Building Empathy - Lesson Learned

The day I made my boss' 5-year-old son cry.

A story of dropped eggs, misplaced priorities, conflicting realities, and a valuable lesson for a young learning experience designer.

Let's set the stage. 2016. I am a Product Manager at an EdTech startup that supports young children in exploring the wonders of science through hands-on activities. The story begins during the filming of an instructional video for one of our projects.

In our office, there was a child who often roamed around, tinkering with our materials and testing our activities. We considered him our youngest team member, and he even had his own Imagin8ors shirt. This 5-year-old boy, whom I'll refer to as S., was the son of one of the founders.

On this particular day, we planned to film S. and his dad doing the "egg drop challenge"—a well-known experiment where participants construct a contraption to protect an egg from breaking when dropped from a height, using limited materials like tissue paper and rubber bands. It's a fantastic way to learn about forces and promote creative thinking. Naturally, I approached S. and asked if he wanted to be part of the video. He enthusiastically agreed.

We began filming in a playful atmosphere filled with laughter. S. and his father collaborated happily on the task. Everything was going well. However, in my enthusiasm, I made my first mistake: I suggested adding a touch of creativity by drawing expressive faces on the eggs. It seemed like a fun addition to the activity, but little did I know that this innocent act would have unintended consequences.

As I goofed around with S., I suggested that he hold an egg to his ear as if listening for the sounds of a baby chick inside. Of course, none of the eggs contained chicks, but S. believed one did. His excitement over the possibility of a tiny bird hatching from that particular egg was evident. I chuckled and moved on, making my second mistake.

Filming was almost complete, and it was time to put our creations to the ultimate test: dropping the eggs and their parachutes from the building's balcony. However, as we approached the launching area, I sensed a shift in S.'s behavior. Doubt and hesitation overcame his initial excitement. I couldn't quite understand what was wrong, and he wouldn't articulate his concerns. This led to my third and most regrettable mistake.

Determined to capture that final shot and complete the task at hand, both his father and I convinced, or rather pressured, S. into joining us in dropping the eggs. By the time we were ready to release them and their makeshift parachutes, S.'s enthusiasm had somewhat returned. Our contagious eagerness seemed to revive his spirit—or so I thought at the time.

We dropped the eggs. S. sprinted downstairs with hope and anticipation. Upon reaching the impact zone, he carefully searched through the materials, looking for his egg. And then he found it.

His egg laid shattered.

S. broke into tears. We tried to console him by explaining that it was part of the learning process, an opportunity to improve our creations. We spoke of trial and error, resilience, but our attempt at delivering a motivational speech fell flat. In our well-intentioned efforts, we missed the true reason behind S.'s tears.

He genuinely believed that we had killed the chick inside that egg. What had been a playful figment of my imagination had taken on a tangible reality for him. The reason he hesitated to launch the egg from the balcony was rooted in his fear of causing harm to the potential living creature inside. Perhaps, under the pressure we exerted, he convinced himself that the parachute would work—or at least he hoped it would. But it didn't.

In his eyes, I was responsible for the death of the chick, an innocent creature he had formed a genuine emotional connection with.

S.'s father told me that during the car ride home, S. remained furious with me. Although our relationship eventually mended, this was no ordinary moment of sadness or a fleeting tantrum. To S., I had taken away the life of a cherished companion he had grown attached to through the power of his child's imagination.

A series of missteps and lack of consideration for a child's mind

Reflecting on my actions, I realized some of the mistakes I made:

?? ? By drawing faces on the eggs, I unintentionally brought them to life. To S., they held far greater significance than simple eggs, while we adults couldn't see beyond their inanimate nature.

?? ?? When I encouraged S. to listen to the egg in search of a chick, I failed to consider that his perspective differed from my own. I assumed he would understand there were no chicks inside, or at least deduce that fact from hearing nothing. Yet, a child's reasoning is a world apart from an adult's. He yearned to hear it, so he did, and in doing so, it became his reality.

?? ? I prioritized completing the video over S.'s emotional experience. I wanted to wrap up the filming promptly and inadvertently treated S., five years old, as any other employee whose primary duty was to finish the project.

?? ???? I failed to listen—perhaps because I was unwilling to. I lacked empathy and disregarded his emotional response. Instead, I imposed my own worldview onto the situation, neglecting the opportunity to embrace the world through a child's eyes—a world just as real to him as mine was to me.

Seven years later, the shame of prioritizing my professional obligations over a child's emotional well-being remains vivid. However, I suspect that anyone who has worked with children may recall similar stories. Children's minds are incredibly complex and beautiful. We must learn from these unfortunate events and continually strive to create experiences that are respectful and tailored to their unique ways of interacting with the world.

Considerations for designing learning experiences for children

Children do not inhabit the same world as adults. Their world is a tapestry they continuously weave together, where threads from their imagination hold as much truth as threads from the tangible reality we adults see. This ability to merge imagination and reality is an integral part of their learning journey.

As we grow older, our tapestry thickens, and its patterns become more uniform. We resist adding new threads of imagination that may disrupt the overall fabric. We strive to conform to the mental model of the world we have carefully constructed over the years. However, in this process, we sacrifice our capacity for creativity and enchantment.

When I design educational tools for children, I now create space for them to weave their own threads of imagination into each experience. I aim to provide opportunities for intertwining learning content with their personal interpretation of the world. By embracing this perspective, I seek to empower children to form meaningful connections with the world and embark on journeys of discovery that deeply resonate with their individual realities.

Improving empathy and understanding of children's complex and ever-changing minds is an innately human skill that technology cannot replicate. Nonetheless, I am enthusiastic about the potential of emerging technologies like generative AI to incorporate our intentions into tangible solutions. By embracing children's distinct perspectives and diving into their world instead of imposing our own, we can leverage these advancements to create increasingly meaningful experiences.