Category: Work

My journey with education technology did not begin with platforms, systems architecture, or artificial intelligence. It began in the classroom — with lesson plans, learners’ questions, moments of confusion, and moments of clarity. Like many educators, I entered the profession believing deeply in education as a space for growth, even if I did not yet have the language to articulate what that growth truly required.

Over time, my career evolved from teaching to curriculum and instructional design, then into quality systems, followed by learning operations, and most recently into education technology.

Looking back, these transitions were not random shifts, but layered progressions. Each role added a new way of seeing learning — pedagogy, structure, systems, and scale.

Through this journey, my understanding of education technology has changed profoundly. What once felt like supportive tools now feels like an ecosystem that shapes behaviour, access, equity, and possibility. Reflecting on education technology across yesterday, today, and tomorrow is therefore not theoretical for me — it is deeply lived.

Yesterday: Education Technology as Support and Substitution

In the early stage of my career as a lecturer, education technology was largely about supporting instruction, not redefining it. PowerPoint replaced handwritten notes. Videos supplemented explanations. Online platforms became repositories for materials and assignments. Technology was seen as an enhancement — something that made lessons clearer, more engaging, or more efficient.

Yet the classroom structure remained largely unchanged. The teacher was still the authority. The curriculum was fixed. Learners progressed at the same pace, regardless of individual differences.

I used technology enthusiastically, but uncritically. If a tool worked and helped me deliver content better, it was considered effective. The dominant question then was, “How can I teach this better with technology?” rather than, “How might learning itself change because of technology?”

Looking back, this phase reflects how education systems historically approached EdTech: as a digital substitute for existing practices. Worksheets, lectures, and assessments were digitised — but pedagogy remained intact. Learning was still measured by completion and recall rather than application or mastery.

This was not a failure of technology. It was a reflection of how narrowly we understood learning at the time.

From Teaching to Design: When Technology Exposed the Gaps

My transition into curriculum development and instructional design marked the first major shift in how I perceived education technology. Designing learning at scale forced me to confront uncomfortable truths. Content alone was not enough. Well-written materials did not guarantee engagement. Carefully planned outcomes did not always translate into consistent delivery or learner competence.

This is where education technology became more than a delivery mechanism — it became a mirror.

Learning platforms revealed drop-off points. Assessment systems highlighted misalignment between outcomes and evaluation. Analytics surfaced patterns of struggle that individual classrooms often concealed.

As an instructional designer, I began to see technology as an enabler of intentionality. It allowed us to:

• Align learning outcomes, activities, and assessments more rigorously
• Design learner journeys rather than isolated sessions
• Test and iterate learning experiences
• Capture data that informed continuous improvement

The focus shifted from teaching content to designing learning experiences. Technology supported this shift not by being innovative, but by being structured, traceable, and scalable.

Yet even at this stage, EdTech remained largely curriculum-centric. The learner experience improved, but systems were still often designed around programmes rather than people.

Today: Education Technology as an Operational and Strategic System

My move into quality assurance then learning operations fundamentally changed how I see education technology today.

At the operational level, EdTech is no longer optional. It is the infrastructure that holds modern education together. Learning management systems, assessment platforms, analytics dashboards, content repositories, and collaboration tools now form interconnected ecosystems that determine how learning is governed, delivered, monitored, and improved.

From this vantage point, technology is inseparable from:

• Scalability
• Compliance
• Quality assurance
• Standardisation
• Risk management

A well-designed curriculum can fail without the right systems to support it. A strong faculty can struggle without operational clarity. Education technology amplifies both excellence and weakness.

One of the most significant changes in today’s EdTech landscape is the prominence of data. Learning is no longer invisible. Participation, progression, performance, and engagement can be tracked and analysed. Decisions can be evidence-based rather than anecdotal.

However, this also introduces tension.

As someone responsible for learning operations, I have seen how easily data can be misunderstood or misused. Dashboards can prioritise activity over learning. Metrics can create pressure rather than insight. Technology can slip from enabler to enforcer.

