Live reporting about our attempts to integrate DigComp into our adult education organisation. Here:
Slovenia – UPI Žalec
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July 2024
At our adult education center, we long believed that we could assess participants’ digital skills fairly quickly. If someone knew how to turn on a computer, open a web browser, and maybe write an email, we’d think, “Okay, they’ve got the basics.”
But then we started paying closer attention.
September 2024
At our adult education center, we often hear people say, “I know how to use Google.”
And it’s true—most people know how to open a browser, type in a question, and press Enter. Thousands of results appear on the screen. At first glance, the task is complete.
But in reality, that’s when it really begins.
October 2024
“I’ll just send it, right?”
We were sitting in the computer lab of an adult elementary school. It was already late in the afternoon. Email applications were open on the screens. One of the participants had her hand on the mouse, her cursor hovering over the Send button.
“To whom?” I asked.
“To the principal,” she replied. “Because I won’t be here tomorrow.”
I quickly scanned the message. The subject line read: Absence. Content: I won’t be here tomorrow.
And at the bottom, the signature: Best regards.
November 2024
“I don’t dare.”
The sentence was spoken quietly. Almost apologetically. The participant was sitting in front of the computer; the exam registration form was open on the screen. Everything had been filled out. The cursor hovered over the Submit button.
“What could happen?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll mess something up.”
We’ve heard this sentence countless times at UPI Žalec.
December 2024
At our adult education center, we once noticed something that didn’t surprise us—but taught us a lot.
A small yellow sticky note was taped to the edge of a computer screen. It read:
Password: sun123
January 2025
“This always happens to me.”
The computer froze. The document wouldn’t move. The participant pulled his hands away from the keyboard, as if the device might get angry.
“The computer doesn’t like me,” he added, half-jokingly.
A quiet chuckle rippled through the classroom. But there was more to that sentence than humor. It was an interpretation.
February 2025
“Where did that go?”
The question was asked with a mixture of confusion and mild panic. The document that the adult elementary school student had just finished had disappeared. At least, that’s how it seemed to her. She had spent an hour and a half writing her resume. For the first time in twenty years. She had put in the effort, mustered her courage, and recalled work experiences she had almost forgotten.
Then she clicked “Save.”
And the document was nowhere to be found.
March 2025
“Don’t help me.”
That’s what a participant in the digital skills course said when we approached her computer. A document was open on the screen. A blank page, a blinking cursor at the top.
“I’ll do it myself,” she added. “If I get stuck, I’ll ask.” A quiet tension filled the room. Like a first performance. Like a first reading aloud.
April 2025
“I won’t ask. I’ll figure it out myself.”
Mr. Andrej said this quietly, almost to himself. He was sitting at the computer, trying to submit an application via an online form. There were numerous fields. Some were mandatory. Some were unclear.
May 2025
There was more tension than usual in the classroom that day. Not because the material was more challenging, but because every student had an open email account in front of them. The “New Message” button was flashing on the screens. Simple. Neutral. But for some, almost intimidating.
Ms. Irena stared at the empty recipient field for a long time. “And am I really going to send this now?” she asked. “Does it go out right away?”
June 2025
“I got a message from the bank,” said Ms. Nada as she opened her email. “It says I have to confirm my information immediately, or else my account will be blocked.”
On the screen was a message with the bank’s logo, a polite greeting, and a large blue button: “Click here to confirm.”
“I almost clicked it,” she added. “But then I thought I’d better ask.”
August 2025
“No, I’m not going to do it that way.”
That’s what Ms. Sonja said when a computer program automatically suggested a change to the document’s layout. A message with a blue border appeared on the screen, asking: “Would you like to use the template?”
A few months ago, she would have clicked “Yes.” Not because she liked the suggestion, but because she would have assumed the computer knew better. This time, however, she paused, read the suggestion, and said, “It doesn’t suit me. I’d rather do it my way.”
September 2025
“My grandson showed me how to do this.”
Mr. Milan said this with a touch of pride when, during the workshop, he opened a photo-sharing app and effortlessly created a shared folder. A few participants looked at him in surprise.
“Really?” asked the woman next to him. “And did he patiently explain it to you?”
“Of course,” he replied. “He teaches me about computers, and I teach him about life.”
Laughter filled the room. But there was more to that statement than just a joke.
October 2025
“I’m too old for this.”
A phrase we hear often at UPI Žalec. This time, it was uttered by Jože, a man in his early sixties, when he opened the online classroom for the first time. His hand rested on the mouse, and his gaze was fixed on the screen, as if he were observing something that didn’t belong to him.
“This is for young people,” he added. “They were born with this.”
November 2025
“Wait, I’ll show you.”
Katarina said this almost spontaneously when she noticed that Peter was having trouble inserting an image into a document. A few weeks earlier, she herself had asked for help with the same task.
Now she leaned toward him and calmly explained: “First you click here, then you select the file.”
December 2025
“Wait… I think I know what’s wrong.”
That’s what Robert said in the middle of class when the projector suddenly stopped displaying the image from his computer. A few months earlier, he would have slumped back in his chair and said, “I’ve broken something again.” But this time, there was no panic.
January 2026
“I just wrote my opinion.”
Tanja said this somewhat agitatedly as she described a situation on social media. She had left a comment under a post about a local event. Someone replied to her sharply, almost insultingly. The discussion quickly escalated.
“I didn’t mean anything bad,” she added. “But then everyone got involved.”
February 2026
“Today, I’ll be the first.”
When Marija said this, there was a brief silence in the room. A few months ago, she had been sitting in the back row. She rarely asked questions. She often quietly observed others and jotted down the steps, as if gathering the courage for the moment when she would have to try it herself.
March 2026
At one of our recent workshops, we asked participants to write down what they had learned over the past few months in a shared online document. The document was open on a large screen, and everyone could see the text being updated in real time.
At first, there was silence. Cursors moved, but no one started typing.
Then the first line appeared: “I learned to be brave.”
May 2026
There was no special ceremony in the classroom. No balloons, no thank-you speeches. On the table stood a tray of homemade cookies brought by one of the participants, and on the screen was a simple document titled: “What I know today that I didn’t know before.”
I suggested that everyone write down one thing. Just one.
At first, they were silent. Not because they had nothing to write, but because they had to pause. Looking back isn’t always second nature.
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