If you are looking for cheap problem-solving writing services in the USA (such as analytical papers, case studies, business solution proposals, or problem-solution essays), several factors and options can help you get reliable assistance without overpaying.

1. Typical Pricing Structure

Budget-friendly writing services generally price their work per page (roughly 275–300 words) or per project.

• Starting Rates: Prices typically start around $8 to $10 per page for standard deadlines (e.g., 7 to 14 days).
• Factors Affecting Cost: Shorter deadlines (like 3 to 24 hours), higher academic or professional tiers (Bachelor’s vs. Master’s/PhD), and complex technical diagrams or data analysis will increase the price.

2. Popular Platforms for Affordable Writing Help

Many online platforms connect clients with freelance writers or academic assistants. Common options include:

• Bidding Platforms (e.g., EduBirdie, EssayShark): You post your problem-solving prompt, writers place bids, and you can negotiate or choose the cheapest qualified candidate.
• Direct-Order Platforms (e.g., PapersOwl, WritingCheap, EssayService): Standardized flat-rate per-page models where rates begin around the $8–$9 mark, often including perks like title pages and reference formatting for free.

3. What to Look Out For (Tips for Hiring Safely)

When hunting for cheap writing assistance, quality and originality can vary. Keep these best practices in mind:

• Plagiarism & AI Checks: Ensure the platform guarantees original content and provides a plagiarism report. Problem-solving papers require logical consistency that generic AI tools often botch.
• Direct Communication: Choose services that let you chat directly with the person writing your paper. This is vital for problem-solving tasks to ensure the correct methodology, constraints, or frameworks are applied.
• Revision Policies: Look for providers that offer free revisions in case the solution needs adjustments or tighter alignment with your rubric.

Here is a narrative essay exploring personal growth through the lens of mathematical concepts like continuity, limits, and change.

The Calculus of Growing Up: Finding Continuity in Change

For as long as I can remember, mathematics was presented to me as a world of absolute certainties. Two plus two always equaled four; the Pythagorean theorem held true regardless of who measured the triangle; and every quadratic equation had a neat, predictable set of roots. I liked this certainty. It was a comforting framework in a universe that often felt chaotic. But it wasn’t until I sat in my first calculus class, staring at the concept of a “limit,” that I realized math wasn’t just about static answers—it was a profound language for understanding change.

I was sixteen, standing at that awkward threshold between childhood and whatever came next. High school felt like a series of discontinuous jumps: middle school abruptly ended, friend groups shifted overnight, and the future loomed like an undefined variable. I felt disjointed, as if my life had sudden breaks in its domain, rendering it messy and incomplete.

Then came our unit on continuous functions. My teacher drew a smooth, flowing curve across the whiteboard and defined continuity in a remarkably simple way: a function is continuous if you can trace it from start to finish without lifting your pencil from the paper.

That definition stayed with me long after the bell rang. I began to look at my own life not as a series of disconnected shocks, but as a curve. I wondered: Can a life full of abrupt changes still be continuous?

Calculus offered an answer through the concept of the limit—the value that a function approaches as the input gets closer and closer to a certain point, even if it never quite reaches it precisely at that instant. I realized that growth doesn’t happen in giant, instantaneous leaps. We don’t wake up on our eighteenth birthday and suddenly become mature adults. Instead, growth is a limit. It is the steady, cumulative accumulation of countless tiny moments, micro-decisions, and quiet reflections. We approach wisdom and self-understanding asymptotically, drawing closer with every passing year.

Another revelation came with the derivative—the mathematical rate of change. In algebra, we measured average speed over a long stretch of time, like a road trip from point A to point B. But a derivative measures instantaneous rate of change: how fast you are moving at one exact, microscopic fraction of a second.

During my senior year, life sped up. Between college applications, family expectations, and the bittersweet realization that childhood friendships were evolving, I felt overwhelmed by the “average” pressure of it all. But understanding the derivative taught me to slow down. If life feels overwhelming when viewed as a whole, you can zoom in. You can examine the instantaneous rate of change in front of you right now—this single conversation, this single test, this single breath. You don’t have to solve the entire curve of your future all at once; you just need to understand the slope of your current tangent line.