Today’s challenge, therefore, is not access to technology — but governance, capability, and intent.

Stepping into EdTech Leadership

Starting my role as an EdTech Manager feels like standing at the intersection of pedagogy, technology, and strategy. This role has sharpened my belief that education technology should not lead education — it should serve it.

Platforms must align with institutional philosophy. Tools must support educators, not overwhelm them. Innovation must be purposeful, not performative.

At this stage of my career, I no longer ask whether a tool is advanced. I ask:

• Does it improve learner experience meaningfully?
• Does it support educators’ professional practice?
• Does it enable quality, equity, and sustainability?
• Does it align with long-term educational goals?

EdTech leadership today requires more than technical fluency. It demands systems thinking, change management, ethical judgment, and deep respect for the human dimension of learning.

Tomorrow: Education Technology as Intelligent, Invisible, and Human-Centred

When I think about the future of education technology, I do not imagine more platforms or features. I imagine simpler, smarter, more human-centred ecosystems.

Tomorrow’s EdTech will likely be:

• Adaptive, responding to individual learner needs in real tim
• Embedded, seamlessly integrated into learning and work
• Skills-focused, emphasising demonstrated capability over seat time
• AI-supported, but human-governed

Artificial intelligence will increasingly support curriculum design, assessment, learner support, and analytics. AI tutors, feedback engines, and learning companions will reduce administrative load and allow educators to focus on higher-value interactions.

However, the most important shift will not be technological — it will be philosophical.

Education will move from:

• Standardised pathways to personalised journeys
• Time-based progression to mastery-based learning
• Static qualifications to stackable, lifelong credentials

In this future, the role of institutions and EdTech leaders will be to ensure that technology amplifies human potential rather than replaces human purpose.

Ethics, accessibility, data privacy, and inclusivity will no longer be secondary considerations. They will be central to EdTech design and governance.

My Personal Commitment Moving Forward

Reflecting on my journey — from teaching to designing, from operations to EdTech leadership — I realise that each stage has shaped how I understand the responsibility that comes with education technology.

• Yesterday taught me the importance of clarity and engagement.
• Today taught me the power of systems and data.
• Tomorrow demands that I act as a steward of learning ecosystems.

As EdTech professionals and leaders, we are not merely implementing tools. We are shaping how people learn, adapt, and access opportunity in an increasingly complex world.

The future of education technology will not be defined by how advanced our systems are, but by how thoughtfully we design them — with learners, educators, and society in mind.

Conclusion

• Education technology yesterday supported teaching.
• Education technology today enables systems.
• Education technology tomorrow must serve humanity.

Standing now in new role, I am convinced of one thing:

“Technology will continue to evolve, but education must remain deeply human.”

Our task is not to chase innovation, but to design learning environments where technology quietly, ethically, and intelligently empowers people to grow.

And that, truly, is what I aspire to bring to the table.

I didn’t start my career intending to become someone who thinks deeply about learning systems.

I started as a lecturer — teaching students who came to class expecting knowledge, structure, and clarity. Later, I moved into a professional body, designing qualifications and certifications. Then I entered Learning & Development (L&D) in a corporate environment, where learning was supposed to translate directly into performance. Along the way, I also had a front-row seat to the realities of workplace training through my husband, a certified trainer — witnessing the pressure, expectations, and invisible work behind every “successful” training programme.

Across these roles, one thing became increasingly clear to me:

“We keep using the word learning — but we mean very different things.”

And when we confuse teaching, training, and training for professional certification, people don’t just feel bored. They feel exhausted, disengaged, and quietly resentful of learning that doesn’t help them do their jobs better.

Teaching: Building Understanding That Transfers

Teaching is where my journey began. In teaching, the goal is understanding. Knowledge must stand independently of context. Students are expected to grasp concepts deeply enough to explain them, critique them, and apply them across scenarios that may not yet exist. A good teaching question sounds like:

“Do you understand this concept in principle?”

Time is generous. Exploration is encouraged. Assessment measures comprehension, reasoning, and intellectual clarity. Teaching is not rushed, because understanding cannot be rushed. And importantly:

“Teaching does not promise immediate performance. It promises cognitive readiness.”

