Before I knew what backward design was, I was already living it.
It turns out I’ve always had a backward design mindset. I recently realized it’s the thread that unites so many of my life experiences. Before I even knew the term, I naturally approached life by asking how I wanted things to turn out.
As a parent, I was aware that I wasn’t just raising children. I was raising future adults. That doesn’t mean I treated my kids like miniature adults, but I was mindful that they would eventually become someone’s partner, coworker, or parent. My job was to help them grow into responsible, self-directed people. And I’m happy to say they’ve all successfully launched, thanks in part to that backward design approach to parenting.
Later, as a special education teacher, I was formally introduced to backward design, and it immediately made sense. I was already fluent in task analysis, and backward design felt like a natural extension of that process. Every time I built a lesson, I started with the end in mind. What did my students need to be able to do, and how could I help them get there? That’s where I began, not with the content, but with the outcome.
I do think the term “backward design” can be misleading for those who don’t work with it directly. It’s not about reversing instruction like backing a car from the grocery store to your house. It’s a flexible, iterative approach that asks what success looks like for the learner and builds backward from that point. And because real learning and real life are rarely linear, backward design helps us hold the outcome while allowing for multiple paths to get there.
That flexibility matters. Good teaching requires a level of nimbleness, especially when it comes to in-the-moment differentiation. For newer instructors or facilitators, that kind of responsiveness can be difficult. But backward design helps, because it encourages us to brainstorm multiple ways learners might demonstrate understanding, and multiple ways they might arrive at it.
Here’s how that plays out for me:
First, I identify the learning outcome—what the learner should know or be able to do. Then, I ask how learners can demonstrate that understanding. Unless it’s something critical like safely crossing the street, there’s rarely only one right answer. I brainstorm possibilities and filter them through a Universal Design for Learning (UDL) lens. From there, I choose acceptable and inclusive ways for learners to show mastery.
Next, I focus on how learners will engage with the material. What kinds of content, supports, and formats will help them reach that outcome? This is where backward design really complements trauma-informed and accessible practices. I mentally walk through each activity or resource and ask:
- Can every learner access this?
- Could anything cause confusion, emotional harm, or unnecessary cognitive load?
- Are there stereotypes or assumptions that need to be addressed?
- Can learners choose how they engage or demonstrate learning?
It might sound like a lot, but this process has become second nature to me. It’s how I think. It’s internalized, and honestly, it’s fun.
As I said, I’ve always had a backward design mindset, even before I knew what to call it. But I also know that design is not a top-down process. I’m not at the top handing down what learners “should” learn. I design for real people, with real needs and preferences. Backward design helps me do that. It’s flexible, responsive, and naturally supportive of differentiation and accessibility.
And when learning is accessible and responsive, it becomes less of a struggle and more of an opportunity. It reduces stress, removes barriers, and ideally, leaves the learner with a real sense of accomplishment.
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