Inches Apart: Reflections on Proximity, Positionality, and the Space Between Certainty and Uncertainty
It is often said that we are all within six degrees of separation. Yet, in recent weeks, I have found myself experiencing something much closer, connections of just one or two degrees. This realization has been particularly poignant as I engage with this week's readings in my Indiana University course on emerging technology. Among the materials are various state and federal Education Technology Plans, documents that lay the foundation for systemic change in learning environments. These reports are not just theoretical constructs; they are deeply familiar to me. I have directly contributed to district, state, and agency plans of a similar nature, work that was integral to my own professional journey, particularly during my EdS studies in educational technology.
As I read these plans and reflect on their broader implications, I cannot help but consider my own evolving role in the field. Researcher positionality, a concept covered extensively in the qualitative methodologies class, has taken on new meaning as my proximity to global events increasingly shapes not only my worldview but also the direction of my future research. My experiences teaching Ukrainian students, both in stable and virtually from crisis-affected environments, have underscored the ways in which education is not just a process of knowledge transfer but a means of resilience, connection, and survival. These experiences have made me deeply aware of the ethical and methodological complexities of researching education in crisis contexts, particularly when personal and professional lives intersect with the very issues being studied.
This became even more evident on Friday as I watched events unfold at the White House. When the camera panned to the Ukrainian delegation, I saw a familiar face, a parent of two of my former students. I remain in occasional contact with his family, making the moment both deeply personal and professionally significant. This is not the first time I have seen someone I know at the center of global events, and it likely will not be the last.
My proximity to these events is not just through public moments but also through personal, deeply human connections. Occasionally, I receive direct messages from former students on social media, sometimes asking for help with homework, sometimes simply reaching out for a conversation, a connection to something outside the uncertainty of their daily lives. These messages arrive from across time zones and circumstances, some sent from bomb shelters, others accompanied by the not-so-distant noise of air raid sirens. In these moments, education feels both deeply personal and profoundly fragile. It is a stark reminder that learning is not a neutral act. For many, it is a means of survival, a tether to normalcy in an unpredictable world.
This experience raises an important question. How do we as researchers and practitioners maintain objectivity when our connections to people and events are so direct? More specifically, in fields like education in crisis or educational technology policy, how do we navigate the delicate balance between academic detachment and the undeniable reality that our work affects and is affected by real human lives? How do we reconcile the emotional weight of these relationships with the responsibility to maintain an analytical stance? Equally challenging is the insider knowledge we hold, details that cannot always be shared yet shape our perspectives in ways that influence our work. The task is not simply about maintaining objectivity but about ethically engaging with what we know, balancing empathy with objectivity, and honoring the trust placed in us by those whose stories intersect with our research.
In writing this, I realize how much this reflection has shifted from my original topic to something far more personal. The tone feels different, perhaps because much of this is coming from the unsettled parts of my thoughts. It is difficult to write about, and even more difficult to find the balance between lived experience and academic writing. Maybe the answer lies in pausing and reflecting with intention. Writing about education in times of crisis is a constant negotiation, a search for balance between personal experience and scholarly distance. It is an ongoing process of determining how much of ourselves we bring into the research and how much we hold back. Perhaps it is about being mindful of the impact our work has on communities while also questioning how much our perspectives are shaped by evidence versus the personal connections that make detachment feel elusive.
Educational technology, especially in crisis situations, is never just about infrastructure or policy. At its core, it is about people, their struggles, their resilience, and the ways in which learning connects them to something greater. The plans we contribute to, the policies we shape, and the technologies we utilize have consequences that extend beyond statistics and case studies. These moments remind me that the work we do (I may do) is not theoretical; it is deeply connected to real lives, real challenges, and real hope.
Maybe proximity does not undermine objectivity but instead calls for a deeper, more thoughtful kind of responsibility. It encourages us to be more reflective, more empathetic, and more honest about the ways our research intersects with the lives of those we study. It is not about having all the answers, but about ensuring that our work serves something real and meaningful, that it contributes to both understanding and action in the spaces where education and crisis converge.
