Author: Mollie Ames

On an overcast afternoon last fall, Khaleigh Reed stood with crowds at the University of Colorado Boulder football stadium. She had transferred to the school the year before and had been feeling “kind of alien.” The game ended, and she stood talking to people she’d only recently met. As the skies opened into rain, the crowd spilled out of the stands and onto the grass, and she and her new friends joined them, laughing together and running with the large gathering of students. 

For Reed, a senior journalism major who had transferred from a community college at the start of her junior year, the moment felt cinematic.

“I’d hit it off with these two people at the game, and we were all, like, excited and happy,” she recalled. “I had this sense of relief, and with the rain and friends and community all running onto the field, it was like the feel-good end of a movie. After everything I’d been through, I was able to find some happiness.”

Months later, that memory would become an actual scene, the emotional center of a three-minute digital story Reed created as part of a pilot project housed at C.U. Boulder’s Renée Crown Wellness Institute. The project invited more than a half-dozen undergraduate students to craft multimedia narratives about their own experiences of “flourishing” — a positive term the institute uses without rigid definition.

Reed’s experience became part of a prototype for a new digital storytelling initiative being designed by the Crown Institute to be shared with educators the Flourishing Academic Network, or FAN, a consortium of universities committed to advancing wellbeing in higher education. At one level, the project was intimate: nine undergraduates meeting over six sessions, workshopping drafts and learning how to shape a story that could be shared aloud. At another level, the project was taking shape as the infrastructure of something larger. What unfolded in those rooms would eventually be distilled into a physical toolkit — a carefully designed, printable and digital guide intended to help other campuses create similar spaces for student storytelling.  

“One of our aims is to elevate youth voice,” said Michelle Shedro, a researcher at the Crown Institute who helped lead the project and design the toolkit. “Not just as an outcome, but as a way of doing the work. Tapping into youth voice is both a tool and a goal of ours.”

A Container for Voice

The digital storytelling pilot grew out of a broader question the Crown Institute has been asking for years: How do students themselves understand wellbeing?

Founded in 2018, the Crown Institute conducts interdisciplinary, participant-based research on youth and adult wellness. Its work spans maternal mental health, K-12 education, and campus-based initiatives such as Mindful Campus, a long-running program that offers courses and programming for students, faculty, and staff. But the digital storytelling project marked a distinct turn — one that placed student voice not only at the center of the findings but at the center of the method.

Rather than asking students to respond to surveys or predefined frameworks, the institute invited them to tell stories — in their own voices, with their own images, shaped through a guided but flexible process of storytelling in multimedia form.

“Digital storytelling is very adaptable to various disciplines and topics. People have many different ways of telling their stories, and it’s really dynamic and fun,” Shedro said. “So we wanted to give young people the tools to do this, and we also wanted to be able to learn from what they create around the question: What does flourishing mean to you?”

In this way, the project is both research and invitation, said Jenna Bensko, the outreach and education project manager at the Crown Institute. “When we create the container — the opportunity — and when students feel a sense of belonging, the flourishing happens.”

To facilitate the pilot, the Crown Institute partnered with faculty from the University of Colorado Denver, including Marty Otañez, an associate professor of anthropology and a longtime practitioner of community-based digital storytelling. Otañez described the work less as teaching students how to edit video and more as helping them learn how to land a story. Over six sessions totaling 24 hours, students moved through a carefully sequenced process: journaling and free-writing, story circles, writers’ workshops, and storyboarding before ever opening editing software. 

The early sessions focused almost entirely on building trust — learning one another’s names, sharing fragments of ideas, listening without rushing to respond. “The soul of the process is community,” Otañez says. “You can’t shortcut that.”

Only later did the technical work begin: recording voiceovers, selecting images, and learning DaVinci Resolve, the editing platform used during the pilot. Even then, Otañez emphasized restraint. Images were meant to deepen meaning, not illustrate every noun. Metaphor mattered more than polish. But at the core of it all was each person’s choice of a story, which for Otanez is part of the rich process of discovery and reminder to always expect the unexpected. 