A student who understands a concept doesn’t just repeat what they’ve been taught. They can adapt it when the environment changes, when the tools change, when the problem looks different.

That, I realised early on, is the essence of teaching — building understanding that lasts.

Training for Professional Certification: Understanding Meets Competence

Years later, I joined a professional body, where I began designing qualifications. What I get to see with “professional certification” is that it is structured, controlled, and high-stakes. I had to consider:

• What must every competent professional know?
• What can reasonably be self-studied?
• What requires formal instruction?
• How do we assess competence fairly?

On paper, the learning pathways were labelled “self-study”, and in practice, flexibility existed — formal structured learning was optional but always available. Still, the syllabus was tightly controlled. The right to train was granted only to accredited trainers and approved training agencies.

Why?

“Because professional certification is not just about learning. It is about standards, trust, and accountability.  Being certified carries a promise that a professional has met a defined, agreed-upon standard of competence.”

This promise cannot rely solely on informal learning or on-the-job experience. It requires structure, formal assessment, and clear boundaries.

Some experienced professionals push back – they say:

“I’ve been doing this for years. Why do I need certification? My work speaks for itself.”

In many ways, it does. But professional certification was never designed to judge individual brilliance. Professional certifications exist because systems need shared, portable standards. From a design perspective, experience is not ignored — it is refined. The modules are curated meticulously by industry experts, debated across committees, and stress-tested against current practice and future demands.

“Professional certification takes what practitioners already know and aligns it with agreed industry standards, ethical boundaries, and future expectations. Without it, experience remains personal, but with it, competence becomes accountable.”

It does not replace experience.

It sharpens it.

Most importantly, it doesn’t end once you pass the exam.

To maintain credibility, certified professionals are obliged to undertake a defined number of learning hours through structured or unstructured learning activities. This is known as Continuous Professional Development (CPD). CPD ensures practices stay relevant, knowledge stays current, and the promise behind the professional certification continues to be meaningful. The professional certification is the baseline, and CPD is the ongoing commitment to remain credible and capable.

Training: Seeing the Real Work of a Corporate Trainer

Through my husband, I gained another perspective on learning — the world of corporate training. He started as an independent trainer, delivering workshops to diverse clients. Later, he joined an organisation as their in-house corporate trainer, responsible for designing, delivering, and measuring learning outcomes across multiple teams.

Through him, I saw the real work behind the title “trainer” – it’s not just standing in front of a room and talking. It’s pressure, preparation, and precision:

• Pressure from expectations: Learners come with different backgrounds, skills, attitudes and motivations. Some are there to learn, to improve themselves; others attend only because it’s mandatory. Trainers must meet everyone’s needs while keeping the session relevant and engaging.
• Pressure from outcomes: Organisations want results. Bosses want their people to have the skill to get the job done. Training isn’t just “sharing knowledge” — it’s to improve performance, a fixing method, skill application, and behaviour change. Trainers are accountable for these outcomes, often under tight timelines.
• Aspiration and craft: Good trainers aspire to more than delivery. They craft content carefully, anticipate challenges, design exercises that resonate, and measure transfer of learning. They balance engagement, relevance, and rigor, all in real time.

Watching him, I realised that being a corporate trainer is part pedagogue, part psychologist, part project manager. You need empathy to understand your learners, influence to manage their bosses, strategy to design meaningful programmes, and stamina to deliver consistently under scrutiny.

It also made me appreciate why some workplace learning succeeds, and some fails. A trainer’s skill can be brilliant, but if the system, expectations, or support is misaligned, even the best facilitator cannot make learning stick.

One thing he often emphasises is:

“Training is meant to improve performance, not dwell on theory. Yet, there is no such thing as ideal. We can’t run away from having to face some content that is inherently theory-heavy — complex systems, workflows, or technical tools. The challenge is structuring and delivering it, so learners remain engaged, connected to outcomes, and able to apply knowledge.”

