There’s a tension at the heart of transformative online programs.

Processes that are transformational often defy structure. They wander and circle back on themselves. The whole is contained in the parts. There is a journey to take, and at the same time, there is nowhere to go, nothing to do.

And yet, when you log in to a platform – what do you see? A series of modules to complete, a progress bar, and a defined period of time in which it should all happen.

Online platforms need structure. In fact, the structure is often why we pay for programs. We value that someone we trust curated the experience. They considered sequencing and made decisions about what is important for us to learn, when and how.

But that structure carries a hidden signal. It suggests a linear, hierarchical, time-bound path.

For learning designers, this raises a question – one that I rarely hear asked:

How to work with a medium that demands (and implies) structure to facilitate something that defies it?

This question has been at the center of my work for over a decade. I thought I’d gotten pretty good at navigating it.

Now, I'm realizing I have more blindspots than I thought.

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It was 2014 when my colleagues and I at the Presencing Institute started building u.lab. The most popular courses on edX were drawing cohorts of more than 100,000 people. As an MIT course, u.lab would be using the same platform. But most of those courses were teaching math and science — recording a lecture, putting it online, and offering a certificate at the end.

We wanted to do something different. We wanted to equip people with frameworks and practices for transforming themselves, their organizations, and their communities. To date, u.lab has reached over 250,000 people in 185 countries, and in post-course surveys, a third of participants have described the experience as life-changing.

But getting there meant working against the grain of the platform we were building on.

So we essentially hacked the platform. We filled it with artwork. We posted a journey map. And in the early videos, we said directly: it's totally fine to watch and browse the course content, but just know, transformation isn't going to happen at your computer. That will only happen if you get away from your screen. So go out, be with others, use the practices we're offering. Then come back and share what you learned.

Our core insight: a platform built to democratize education could, with some creativity, also be used for movement building, global sense-making, and personal transformation. How? By enabling people to see themselves and their own work in the context of a greater whole. In practice, that meant building a parallel social platform where people could find each other, form small groups, and share their work. Filming weekly "office hours" videos that uplifted specific questions and examples. And live broadcasts that featured change initiatives participants were leading.

It was cobbled together, but it worked.

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If the platforms we use to build online programs carry a built-in signal of linearity and progress, then the choices we make – including the language we use – matter even more.

When leaders think about taking a successful in-person program and offering it online, something shifts. The in-person experience is typically called a program, workshop, or retreat. But when it moves online, they start — without consciously doing so — referring to it as a course.

Here’s the thing. There’s a category difference between a container and a curriculum.

Once we call something a course, we’re activating a different psychology. Participants want to do it “right”. Which is why, in both u.lab and Plum Village’s Zen and the Art of Saving the Planet, we tried not to talk about them as courses. Instead, we called them journeys. In doing so, we signaled this was something to experience rather than accomplish.

And yet – if you participated in either of these programs, you may have noticed they still contained progress trackers, and encouragement to keep pace with the cohort. The platform architecture was still at odds with our language.

Tensions aren't always meant to be resolved — but it helps to know they're there.

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The risk of success is becoming attached to a way of working.

In 2022, I started advising on Zen and the Art of Saving the Planet, an online course for climate activists based on Thich Nhat Hanh's teachings. The lessons I brought from u.lab made a real contribution, and the course was well received. So when we set out to create new courses on the foundational Plum Village practices — sitting, eating, and walking meditation — I felt I knew what worked.

In strategy sessions, I presented a structured pathway for learning. For sitting meditation, we talked through what to teach in the first, second, and third module. I advocated for a separation of frameworks (here's why we do this) and practices (here's how). It all made logical sense. And besides, this distinction had worked well in the past.

This time, it didn't.

When it came time to film, something felt off. The distinction between framework and practice felt forced. In person, these teachings are not separated that way. But we had a production schedule, so we pushed ahead. Later, in the editing room, it was clear the videos wouldn't convey the true essence of these practices.

We decided to pause the project.

And in the reflection that followed, I started to see what had happened. This time, the issue wasn't the platform, or the participants' expectations. It was my own assumptions as a designer. Without fully realizing it, I had developed a formula for building online courses, and imposed it on content that called for something different. I had taken what is offered in a container and tried to make it into a curriculum. Not every teaching wants to be placed inside a linear scaffolding.

That realization led me to ask a deeper set of questions. How has my Western education, with its 101, 102, 201, 202 progression, shaped my sense of how learning should be organized? Of how progress happens? Of how transformation occurs?

I started to see that when I seek out transformative experiences, I also seek out structure. As a practitioner of yoga, I was drawn to the Iyengar method. With surfing, I found the teachers who mapped a structured, technical progression for learning something that most people learn by feel and experience.

I've come to appreciate this instinct, but also to notice its limits.

I suspect I'm not alone in this.

I don't think the answer is to abandon structure. But I do think it matters that we see what's shaping the choices we make.

Now, each time I begin a new project, I'm sitting with three questions:

• How is the platform itself shaping what gets built, in ways I might not be seeing?
• How are participants likely to orient to this experience by default — and what design choices can I make to invite a different stance?
• What does this content want to be – and where does that push against my comfort and experience as a designer?

How does this tension between structure and transformation show itself in your work?

I'd love to hear. You can reach me by replying directly to this email.

– Adam