“Some of the things surprised me, and this is always the case. Some students are really quiet and maybe a little reserved, and so we never know what we’re going to get,” he said. “And then sometimes their stories are just so rich because with their introversion, they’re thinking so much and so deeply, and they come up with these beautiful pieces.” 

The Crown Institute’s framing of flourishing provided a lens, not a script. Students were encouraged to ask where flourishing appeared in their stories but not required to prove that it did.

The nine students who participated came from across campus — political science, finance, health sciences, journalism. Few had prior experience with digital storytelling. Some arrived with clear ideas, and others discovered their stories only after listening to their peers.

Reed remembered one classmate who shared a story about a serious health crisis — hospitalization, uncertainty, learning to live with a chronic condition. “You would never have known just by looking at them,” she said. “That really stayed with me.”

The story circle, where students read drafts aloud and receive guided feedback, became one of the most powerful sessions of the pilot. “It was like journaling,” Reed said, “but with a community.”

Students learned not only how to receive feedback, but how to give it — asking questions that clarified rather than corrected and noticing what lingered emotionally rather than what could be fixed mechanically.

One thing that interested both the facilitators and the Crown Institute organizers was the nuanced way the students seemed to accept that flourishing was a work in progress, found as much in small moments as in large ones. 

One student used hair-braiding as a metaphor for independence and belonging. Another traced academic growth through mountain climbing. Others spoke about illness, procrastination, loneliness, or the quiet relief of finding a place to stand. The stories that emerged resisted tidy conclusions.

What unified the stories was their honesty, and the facilitators had to respond without an agenda. “We were very careful not to force the message into the stories,” Otañez says. “Otherwise you lose the essence.” 

That tension — between institutional goals and individual truth — shaped the project throughout. The Crown Institute’s framing of flourishing provided a lens, not a script. Students were encouraged to ask where flourishing appeared in their stories but not required to prove that it did.

“In a lot of higher ed discourse, we focus on how hard things are,” Shedro said. “That’s real. But we also wanted to create space for hope, without denying complexity.”

At the end of the pilot, the group gathered for a small screening event. Friends, faculty, and family members attended. Each film played, and each student spoke briefly about the process. Audience members noticed things the facilitators had missed — small gestures, lines that echoed, moments that felt larger than intended. The narratives developed lives of their own in the eyes, ears, and minds of the audience. 

“That’s always what amazes me about storytelling,” Otañez said. “Once the story leaves you, it becomes something else.”

Beyond the Pilot

The digital storytelling pilot at C.U. Boulder was never intended to remain a one-off experience, contained within a single semester or a single group of students. From the outset, the Crown Institute team understood the pilot as a way of learning how to design a methodology that others might eventually adapt. Out of that work, a digital storytelling toolkit is emerging, one intended to be freely available as a PDF for use across the FAN consortium. The toolkit is not a script or a curriculum to be followed verbatim. Instead, it offers a flexible framework shaped by what unfolded during the pilot itself.

“We observed everything,” said Shedro, who led the writing and design of the toolkit. “What worked, what stalled, where students needed more time, where they needed less.”

The resulting document is organized into three broad units: an introduction to flourishing and digital storytelling; guided opportunities for writing, story circles, and reflection; and hands-on production work, including storyboarding and media assembly. Throughout, the emphasis is less on technical mastery than on process — listening, revising, choosing what to include and what to leave out.

There are recommended minimum hours, suggested facilitator ratios, and sample prompts, but little insistence on uniform outcomes. That was intentional by design.

“We wanted something that could live in a lot of different contexts,” Bensko said. “A semester-long course. A co-curricular program. A student organization. It needed to be adaptable.”

That adaptability reflects a central insight of the pilot: the definition of flourishing can’t be standardized any more than the stories that attempt to capture it. Some students told tightly framed narratives about specific moments. Others traced longer arcs — from illness, from isolation, from uncertainty toward something steadier but unresolved. The toolkit preserves that openness, encouraging facilitators to resist steering stories toward predetermined conclusions.