I saw this in action when he designed a system training module for his organisation. The module had a theory-heavy prerequisite delivered via e-learning, covering concepts staff had to understand before touching the system. Instead of letting it remain a dry, abstract experience, he implemented a hybrid approach:

• Learners completed the e-learning module at their own pace, ensuring baseline knowledge. This became the pre-requisite before the classroom session.
• Classroom sessions were hands-on, scenario-driven, and performance-focused, where learners applied concepts directly to tasks they would perform at work.
• Exercises simulated real work conditions, allowing learners to practice, ask questions, and build confidence before independent application.

This approach struck a balance – learners were prepared and knowledgeable, yet the training remained practical, relevant, and performance-oriented.

Watching him, I realised that:

“A good training design is both art and science. It cannot always be a one-size fits all approach. You have to respect theory when necessary but always keep one eye on the end goal – the learners’ competence and capability in the real world.”

This brought me to a principle I now hold dear – training at work should always have a purpose. Even when you attend sessions on communication, personal grooming, or presentation skills, the goal is not just self-improvement — it’s about being better at your role, projecting credibility, and performing effectively.

Training should be intentional, focused on reskilling or upskilling, and delivered based on actual need, not “just because there’s a course available.”

When the purpose of training is clear, relevant and measurable in the work, people:

• Engage meaningfully
• Apply skills immediately
• Retain knowledge
• Take ownership of their development

Without purpose, training risks becoming checkbox learning — attendance driven by perks, not by progress.

Seeing the Differences Clearly

Across my experiences, I’ve learned to articulate the differences between teaching, performance training, and training for professional certification clearly:

Each has its place, each has its limits, and problems arise when we ignore these boundaries.

Standing in Between: What I’ve Learned

I spent my career moving through these worlds – teaching, qualification design, and performance training.

I wasn’t “just a lecturer”.

I wasn’t “just L&D”.

I wasn’t “just a qualification designer”.

I was someone who stood between theory and practice, understanding where learning is about understanding, where it is about doing, and where it is about proving competence.

That perspective allows me to see:

• When teaching is essential
• When training is enough
• When certification must hold the line

And if I reflect on all these experiences, a simple truth emerges:

• Teaching should focus on understanding and transferability
• Performance training should focus on immediate competence in context
• Professional certification training should ensure understanding plus evidence of competence

The difference between how it should be and how it actually is, is obvious — and that gap is where learning leaders must act.

Not rush training for compliance.

Not compress learning for speed.

Not overload classrooms with “just in case” theory.

Learning should not exhaust people. It should enable them.

And when each form of learning is designed — and respected — for what it truly is, learning doesn’t just happen.

It works.

In my experience working at the intersection of curriculum and learning & development frameworks, both processes felt familiar. Each follows a structured cycle of analysis, design, implementation, and evaluation — the logical sequence any learning professional would recognise. What differentiates them, however, are their intent and impact.

A curriculum framework operates at the micro level — it is educational, instructional, and learner-centred. It defines learning experiences, content, and assessments to develop specific capabilities, translating strategic intent into tangible, measurable learning journeys that progress logically over time. An L&D framework, on the other hand, operates at the macro level — it is organisational, strategic, and systemic. It identifies the capabilities the organisation needs to thrive, whether in leadership, communication, or digital literacy, and ensures that learning aligns with business priorities, culture, and performance outcomes. In short, it is the architecture of learning at scale, designed to shape the workforce for what’s next.

In a corporate ecosystem, the L&D framework sets the direction, while curriculum frameworks bring that direction to life. And at the heart of it all — the real audience is the employees themselves.

Recently, I found myself asking a question that felt both simple and profound:

• How do employees in Malaysia really feel about their organisation’s learning initiatives?
• Do they see them as a genuine pathway to growth — or just another HR process that looks good on paper?

To explore this, I decided to collect some data myself. Not as part of a formal research project, but out of genuine curiosity. I wanted to understand, from employees’ perspectives, how learning opportunities are communicated, accessed, rewarded, and supported in real workplaces today.

