I thought online tutoring would be easier than driving to the academy

Staring at a flickering screen instead of a whiteboard

I remember when I first signed up for one of those remote tutoring platforms. It was right after I realized that dragging myself to the local academy for supplemental math lessons was killing my entire Tuesday evening. The idea was simple: instead of sitting in a cramped room with ten other kids, I could just log onto an online classroom. I chose a service that advertised flexible scheduling—I think it was called something like E-Doo or similar, though honestly, all these platforms start to blur together after a while. I was paying around 150,000 won a month for a few sessions, which felt reasonable at the time, at least until the technology started acting up.

The technical friction that nobody mentions

There is this weird expectation that if it’s on a screen, it should just work. But half the time, I spent the first ten minutes of the lesson just trying to get the audio to sync. My tutor, a graduate student who seemed nice enough but was constantly adjusting his headset, would ask if I could see his screen-shared notes. Usually, I could, but the lag made it feel like I was watching a broadcast from another continent. I tried using the standard Zoom setup that everyone uses for meetings, but even then, scribbling math equations onto a digital tablet felt incredibly unnatural. I missed the texture of a real pencil on paper. Sometimes, the internet connection would dip right when the tutor was explaining a complex derivative, leaving me staring at a frozen, pixelated face for a full minute before it snapped back.

Why the human connection feels diluted

I spent a few months trying to make it work, telling myself it was efficient. I didn’t have to commute, and I could study in my pajamas. But then I realized I was just checking a box. I wasn’t really engaging with the material. In a physical classroom, a teacher can see when you’re confused just by the way you squint at the textbook. Online, I could just nod my head and say ‘I understand’ even when I was completely lost. There was no real pressure to keep up. I looked into larger platforms, some that use specialized digital curriculum, but they felt even more detached, like interacting with an automated bank machine rather than a mentor. It’s hard to build any rapport when the entire relationship is mediated by a low-resolution camera.

Balancing the cost against the lack of focus

Is it cheaper? Sure, if you factor in the commute time and the snacks I’d usually buy on the way home. But I think I lost more in productivity than I saved in money. Sometimes I’d log on and just end up multitasking, browsing other tabs while the instructor droned on. I kept thinking that if I just had a better setup—maybe a bigger monitor or a dedicated drawing pad—it would get better, but I never actually upgraded. I just kept paying the monthly fee, feeling vaguely guilty that I wasn’t getting as much out of it as I should have.

The lingering feeling of inefficiency

I eventually stopped, mostly because I realized I was just going through the motions. I still have the login details saved in my browser, and every time I see the icon, I feel a slight sting of frustration. I’m not sure if it was the platform’s fault or my own lack of discipline, or maybe it’s just the inherent awkwardness of trying to replicate a classroom in a bedroom. I still have those old textbooks sitting on my shelf, the ones with the digital codes I never redeemed, and I wonder if I should just find a local tutor who doesn’t need a high-speed fiber connection to teach me how to solve an equation. I guess I’m still not entirely convinced that remote learning is the right way for me to actually learn anything.