But equally important, Shedro noted, was laying the groundwork for collaboration — the time spent building trust and guiding students in the most effective ways to be active listeners and give constructive feedback.

In FAN meetings, interest in the toolkit has already begun to circulate, though the Crown Institute team has been careful not to rush its release. For the students who participated in the pilot, the toolkit is beside the point — a downstream product. What stays with them instead are the stories themselves and the experience of being trusted to tell and hear them.

For Khaleigh Reed, soon to enter the field of journalism, the potent experience with multimedia storytelling became further evidence of all you don’t know about a person unless you ask questions and listen well.  

“You never know what someone’s going through,” she said. “This project gave us a way to see that.”

Listen Here:

California-based Jennifer Klein is a single mom and freelance sign language interpreter whose income varies from one month to the next. When her daughter began applying to four-year colleges last year, the cost to attend was always going to be front and center. But Klein is also remarried, which changes the math in the eyes of FAFSA (the Free Application for Federal Student Aid). Figuring out what school her daughter could afford to attend was a confusing landscape.

Given a lack of easily accessible information on college affordability, Klein and her daughter did what many families do: applied to schools of interest and hoped for the best when it came to scholarships and aid. “I told her to apply wherever she wanted and we’d see what happens,” Klein said. “I just jumped in and filled out FAFSA, having no idea if that was helping or hurting.”

Klein’s daughter is a high-performing student, so they had that in their corner. After whittling down her list and sending out applications to colleges in the West Coast region, Klein’s daughter received good news: The University of California, Davis offered her the prestigious Regents Scholarship, worth $7,500 per year. The state of California also chipped in $7,400 through its Middle Class Scholarship, bringing the $46,000 sticker price down to approximately $30,000. Additionally, Klein took out a Parent PLUS loan to help round out the remaining costs not covered by savings and income.

In the grand scheme of things, the Kleins had an easy ride. But for lower-income and first-generation students who have had little to no exposure to the complex college affordability equation, there’s often a sense of helplessness. High schools may not have the resources to adequately inform these students about monies available to them. Left with not much more than the sticker price they read on a college website, many students give up and fall through the cracks, never knowing what funding might be available. 

According to the National College Attainment Network, these students left $4.4 billion in unclaimed Pell Grants in 2024, which represents an increase of $400 million from the class of 2023. “So much comes down to students and families knowing what to expect from college costs so that they can prepare for the future,” said Brendan Williams, vice president of knowledge at uAspire, a non-profit organization whose mission is to improve the economic mobility of underrepresented students by creating financial solutions to diverse postsecondary pathways. “When they miss out on understanding the funding available to them, these students and families think college isn’t affordable.” 

Even when introduced to some of the funding avenues, students and their parents can find the FAFSA, financial aid, and scholarship applications processes confusing. Most people, according to an NCAN survey, significantly overestimate the cost of both public two- and four-year institutions. 

“Most first-gen students assume they can’t afford college or that they’ll have to go into massive debt to afford it,” said Shellee Howard, C.E.O. and professional certified college consultant at College Ready. “There’s also a lot of negativity surrounding college affordability on social media, which discourages students before they even have a chance to succeed.”

There’s also the issue of language barriers in some cases, which adds an extra hurdle for some first-gen students and their families. The result is that too many students are missing out on opportunities. At a time when recent research points to the fact that by 2031, 72 percent of jobs  will require post-secondary education and/or training, that’s a giant loss for students — and the economy as a whole. 

A Landscape of Confusion 

In an ideal world, all high school students and their families would receive detailed information and assistance about the costs of college and ways to make it affordable. The government’s Federal Student Aid website would be easy to navigate and FAFSA/the student aid index easily understandable. But that’s not the world in which students live. 

“The system is broken,” Howard said. “It’s a huge problem and has existed for years.”

Howard was a first-gen student herself and today is the parent of four children who have all navigated the college application process, graduating debt free with her help. “If a family has an education and the finances, they hire a consultant to help them,” she said. “But if they are first generation, they have a long runway to start the process and don’t know what resources exist.” 