Want to be a part of this? [Take the survey here]

My early findings mirrored what I had long suspected: employees want to learn. They are eager to grow, stay relevant, and contribute meaningfully. But structural and cultural barriers persist — and they have a real impact on how learning happens at work.

Research supports this too. Studies by LinkedIn Workplace Learning Report (2024) echo what many of us already know:

• Workload remains the biggest obstacle to learning.
• Communication on upskilling and reskilling opportunities is often inconsistent.
• Recognition is unclear — only a fraction of organisations link learning milestones to rewards, promotions, or visibility.

The result? Employees navigate a maze of opportunities without a map. They see programmes, but not pathways. Initiatives, but not impact. And when learning feels disconnected from growth, participation becomes compliance, not commitment.

As the designer of learning systems, and a participant within them, here’s what I’ve learned about what makes learning work:

✅ 1. Communication Builds Clarity

Employees can’t align with what they don’t understand. Learning & Development strategies must be communicated with the same intensity and clarity as business goals — repeatedly, transparently, and in ways that connect to personal growth. Without clarity, even the best-designed L&D strategy risks becoming noise.

✅ 2. Structure Builds Trust

When people know how to enrol, what criteria apply, and what outcomes to expect, they engage with ownership. Ambiguity erodes trust; structure builds it. A good L&D framework provides a roadmap — making learning accessible, predictable, and equitable.

✅ 3. Recognition Sustains Motivation

Motivation doesn’t always need to be monetary. Recognition can come in many forms — certifications, project leadership opportunities, internal visibility, or acknowledgment from managers. What matters is fairness and visibility. Without it, engagement fades and learning becomes transactional.

✅ 4. Balance Sustains Performance

As the LinkedIn Workplace Learning Report (2024) highlights, nearly half of global employees (49%) say workload prevents them from pursuing learning. Organisations that provide protected learning time or adjust workloads consistently see higher engagement and retention. Real commitment means making space for growth, not just preaching it.

Another point worth mentioning on why learning initiatives often struggle is the way organisations separate talent strategy and learning strategy. Talent strategy focuses on identifying, developing, and retaining high-potential employees for current and future roles. Learning strategy focuses on designing and delivering programs that build skills and capabilities. When these functions operate in silos — sometimes even with different owners and KPIs — learning and talent can feel like competing priorities. Learning teams may focus on course completion metrics, while talent teams focus on succession or retention goals. The result? Initiatives are disconnected, employees are confused, and the organisation misses the opportunity to develop people holistically.

Bridging this gap requires integration, alignment, and shared ownership. Learning becomes a tool to grow talent, and talent strategy becomes a lens through which learning programmes are designed.

Another observation to add on is the trends in Malaysia’s learning landscape these days – Malaysia’s economic growth is being driven by digital transformation, manufacturing innovation, and a renewed services sector. This shift is redefining what L&D frameworks must deliver. Three trends have came to the spotlights:

✅ 1. AI and Automation Are Rewriting the Skills Playbook

Core skills now include AI literacy, digital adaptability, and continuous learning. L&D frameworks must evolve from static competency models to dynamic, continuously updated capability ecosystems.

✅ 2. Employees Want Learning to Be Meaningful, Not Mandated

Learning requires space, focus, and support. It’s not about the number of courses completed, but the depth of growth achieved.

✅ 3. Environment Shapes Motivation

Culture matters. When peers and leaders value growth, curiosity spreads naturally. When learning is treated as an afterthought, enthusiasm fades — no matter how good the content is.

Despite initiatives, 77% of APAC employers report difficulty filling roles, especially in data and tech (ManpowerGroup, 2025). This isn’t just a hiring issue — it’s a development issue. Organisations can’t recruit their way out of a skills gap; they must develop their way out.

The way I see it, it’s time we create the human-centred future of learning. The foundation is already there: a workforce eager to learn. What’s needed now is alignment, clear pathways, and leadership that sees learning not as an interruption, but as an investment. Learning should mirror growth — fluid, flexible, and human. It should encourage curiosity, not compliance; reflection, not repetition. Successful L&D frameworks balance structure with empathy, celebrate milestones while focusing on meaning, and connect learning not just to performance, but to purpose. When learning becomes part of the organisational DNA — woven into conversations, performance reviews, and leadership decisions — culture changes. Employees begin to see growth not as an expectation, but as a shared journey.