Looking back, mathematics taught me to embrace the uncertainty of transition. Just as a curve bends, dips, and rises toward an elegant destination, our lives navigate peaks and valleys. There are points of inflection where our perspective flips entirely from concave up to concave down, shifting from optimism to introspection and back again.

Math didn’t strip away the mystery of growing up; instead, it gave me a lens to appreciate it. Life isn’t a rigid formula with a single correct answer in the back of a textbook. It is an evolving equation, beautiful in its complexity, where every small moment adds up to an infinite and magnificent whole.

School life is often described as a journey—a unique chapter filled with a tapestry of moments that shape who we become. Looking back, my own experience was a blend of early morning rushes, the steady hum of classrooms, and the unforgettable connections made in the spaces between lessons.

The day always began with a familiar urgency. The shrill ring of the alarm at 6:30 AM signaled the start of a race against time: packing notebooks, hunting down a missing pen, and grabbing a quick piece of toast before stepping out into the crisp morning air. Walking up to the school gates, the atmosphere would shift instantly. The quiet solitude of the morning commute dissolved into a vibrant wave of laughter, shouted greetings, and the clattering of locker doors. It was a chaotic, comforting daily ritual.

Inside the classroom, school life took on a different rhythm. There were subjects that felt like scaling a vertical cliff—complex calculus formulas that danced meaninglessly across the whiteboard, or historical dates that blurred together during lectures. Yet, these moments of struggle were balanced by sudden breakthroughs. I can still vividly recall the satisfaction of finally solving a stubborn physics problem after hours of frustration, or the lively debates in English literature where everyone forgot about the clock and spoke their minds. Teachers played a huge role in this rhythm; the best ones didn’t just teach the curriculum—they sparked curiosity, turning dry facts into stories that stayed with us long after the bell rang.

Beyond the academics, however, the true heart of school life lived in the hallways and the cafeteria. The lunch table was our sanctuary—a place where we dissected the morning’s pop quizzes, shared half-eaten snacks, debated trivial dilemmas with total seriousness, and laughed until our ribs ached. It was in these spaces that friendships were tested and forged. We celebrated victories together, like winning a tense debate tournament or pulling off a surprise spirit week theme, and comforted one another through the small heartbreaks of teenage life—a poor grade, a misunderstanding, or the sheer anxiety of upcoming exams.

As the final year rolled around, a subtle shift took place. The hallways that once felt endless suddenly felt too short. The countdown to graduation brought a bittersweet realization that this structured, predictable ecosystem was coming to an end. On the last day of school, as the final bell echoed down the corridor, there were tears, hugs, and yearbooks filled with hastily scribbled inside jokes and promises to stay in touch.

Reflecting on school life now, I realize it wasn’t just about the grades earned or the subjects mastered. It was an immersive school of life—a place where we learned resilience, discovered our passions, and realized the immense value of standing side-by-side with friends as we figured out who we were.

The First Sale: A Journey into Business

The air in the small garage smelled of freshly cut cedar and sawdust. For three months, my workspace had been an old wooden workbench cluttered with chisels, clamps, and jars of finishing oil. I was nineteen, armed with nothing more than an obsession with woodworking, a meager savings account, and a stubborn belief that people would want handmade, heirloom-quality desk organizers.

At the time, “business” felt like a distant, sterile concept reserved for corporate skyscrapers and textbooks filled with balance sheets. To me, it was simply about making things that lasted. But building a product in isolation is easy; convincing someone to trade their hard-earned money for it is an entirely different universe.

My baptism by fire came on a rainy Saturday morning at a local artisanal flea market. My booth was a modest folding table draped in a burlap cloth, displaying six meticulously sanded and polished walnut organizers. Next to them sat a hand-lettered wooden sign bearing my fledgling brand name, Grain & Grace.

For the first two hours, reality set in with brutal clarity. Hundreds of people walked past. Some glanced, a few touched the smooth wood, but most kept moving. My stomach tied itself into knots. Every passing minute chipped away at my confidence. I began mentally calculating how many months I could survive before admitting defeat and packing the tools away for good.

Then, a middle-aged man in a worn canvas jacket stopped. He picked up the largest organizer, running his thumb over the dovetail joints.

“Did you make this?” he asked, looking up.

“I did,” I replied, my voice sounding smaller than I intended. “Every piece is hand-selected walnut, finished with natural beeswax.”