For lower-income and first-generation students who have had little to no exposure to the complex college affordability equation, there’s often a sense of helplessness.

One federal resource, housed under the Department of Defense Education Activity and designed to help students with college readiness, is the AVID (Advancement Via Individual Determination) program. Its stated goal is to support students in the “academic middle” —those who have the potential to succeed at increasingly higher levels but may need additional support to fully realize their potential. The program’s centerpiece is a toolkit to support future-ready skills like time management, organization, and critical thinking. It also touches on financial literacy, with 85 percent of students who participate submitting FAFSA, compared to an average of 61 percent in the 2023-2024 academic year. 

At its best, AVID is a nationwide program facilitated by high school guidance counselors that students can take as a subject or in a study hall. According to Howard, however, not all AVID programs are created equal, and many are not integrated into curriculum. “At some schools, you may have a very motivated teacher who ensures AVID is easily available, and those students have a big advantage,” she said. “At others, students have to seek out the program and assistance.”

The affordability problem — or lack of financial literacy surrounding it — extends beyond first-gen and low-income students, however. Evelyn Jerome-Alexander, a college counselor with Magellan College Counseling, frequently works with middle-class families. “The families who hire me and my team generally appear on paper to be able to afford the somewhat obnoxious sticker prices of the most well-known colleges,” she said. “Many just grit their teeth and ‘find a way’ to pay for college. My focus is helping them realize there are so many opportunities for their kids to get a great education without taking money from their retirement accounts.” 

Jerome-Alexander finds that most high school counselors don’t have the bandwidth to help students go beneath the surface with college affordability because much of the equation is highly individualized. One issue is the federal student aid index (S.A.I.), she said. “The S.A.I. sees an income level but doesn’t understand your expenses and what you have to spare for education.” 

One family Jerome-Alexander worked with, for instance, had a nice six-figure income. After going through the S.A.I. via FAFSA, they received no financial aid. On the surface, this would appear logical and realistic for such a high income. “But they also had a special needs child that requires very big expenses and will well into the future,” she said. “FAFSA doesn’t care about that or about how much you spend on education.”

This was a case where Jerome-Alexander’s guidance to complete the College Scholarship Service Profile application — which colleges and universities use to award non-federal institutional aid — made a big difference for the family. 

But families who can access counseling services like Jerome-Alexander’s and Howard’s are the lucky ones. Lower-income and first-gen students depend on their schools, web searches, books, and more resources they may not realize are available.

Programs to Help 

Like uAspire, MyinTuition is a non-profit with a mission to help mid- and low-income students understand the cost of college and find their most affordable option. Created by Phillip Levine, a professor and economist at Wellesley College, the organization runs on the theory that there’s an information problem when it comes to college costs. “To make a good decision about college, you need to know how much it will cost,” he said. “We haven’t made that easy in America.” 

While the federal government requires that all public higher ed institutions post the cost of college on their websites, the truth is that very few students actually pay full price, Levine said. “If you have a very high income, you’ll pay that number,” he said. “But most people are not in that category.”

Most people, however, don’t understand that fact. Net price calculators can be difficult to find and use; there’s a good deal of confusing jargon in college-cost speak; and even FAFSA can deter people nervous about sharing their tax information. This is where community-based non-profits hope to fill in the gaps. 

MyinTuition has created its own fiscal tools to help aspiring college students understand their real costs. Right now, the organization is partnered with about 70 colleges and universities. “It’s not perfect, but it provides a ballpark estimate and range, which is a huge advantage,” Levine said. 

Getting tools and information dispensed to students and their families will continue to be one of the biggest barriers, and Williams from uAspire sees lost opportunities here. “I can’t reiterate how important it is that college costs are family conversations,” he said. “High school is a time when you have a captive audience, but often, even when there are informational meetings, they take place when many low-income parents might be working.”