Looking back, my journey from curriculum design to L&D strategy reminds me: learning is never static — it evolves as people do. The curriculum framework taught me precision — to think about sequences, outcomes, and assessments. The L&D framework taught me vision — to connect learning with culture, systems, and strategy. Both are necessary. One provides the how; the other ensures the why. And more importantly, both remind me that learning, at its core, is relational. It’s about people — their stories, aspirations, and the systems that either support or stifle their growth.

My hope is simple: That one day, every employee can proudly say —

“My company’s learning culture doesn’t just demand growth from me; it grows with me.”

There’s a peculiar kind of silence that lingers in organisations that run purely on legacy knowledge. It’s not the silence of inactivity—it’s the silence of familiarity. Everyone knows what to do, but no one quite knows how they know it. Things just work—until they don’t.

When I first walked into such an environment, the company had been operating for decades without structured documentation. Processes were embedded in people, not paper. The ones who “knew how things worked” had been there for years, sometimes decades. SOPs, process maps, reference manuals are presented like habits, muscle memory, and the occasional Excel sheet that everyone swore was “the latest version.”

Gulp!

As someone whose professional grounding has always revolved around building structure, I have always believed that institutional excellence begins with clarity. But clarity doesn’t appear on its own—it needs to be designed, validated, and communicated. My mission was to turn tacit knowledge into explicit systems: to write the SOPs that never existed.

How did I do that?

Step 1 – Understanding the Unwritten

Before writing a single word, I needed to understand the unwritten rules. I learned quickly that legacy organisations don’t resist documentation because they’re careless—they resist it because it threatens the familiarity that makes their work feel stable.

So instead of starting with templates, I started with people. I spent time shadowing teams—sitting beside coordinators, analysts, and trainers; listening to how they explained things to new hires; and noting down what they did differently from what others claimed to do. These were not formal interviews but conversations of trust.

When I asked, “How do you usually do this?”, the answer often began with, “Normally we…” followed by a mix of “but sometimes…” and “it depends.”

That was my first insight — the SOPs didn’t just need to document the process; they needed to capture the logic behind the decisions.

Step 2 – Mapping the Chaos

Legacy processes are rarely linear. They grow organically—layer by layer, patch by patch. To make sense of them, I used a bottom-up process mapping approach.

Rather than starting with a departmental workflow, I identified process clusters—recurring patterns of activities that led to specific outcomes. For instance, in a learning operations environment, “course activation” could involve HR, content, logistics, trainers, and even finance. Everyone had a hand in it, but no one owned the end-to-end picture. Using visual process maps (I prefer Lucidchart or Miro), I traced each step as it was currently done, not as it should be done. That distinction was crucial.  Documenting “ideal processes” too early can alienate those who actually run them. By mapping the reality first, I earned credibility, and most importantly, people saw that I wasn’t here to “change everything,” but to understand.

Once the as-is map was complete, I would gather the stakeholders in short, focused sessions to validate it. This often led to surprising discoveries: redundant approval loops, outdated forms, or responsibilities that had shifted over time without anyone realising it.

Step 3 – Defining Ownership and Accountability

In companies that run on legacy knowledge, ownership is fluid.

“We’ve always done it this way” often translates to “we’re not sure who’s in charge.”

So, the next step was to clarify process ownership. Every SOP, no matter how simple, needed to answer one key question – Who owns this process from start to end? This was not a matter of hierarchy—it was a matter of clarity. For example, if a process involved four departments, one had to be the process owner (responsible for ensuring compliance and improvement), while others were contributors.

Introducing this concept wasn’t easy. It required diplomacy and empathy. In some cases, it meant revisiting turf boundaries. But over time, people began to see the value—when ownership was clear, so were expectations.