He turned it over, inspecting the bottom where I had burned my maker’s mark. A quiet tension hung in the air. This was the exact moment where the romantic notion of creation collided with the pragmatic reality of commerce. It wasn’t just about craftsmanship anymore; it was about trust, value, and connection.

“I’ll take it,” he said, pulling a worn leather wallet from his back pocket.

Handing him the wrapped box and taking my first cash payment felt surreal. It wasn’t just the fifty dollars changing hands—it was the validation that something born purely from my imagination had value to a total stranger.

That single transaction fundamentally shifted my perspective. I realized that business isn’t merely about transactions, spreadsheets, or profit margins. At its core, business is about empathy—understanding a human need or desire, solving a problem, and delivering a promise with integrity.

Years have passed since that rainy Saturday, and Grain & Grace has grown far beyond a single folding table in a garage. Yet, whenever challenges arise or strategy meetings grow complex, I still think back to the smell of sawdust and the weight of that first fifty-dollar bill. It reminds me that every enterprise starts with a leap of faith, a willingness to face rejection, and the courage to put your work out into the world.

The Weight of a Coat: A Narrative Essay on Sympathy

The autumn air in the city always carried a sharp, metallic edge, but November of that year felt particularly unforgiving. A bitter wind swept down the concrete canyons, carrying with it the promise of an early, merciless winter. I hurried along the crowded sidewalk, head down, coat collar pulled high against my ears, navigating the human sea with the singular, defensive focus of someone late for an appointment.

Then, I saw him.

He was sitting slumped against the cold stone base of a grand department store window. A tattered cardboard sign rested against his knees, the black marker fading: Out of work. Anything helps. Passersby flowed around him like water parting around a stone, their eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, executing the practiced urban sidestep. I almost did the same. I had deadlines waiting, emails burning holes in my inbox, and a train to catch.

Yet, something made me pause. Perhaps it was the way his shoulders shook—not just from the cold, but with a quiet, hollow exhaustion that felt terrifyingly familiar. It was the posture of someone who had stopped expecting anyone to look at them.

I stopped a few paces away, my heart doing a complicated little stutter. Sympathy, I’ve come to realize, is rarely a grand, cinematic gesture. Most of the time, it begins as an uncomfortable friction—a sudden, piercing awareness of the invisible thread connecting your warmth to another person’s freezing reality. I could feel the heat radiating from my thick wool coat, and suddenly, wearing it felt heavy, almost shameful.

I turned back, walked over, and crouched down to his eye level. Up close, the lines on his face were deep trenches carved by hardship, his hands calloused and red.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice sounding strangely small against the roar of traffic.

He flinched slightly, blinking up slowly. For a fraction of a second, his eyes were defensive, bracing for the inevitable dismissal or a stern order to move along.

“Here,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out the thermos of hot black coffee I had bought earlier, along with a brown paper bag containing a still-warm bagel. “I haven’t touched this. It’s still hot. And… do you need this jacket? I have another one at home.”

He looked from the thermos to my face, searching for a catch. When he found none, the rigid lines of his face dissolved. A tremor touched his lips, and as he took the thermos from my hands, his fingers brushed mine. They were blocks of ice.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough like sandpaper. “Thank you so much. It’s… it gets very quiet out here.”

We didn’t talk long. I gave him what cash I had in my wallet and wished him well. But as I walked away toward the subway station, the wind didn’t feel quite as biting anymore.

That brief encounter changed how the city looked to me. Sympathy is more than a fleeting pang of pity or tossing a coin into a cup from a safe distance. It is an act of radical recognition—an acknowledgment that beneath the layers of our circumstances, our rushing schedules, and our protective armor, we are all fragile creatures trying to stay warm in a cold world.

Here are two narrative essay examples about nature, each capturing a distinct experience—one focusing on solitude and reflection in a forest, and the other on the awe-inspiring power of the sea.

Example 1: The Sanctuary of the Pines

The world below the ridge was a blur of deadlines, ringing phones, and the ceaseless hum of urban anxiety. But here, two miles up the trail and completely enveloped by the ancient pine forest, time seemed to hold its breath. I had come seeking silence, unaware that the forest was filled with a rich, complex orchestra of its own.

