A Day in the Life of a Learner Who Hates Your Course

It’s just not for the reasons that you think.

6:53 AM

The first alarm buzzed 40 minutes ago. She’s awake now, kind of. Not rested—just up. The toddler’s coughing again. Her partner already left for the early shift, and the dog is whining at the back door like it’s his job.

She moves through the motions. Toast. Thermometer. A voicemail to school. She’s out of cold brew, so she drinks kid yogurt straight from the pouch. Don’t judge her.

7:38 AM

She opens her calendar between bites of the waffles her kids didn’t eat. There it is:

📌 Complete your mandatory DEI training by EOD.

She sighs. Not because it’s DEI—she believes in the work.
It’s the way it’s delivered.

She’s done enough of these to know what’s coming:
Over-scripted videos. Vague scenarios. No room for questions.
A timer that assumes “engagement” means sitting still.
A quiz written to trap, not teach.

Still, she clicks the link.

8:10 AM

The narrator’s voice is calm in that overly rehearsed way, like they’re trying to lull you into compliance rather than thought. But hey, at least it’s a human voice this time.

“Diversity is about recognizing that each individual is unique…”

She half-listens. The words blur in her head like the narrator is speaking in cursive.

She toggles to Outlook. Answers one email. Flags two more. Checks on the toddler—still coughing. Reheats the same cup of coffee for the third time.

Back at the course, the slide hasn’t changed.
The Next button is still grayed out.
Timer: 00:26.

She watches it like it might blink first.

9:05 AM

She gets through Module 1.

Module 2 starts with two cartoon avatars in suits discussing “inclusive hiring practices” in a fictional workplace with zero context.

She watches one say:

“I make sure all our candidates are treated equitably, regardless of their background or identity.”

Which is fine. Technically. But it’s also the kind of thing people say in trainings, not in real life. No hesitation. No context. Just a polished line and a confident nod.

Her Slack pings. She sighs and minimizes the course window.

10:42 AM

Back at it. She clicks through a scenario about workplace bias. It’s set in a generic office with polished furniture and no clutter—like no one actually works there.

The character gets it wrong. The feedback screen explains why. It’s technically correct. But it feels cold.

She thinks about the time she tried to speak up in a meeting and was talked over four times before giving up. No animated character addressed that kind of bias.

She clicks “Continue.”

11:30 AM

Her kid is napping. The house is quiet, finally.

She could finish the course now. She could.

But her brain feels foggy. The kind of fog where everything slides off. The kind where you want to learn but just...can’t hold anything.

She closes the laptop.

Just for a bit.

Reflection Break

Let’s pause here—not for her, but for us.

She’s not checked out.
She’s maxed out.
And your course didn’t make room for that.

It assumed time.
It assumed attention.
It assumed emotional neutrality.

It gave her polished scripts, not real voices.
It gave her policy, not reflection.
It gave her tasks, not trust.

So here’s the question:

What would it look like to design for her actual day?

Not the ideal day. Not the well-rested learner.

This day.

One with a sick kid, inbox noise, brain fog, and a commitment to doing better—if only she had a course that met her there.

She doesn’t hate learning.
She hates feeling like her time, her mind, and her story don’t matter.

Let’s design like they do.

She’s not your barrier.
She’s your user.
And her day deserves more than a checkbox.

In the next post, we’ll talk about designing compliance training that doesn’t suck.