Step 4 – Writing for the Reader

Once the groundwork was set, it was time to write.

I believe that SOPs are not just documents—they are learning tools. They need to be simple enough for a new hire to follow yet detailed enough for an auditor to verify. So, I structured each SOP with three key sections:

• Purpose and Scope – Why the SOP exists and what it covers.
• Roles and Responsibilities – Who does what, clearly stated.
• Step-by-Step Procedure – The actual process, written in a concise, active voice, supported by visuals or decision trees when needed.

For each procedure, I included “critical control points”. These are steps that could impact compliance, customer experience, or data accuracy. These would help transform the SOP from a static manual into a dynamic quality tool.

Step 5 – Validation and Continuous Feedback

No SOP should ever be written in isolation. Once drafts were ready, I organised validation walkthroughs, for example, live sessions where process owners would perform the tasks using the draft SOP as their guide.

This was often where the magic happened. Watching someone struggle to find a step or interpret an instruction revealed exactly where the SOP failed to communicate. One of the most important lessons I learned was this:

“The effectiveness of an SOP is not in how it reads, but in how it guides”.

Through each round of feedback, bear in mind that the documents will evolve not only in accuracy but also in voice, gradually beginning to sound like the people who use them rather than like corporate templates written by outsiders.

Step 6 – Implementation and Change Management

Documentation is the easy part. Adoption is the real challenge. I quickly learned that rolling out SOPs is a change management exercise, not just a documentation project. Legacy organisations have muscle memory and changing that requires more than a PDF upload to the shared drive.

To encourage adoption, I used three key strategies:

• Microlearning orientation: Short sessions introducing each SOP and why it mattered.
• Champion system: Appointing process champions within departments to answer questions and reinforce consistency.
• Feedback loop: Creating a formal channel (e.g., monthly review form or MS Teams chat) for users to flag inconsistencies or propose improvements.

Over time, what started as a documentation initiative evolved into a culture of accountability. Teams began using SOPs as a reference, not as a chore. The technical steps are one thing, but the human side was the real learning curve.

I remember one senior staff member telling me, “I’ve been doing this for 15 years. I don’t need an SOP to tell me how.” She was right, in a way. She didn’t need it—but the organisation did.

Even my own boss, once said, “SOPs are a waste of time – everyone already know how to do it from the back of their head. The rest should learn the same way – we don’t need to spoon-feed them!“

This moment reminded me of the delicate balance between respecting expertise and institutionalising knowledge. The goal was never to replace people’s experience, but to preserve it—so that when they move on, retire, or change roles, the organisation doesn’t start from zero again.

Through empathy, consistent communication, and genuine curiosity, I began to see attitudes shift. When people felt heard, they became open to documenting their own workflows. Some even took ownership by proposing improvements or volunteering to pilot-test new templates.

The success of an SOP initiative CANNOT be measured only by the number of documents completed. Real impact shows up in how people work differently.

At the end, what does success look like here?

• New joiners were able to onboard faster.
• Cross-departmental miscommunications reduced because everyone now had a shared reference.
• Quality checks became easier because expectations were clear.
• Most importantly, decision-making became more transparent.

Imagine, ISO auditors reviewing the documentation, and commented that your SOPs “reflected how people actually worked,” not just theoretical procedures.

That, to me, is the ultimate validation.

Writing SOPs in a legacy-driven company is less about writing and more about translating culture into structure. Writing SOPs is not just a technical task—it’s an act of transformation. You are, in essence, building the bridge between legacy and sustainability.

What began as a documentation project often turns into a cultural awakening. You start by asking, “How do you do this?” and end up uncovering why things are done this way. Along the way, you learn that documentation is not about control—it’s about continuity.

For me, this experience reinforced a belief I’ve always held – operational excellence begins with clarity, and clarity begins with people.

The most meaningful SOPs I’ve written were not those that ticked every compliance box, but those that gave people a sense of structure, pride, and confidence in their work. They became, in many ways, a mirror of the organisation’s collective wisdom—finally captured, finally shared, and finally ready to evolve.

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.