Stepping off the beaten path, the earth felt spongy beneath my boots—a thick mattress of fallen needles and decomposing bark that cushioned every footstep. The air tasted different here: crisp, heavy with the sharp scent of resin, and cool enough to frost my breath in the early morning light. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy in fractured beams, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of gold and shadow.

As I sat down on a moss-covered boulder, the initial discomfort of the chill gave way to a profound stillness. For the first few minutes, my mind stubbornly replayed the stressors I had left behind. Yet, nature has a way of quietly demanding your attention. A sudden flutter overhead drew my gaze upward. A red-tailed hawk soared effortlessly on a thermal current, cutting a sharp silhouette against the pale blue sky. Then, closer by, a chipmunk darted across a decaying log, pausing to twitch its nose before vanishing into the ferns.

There was no Wi-Fi here, no notifications to check, yet I felt intensely connected. I closed my eyes and simply listened. I heard the wind whispering through the high branches—a sound like distant ocean waves. I heard the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker drilling into a hollow oak, and the gentle gurgle of a hidden creek nearby.

In that quiet sanctuary, I realized that nature does not rush, yet everything is accomplished. The ancient pines did not strain upward in a panic; they simply grew, rooted deeply in the present moment. By the time I stood up to begin my descent, the heavy fog in my mind had lifted, replaced by the enduring calm of the woods. I carried that forest silence back down the mountain with me, a quiet shield against the noise of the world.

Example 2: Meeting the Sea at Dusk

We arrived at the rocky coastline just as the sun began its slow, fiery descent into the horizon. The tide was high, and the Atlantic was in a restless mood, hurling dark, foaming waves against the jagged granite cliffs with a rhythmic, thunderous roar.

I scrambled down the damp rocks, finding a ledge just above the reach of the spray. The wind whipped my hair across my face, carrying the sharp, briny tang of salt and seaweed. Standing at the edge of the continent always brings a humbling sense of perspective. Looking out, there was nothing between me and the curvature of the earth except an endless expanse of shifting gray-blue water.

Suddenly, the clouds parted just enough for the setting sun to bleed through. The sky erupted into a canvas of bruised purple, violent tangerine, and molten gold. This fiery glow spilled across the churning surface of the ocean, turning every whitecap into a ripple of liquid fire.

A wave larger than the rest crashed directly into a sea stack below my ledge, sending a plume of white spray high into the air. Instantly, sunlight caught the mist, creating a fleeting, shimmering rainbow that hovered over the chaos for a few seconds before dissolving into the wind. I stood frozen, caught between the terrifying power of the ocean and its breathtaking beauty.

Nature does not pander to human comfort; it simply exists in all its raw, unbridled intensity. Watching the relentless tide carve away at stone that had stood for millennia reminded me of the passage of time and my own fleeting place within it. Yet, rather than feeling small or insignificant, I felt a surge of profound liberation.

As the last ember of sunlight dipped below the horizon and the sky faded into a deep, velvety indigo, the world grew quiet again, save for the steady breathing of the tide. I climbed back up the cliff in the gathering dark, feeling washed clean by the wind and deeply alive.

Key Elements of a Nature Narrative Essay

If you are writing your own narrative essay about nature, keep these tips in mind:

• Engage the Senses: Go beyond what you see. Describe the smell of pine or salt, the texture of rough bark or smooth stone, the sound of wind or waves, and the taste of crisp air.
• Show, Don’t Tell: Instead of saying “nature is peaceful,” describe the specific details that create that feeling (e.g., “the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker,” “sunlight filtering through the canopy”).
• Include a Reflection: A narrative essay isn’t just a description of a place; it’s a story about your experience. Reflect on how the environment changed your mood, taught you a lesson, or shifted your perspective.

The morning sun broke through my bedroom window, casting a warm, golden glow across the floorboards. Right away, the air felt different—crisp, electric, and brimming with quiet anticipation. It was the kind of morning where you instinctively know the world is holding its breath, waiting for something extraordinary to unfold. Looking back, that day wasn’t defined by a single monumental milestone or a stroke of sudden fortune; rather, it was a rare, seamless alignment of peace, joy, and profound connection that made it the best day of my life.

The Journey Begins

The adventure started before the rest of the city had fully woken up. Packing a small bag with a notebook, a camera, and a thermos of hot coffee, I set off toward the winding trails of the nearby mountain reserve. The hike up was a meditation in motion. The scent of pine needles and damp earth filled my lungs, and the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath my boots grounded me in the present moment.

