In 2021, I wrote a short e-learning guide for teachers.

It was during Covid, when schools were suddenly pushed online and everyone was trying to figure things out at the same time. The guide wasn’t meant to be prescriptive. It wasn’t a rulebook. It was closer to a set of reminders, shaped by conversations with teachers, parents and students who were all adjusting to something unfamiliar.

When I look back at it now, I realise that the ideas behind that guide have stayed more than the tools themselves.

Even then, the concern wasn’t really about technology. It was about assumptions. About how easily we assume access, readiness and comfort just because something is technically possible. About how quickly convenience can become the default, especially when everyone is tired and under pressure.

A lot of the guide focused on small things. Allowing options. Being mindful of data. Avoiding uncontrolled platforms. Not assuming every child had a device, a stable connection, or an adult constantly available to help. At the time, these felt like practical considerations for emergency remote learning. Reasonable adjustments in an unusual moment.

What I didn’t fully realise then was that these weren’t temporary concerns.

They were early signals of something more permanent. The beginning of a digital norm forming, one where choices made in moments of urgency could quietly settle into everyday practice. Where systems designed to support learning could, over time, start shaping childhood in ways we didn’t always stop to question.

That’s something I’ve been thinking about again lately, something my wife and I have found ourselves returning to in more than one conversation.

That thinking feels even more relevant now because the context has changed.

Back then, we were in the middle of emergency remote learning. Nothing felt settled. Teachers were cautious, parents were alert and everyone was aware that what we were doing was temporary. Tools were chosen deliberately. There was a sense that we needed to be careful because children were suddenly spending more of their lives online than anyone had planned for.

Today, digital tools are no longer an exception. They’re part of the everyday rhythm of schooling. Communication platforms, messaging apps and online spaces have quietly become normal. And when something becomes normal, we stop noticing the assumptions built into it.

One of those assumptions is access.

In the guide I wrote in 2021, I kept coming back to the same ideas in different ways. Don’t assume every student has a device. Don’t assume constant internet access. Don’t assume an adult is always available at home. Don’t push learning into platforms that schools can’t properly oversee. Always allow options.

At the time, they felt like practical considerations. Looking at them today, they sit closer to the edges of childhood, shaping what feels safe, manageable and appropriate.

What I’m seeing more of now is communication drifting into spaces designed for social use rather than learning. Messaging apps becoming the default because they’re fast and familiar. Expectations forming quietly, not through policy, but through habit. When that happens, the pressure doesn’t announce itself. It just shows up in small ways. Students adjusting. Families adapting. Children learning to fit themselves into systems that weren’t designed with them in mind.

This isn’t about blaming teachers. I’m an educator myself. I know how full the day is. I know how often convenience feels like survival. Most of the time, these choices are made with good intentions and very little time to think them through.

But I’m also a parent.

And as a parent, these moments land differently. Parenting decisions aren’t always visible to schools. They’re often made quietly, agreed upon at home, shaped by what we know about our own children. When systems assume a single way of participating, those decisions can suddenly feel like obstacles rather than care.

There’s a recent series, Adolescence, that my wife and I watched together. It explores how much of a child’s inner digital life can remain invisible to adults until something goes wrong. I’m not suggesting extremes. But it’s a reminder of how easily access can outpace awareness. How quickly children can be asked to navigate spaces that adults themselves haven’t fully thought through.

That’s what keeps bringing me back to the same question I was circling in 2021.

Are we designing learning and communication around children’s realities, or around adult convenience?

The difference isn’t always obvious in the moment. It shows up over time. In what becomes normal. In what stops being questioned. In how much responsibility quietly shifts onto young shoulders.

This question sits close to the reflections I’ve been writing about in Raising Futures, especially around slowing down enough to notice how systems shape childhood long before anyone realises they do.

Sometimes the most important design decision isn’t which tool we choose, but whether we pause long enough to ask who it’s really for.