum mirrors how its leaders envision its future.

Botswana was deeply focused on creativity and entrepreneurship; Namibia on order, governance, and international recognition; Uganda on vocational empowerment and youth employability.

Each was driven by the same vision — to build a stronger nation through knowledge — but from different starting points. It made me reflect on Malaysia’s own journey. We, too, are still in our season of becoming, shaping and refining our systems to balance structure with innovation.

Throughout my time there, I also found myself reading about great African leaders who shaped the continent’s progress in education and governance. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Africa’s first female president, often spoke about the power of educating women as a force for peace and prosperity. Paul Kagame in Rwanda was transforming his nation through structured governance, innovation, and a disciplined focus on education. And Nelson Mandela’s enduring message echoed everywhere I went — that education remains the most powerful weapon to change the world.

Their legacies helped me connect the dots between leadership and education. Leadership, at its core, is an act of building capacity — of helping people see their potential and giving them the systems to grow into it. Education is leadership in action; it empowers others to lead themselves. I began to see my role differently. I wasn’t just a curriculum specialist mapping frameworks — I was part of a broader leadership effort to connect learning, policy, and purpose across cultures.

Still, the work wasn’t without challenges. Policies changed mid-process. Meetings were rescheduled multiple times. At one point, an entire qualification framework I had mapped had to be redone because the agency updated its credit allocation formula overnight. Those experiences tested my patience, but they also taught me the meaning of agility — the ability to move with change, not against it. I learned to breathe, to recalibrate, and to lead with calm rather than frustration.

Sometimes, the lessons came in unexpected ways. On weekends, I’d wander through markets in Gaborone or Windhoek, speaking with locals about their dreams and worries. Many young people told me they aspired to study but couldn’t afford to leave their country. They believed that education — no matter how small the start — could change their lives. Their conviction reminded me that leadership isn’t only about vision; it’s about hope. Leaders, at their best, are hope builders.

As I look back now, years later, those experiences remain some of the most grounding moments of my life. I learned that no leadership theory, no MBA module, and no performance matrix could ever replace the wisdom gained from sitting in a circle with people whose realities are different from yours. The most effective leaders are those who can adapt, listen, and lead with humility — those who can bridge worlds without losing their own integrity.

Every country I worked in left a mark on me. Namibia taught me discipline, Botswana taught me warmth, and Uganda taught me grace. Together, they taught me that leadership is not about controlling the outcome — it’s about understanding the journey. It’s about meeting people where they are and walking with them toward progress, however slow it may seem.

Leadership beyond borders taught me this: every place — and every person — is a work in progress. We are all in our season of becoming, trying to balance tradition with transformation, ideals with realities. The real measure of leadership lies not in how much you control, but in how much you learn, adapt, and grow — no matter where you stand.

Be agile. Be human. And most of all — lead with heart.