Reaching the summit just as the mist began to lift, I found a secluded rocky outcrop overlooking the valley below. Sitting there in absolute solitude, watching the sunlight chase away the shadows, a deep sense of contentment washed over me. For the first time in as long as I could remember, my mind was entirely quiet. There were no deadlines hanging over my head, no lingering worries about the future—just the vast, breathing landscape and the simple miracle of being alive.

Afternoon Resonance

The second half of the day brought a shift from quiet introspection to vibrant, shared human connection. Returning to town, I met up with a few of my closest friends at a bustling open-air market we hadn’t visited in years.

• Laughter echoed over the sizzle of street food stalls and the chatter of local vendors.
• We spent hours wandering through old bookstores, trading childhood memories and discovering forgotten treasures.
• As the afternoon mellowed into evening, we found a grassy spot by the riverbanks, strumming an old guitar and sharing stories until the sky turned bruised shades of violet and orange.

There was an effortless harmony to the hours spent with them. Every conversation felt like coming home, a reminder of how deeply anchored we are by the people who truly know and love us.

Twilight and Reflection

As twilight settled, I slipped away for a quiet moment by the water’s edge to watch the first stars blink into existence. Standing there in the cool evening breeze, a profound wave of gratitude washed over me.

“Happiness is not a station you arrive at, but a manner of traveling.”

That day taught me that the best days of our lives aren’t necessarily the ones marked by loud celebrations or grand spectacles. Instead, they are the quiet masterpieces woven from presence, appreciation, and love. As I finally walked back home under a canopy of starlight, my heart felt full to bursting—carrying the radiant warmth of a day I would keep tucked safely in my memory forever.

Stephen Hawking’s Ph.D. thesis is titled “Properties of Expanding Universes”. It was submitted to the University of Cambridge in 1965 (and formally accepted/awarded in 1966) under the supervision of the renowned physicist and sciama mentor Dennis Sciama.

Key details about the thesis include:

1. Core Structure and Content

The 134-page thesis investigates theoretical cosmology and the behavior of matter and light in an expanding universe. It is divided into four main chapters:

• Chapter 1: A Challenge to the Hoyle-Narlikar Theory: A mathematical examination and critique of an alternative gravitation theory proposed by Fred Hoyle and Jayant Narlikar, questioning its consistency under cosmic conditions.
• Chapter 2: Perturbations in Expanding Universes: An analysis of small irregularities and density fluctuations in an expanding, homogeneous, and isotropic universe, studying how these perturbations could eventually lead to the formation of galaxies and large cosmic structures.
• Chapter 3: Gravitational Radiation in an Expanding Universe: An investigation into the behavior and properties of gravitational waves within a changing cosmic background.
• Chapter 4: The Occurrence of Singularities in Cosmological Models: The concluding and most famous section, which demonstrates that a cosmological singularity (such as the Big Bang) is an inevitable outcome under generalized physical conditions. This laid foundational math that preceded his later work on black holes and singularity theorems with Roger Penrose.

2. Historical and Personal Context

• Diagnosis: Hawking wrote and completed the thesis while grappling with the early, rapidly progressing stages of motor neurone disease (ALS), which had been diagnosed when he was 21 years old.
• Public Release: For decades, accessing the thesis required special permission or payment to the university library. In October 2017, the University of Cambridge made the thesis openly accessible online via its repository. Public demand was so massive that it immediately crashed the university’s server traffic.

Here is the standard BibTeX format for a Ph.D. thesis (@phdthesis), along with an example and a description of the required and optional fields.

