Learning to build

When I left university, I thought I knew what I had to do.

After studying civil engineering and then architecture, I had spent the best part of a decade learning how buildings were designed. I had filled sketchbooks, produced drawings, sat examinations and completed projects. Like most graduates, I assumed that the next stage of my education would simply involve adding to what I already knew. I would work alongside experienced architects and engineers, absorb their knowledge and, gradually, become one of them.

It seemed a perfectly reasonable assumption.

It was also wrong.

The first surprise was discovering how much there still was to learn. University had provided an excellent education, but professional practice was a different world. Every project introduced unfamiliar technical problems, new regulations, different procurement routes, changing client expectations and increasingly complex teams. Much of what mattered most had never appeared in a lecture theatre.

The second surprise took longer to recognise.

The people I admired most weren't simply the people who knew the most. They certainly possessed a depth of technical knowledge that I aspired to, but knowledge alone didn't explain what made them exceptional. They seemed to notice things that others overlooked. They asked better questions. They were able to make sensible decisions even when the information was incomplete and there was no obvious right answer. Looking back, I realise that what I was observing was judgement.

At the time, I didn't have a name for it.

I simply knew that I wanted to learn whatever it was they had.

Over the years I have come to believe that every profession has two curricula. The first is the one we recognise: the formal education that teaches us theories, principles, methods and technical knowledge. The second is much less visible. It is learned in studios, workshops, meetings, site visits and conversations. It is acquired through observation, repetition, mistakes, feedback and reflection. It teaches us not only what to do, but how to think.

This second education rarely appears in a syllabus, yet it shapes almost everything that matters.

You begin to recognise quality before you can explain it. You learn that asking the right question is often more valuable than producing a quick answer. You discover that successful projects depend as much on trust, communication and judgement as they do on technical competence. You realise that experience is not simply measured in years, but in the quality of the lessons extracted from those years.

None of this happens overnight.

There is an awkward period, familiar to almost everyone, when confidence lags well behind ambition. You can see the standard you want to reach but remain frustratingly unable to achieve it. Early attempts rarely match the picture in your mind. Drawings take too long. Meetings feel intimidating. Decisions seem obvious only after somebody more experienced has explained them.

It is tempting to interpret this as evidence that you are unsuited to the profession.

In reality, it is evidence that you have begun to see more clearly.

One of the paradoxes of learning is that increasing understanding often makes us feel less certain, not more. Beginners are sometimes unaware of what they don't know. As understanding grows, so too does an appreciation of complexity. Problems that once appeared straightforward reveal layers of technical, social, environmental and ethical considerations. Rather than becoming simpler, the work becomes richer.

This is why curiosity and humility matter so much.

The professionals who influenced me most never behaved as though they had finished learning. They remained interested in new ideas, new technologies and different ways of approaching familiar problems. They were willing to change their minds when presented with better evidence. They understood that expertise was not a destination but a continuing process of refinement.

That lesson feels even more relevant today than when I began my career.

Artificial intelligence can now produce information in seconds that once took hours to find. Technical knowledge has become dramatically more accessible. This changes many aspects of professional practice, but it does not reduce the importance of judgement. If anything, it increases it. As information becomes abundant, the ability to evaluate it, apply it responsibly and understand its consequences becomes even more valuable.

The challenge has shifted from knowing more to thinking better.

Learning, therefore, cannot simply be about accumulating knowledge. It must also involve developing judgement, learning to collaborate, communicating clearly, recognising patterns, reflecting on experience and understanding the wider purpose of the work we do. Buildings, after all, are never simply collections of materials. They shape communities, influence health and wellbeing, consume resources and contribute to the character of places. Decisions that appear technical often have profoundly human consequences.

For that reason, professional development is never solely an individual pursuit.

The organisations we work within matter enormously. Some create environments in which learning flourishes. Ideas are visible. Experienced practitioners explain not only what they have decided but why. Questions are welcomed. Sketches, models and prototypes become part of everyday conversation. Reflection is valued alongside production. Knowledge is shared rather than protected.

Others unintentionally make learning much harder. Work becomes fragmented. Everyone is busy, but few people have time to discuss what they are doing or why. Information is exchanged, but understanding develops more slowly. The immediate demands of delivery leave little space for reflection, experimentation or mentoring.

Over time, these differences accumulate.

One organisation produces competent professionals.

Another produces thoughtful ones.

The distinction matters.

John Dewey famously observed that we do not learn from experience alone but from reflecting on experience. I have found that to be true throughout my career. Some of the most important lessons have emerged not during projects themselves but afterwards: while writing, discussing a difficult decision with colleagues or recognising patterns that only became visible with hindsight. Reflection transforms activity into understanding. Without it, experience risks becoming little more than repetition.

Eventually, another transition occurs.

The people who once taught us begin to retire. Almost unnoticed, we become the experienced practitioners. The questions that we once asked are now directed towards us. At that point the responsibility changes. We are no longer simply developing ourselves; we are helping to develop others.

That may be the most important stage of professional life.

Every profession depends upon knowledge being passed from one generation to the next. Not only technical knowledge, but ways of thinking, standards of judgement and habits of curiosity. We inherit these from those who came before us and, whether we realise it or not, we shape what the next generation will inherit from us.

Looking back, I no longer think the most important thing I learned was how to design buildings.

I learned how to keep learning.

That, for me, is what learning to build has come to mean. It is not simply about learning how to construct better buildings, important though that is. It is about building judgement, building trust, building curiosity, building cultures in which learning is valued and, ultimately, helping to build the people who will shape whatever comes next.