Standard Template

Фрагмент кода

@phdthesis{citation_key,
  author       = {Author Last Name, Author First Name},
  title        = {The Title of the Ph.D. Thesis},
  school       = {Name of the University},
  year         = {Year of Publication},
  type         = {Ph.D. dissertation}, % Optional: use if you want to specify "Ph.D. thesis", "Dissertation", etc.
  address      = {University Location (City, Country)}, % Optional
  month        = {Month}, % Optional
  url          = {Link to the thesis} % Optional
}

Example

Фрагмент кода

@phdthesis{smith2024machine,
  author       = {Smith, John A.},
  title        = {Advanced Machine Learning Techniques for Natural Language Processing},
  school       = {Department of Computer Science, Massachusetts Institute of Technology},
  year         = {2024},
  address      = {Cambridge, MA},
  month        = {May},
  url          = {https://hdl.handle.net/1721.1/12345}
}

Field Descriptions

• author: The author of the thesis. Format usually follows Last Name, First Name. For multiple authors, separate them with and.
• title: The full title of the thesis.
• school: The institution/university where the thesis was submitted (often includes the department or faculty).
• year: The year the degree was granted or published.
• type: (Optional) Overrides the default type label (which prints as “Ph.D. thesis” in most styles). You can use it to specify terms like Doctoral dissertation or Master’s thesis (though @mastersthesis should be used for Master’s).
• address: (Optional) The city and state/country of the university.
• month: (Optional) The month the defense took place or the thesis was published.
• url: (Optional) A permanent URL, DOI, or institutional repository link where the document can be accessed.

If you want to earn a terminal degree in education without writing a traditional, multi-year academic dissertation, look for Doctor of Education (Ed.D.) programs rather than a Ph.D.

While a Ph.D. in Education focuses on theory and preparing researchers or professors, an Ed.D. is designed for working practitioners and administrative leaders. Many modern online Ed.D. programs replace the traditional dissertation with a Dissertation in Practice (DiP), an Applied Capstone, or a Doctoral Dossier. These alternative projects focus on solving a real-world problem within your current school, district, or organization.

Popular Online Ed.D. Programs Without a Traditional Dissertation

Many prominent universities structure their online doctorates around applied projects. Consider these notable options:

• Johns Hopkins University (Online Ed.D.)
  • The Format: 100% online part-time program designed for educators with at least 3 years of experience.
  • The Alternative: Replaces the dissertation with a Doctoral Dossier—a collection of three interconnected research and implementation projects guided by faculty.
• Vanderbilt University (Ed.D. in Leadership and Learning in Organizations)
  • The Format: Primarily online (with live evening classes and a few short on-campus immersions in Nashville).
  • The Alternative: Students work in small collaborative teams to complete a Culminating Capstone Project addressing an organizational challenge instead of writing an isolated solo dissertation.
• Rockhurst University (Online Ed.D. Programs)
  • The Format: Offered across concentrations like K-12 Leadership, Higher Education, and Healthcare Education, often completed in about 2 years.
  • The Alternative: Built entirely around a practical research capstone project structured in manageable milestones throughout your coursework.
• Creighton University (Ed.D. in Interprofessional Leadership)
  • The Format: Designed for leaders across education, healthcare, and nonprofits.
  • The Alternative: Utilizes an applied dissertation-in-practice model focused heavily on social justice, systems thinking, and solving localized institutional issues.
• Liberty University (Online Ed.D. Concentrations)
  • The Format: Fully online with various specializations (such as Educational Leadership, Instructional Design, or Special Education).
  • The Alternative: Culminates in a strategic applied project or thesis alternative tailored to practical field application.

What to Look for: Understanding the Alternatives

When researching programs, admissions departments use specific terminology for non-dissertation tracks. Look for these keywords in the curriculum breakdown:

Term	What It Entails
Dissertation in Practice (DiP)	Supported by the Carnegie Project on the Education Doctorate (CPED) consortium, this focuses on addressing a concrete “problem of practice” in your workplace rather than contributing abstract theoretical research.
Applied Capstone Project	Usually a shorter, intensive project (sometimes completed over 2 to 3 semesters) resulting in an executive summary, policy proposal, program evaluation, or strategic intervention plan.
Doctoral Portfolio / Dossier	A portfolio of smaller, distinct research artifacts, case studies, or operational assessments compiled across your coursework instead of one massive manuscript.

Key Questions to Ask Admissions Before Applying

Even without a traditional dissertation, applied doctorates still require rigorous writing and research. Before committing, ask admissions advisors these targeted questions:

1. Is the final capstone/project individual or collaborative (team-based)?
2. Do I need to secure an external organizational site (like a school or business) to test or implement my project?
3. What is the average completion rate and time-to-graduation for online students in this cohort?
4. Are there any synchronous (live-attendance) requirements, or is the program 100% asynchronous?