Today, uAspire operates in Boston, New York, and the San Francisco Bay Area, working alongside high school counselors. Where they don’t have a physical presence, Williams and his team are deploying to high schools in a “train the trainer” format. Williams hopes to keep building out his model, continuously working to close the financial literacy gap.

An Uncertain Future 

The wild card in all things related to college affordability is change at the federal government level. Step by step, the Department of Education is shutting down. The department, which has long administered the federal student aid program, is transferring the TRIO programs, for instance, which provide post-secondary education services for people from disadvantaged backgrounds. The D.O.E. is also offloading the Title III Part B program, which provides grants to Historically Black Colleges and Universities, as well as the Gaining Awareness and Readiness for Undergraduate Programs.

The $1.5 trillion federal student aid program will likely land with the Small Business Administration, which has no experience managing the program and has experienced its own 40 percent staffing cuts this year. 

And then there is the Big Beautiful Bill. “The bill is vague and there are many misconceptions surrounding it,” Howard said. “It has both advantages and disadvantages.”

In the plus column, Howard believes, is the fact that the bill allows more flexibility for 529 plans. Families will now be able to use 529 plans for credentialing programs and trade certifications. They will also be able to apply funds to tutoring, testing fees, and continuing education programs required to obtain or maintain professional credentials. 

Yet as it stands, the bill is also gutting $300 billion from higher education, eliminating the most affordable repayment options on student loans. By some measures, the bill will mean that a typical college graduate will pay nearly $3,000 more per year in student loan payments. 

Other changes from the bill include the elimination of Grad PLUS loans, which cover expenses for graduate-level programs, and new caps on Parent PLUS loans beginning in 2026. Klein, who is using a Parent PLUS loan, remains unaffected, as the program grandfathers in borrowers prior to July 1, 2026. 

While the future remains uncertain, Levine said there is some bi-partisan agreement that understanding college costs is too complicated and creating a significant barrier to entry for too many eligible students. Whether this results in any sort of reform in today’s environment is anyone’s guess. For now, however, Levine has this thought: “At the end of the day, we want students applying to schools that are the best fit for them academically and geographically. If their decision is based on affordability, that’s a constraint. If they can afford it and don’t realize it, however, that’s a failure in the system.” 

In early November, a swirl of accusations and counter-accusations erupted in social media from the University of Miami. A disagreement between two students, one of them a prominent campus influencer, became fueled by commentary and reaction videos from strangers across the country. It swelled into a conversation about cruelty that led to the dean’s office and eventually to a national news story about young adult influencer culture and social status. But it roiled with something even larger and darker for young adults figuring out their place in the world: what it means to matter or not.

The incident, covered in The Washington Post, highlighted a core truth about the social waters young people swim in today. Popularity — if it can even be reduced to a single word that sounds so 80s, so geeks and jocks, so John Hughes movies — is no longer about just being cool at school. For this generation, social standing is shaped by a temperamental mix of in-person dynamics, the curated worlds of social media, and the invisible pull of moral and emotional expectations among peers. What makes it noteworthy, however, is this: The more psychologists and social scientists learn about wellness, the more so-called popularity is understood as something not outgrown after the mercurial adolescent years. The way a young person chases social standing — and comes to think of themselves during these years — has an impact upon social maturity and wellness for life. 

“The dynamics of popularity affect our relationships, our careers, our success in meeting our goals, and ultimately our happiness,” said psychologist Mitch Prinstein, author of “Popular: The Power of Likability in a Status-Obsessed World.” As director of clinical psychology at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Prinstein has researched adolescent and young adult social dynamics for decades. And he believes the new landscape of popularity includes multiple categories. 

“There is likability, and there is status,” he said, “and there is now an online popularity that looks a lot like status, but it’s reinforced with actual quantified metrics that tell you exactly how popular you and every post and comment you’ve ever made may be.”  

As some cold countries are said to have 50 words for snow, the digital age may need an expanded vocabulary for popularity.

Status, or Perceived Popularity

A generation ago, the popular students were those with visible influence: the athletes, the charismatic leaders, the beautiful people and style setters. Prinstein calls this “status popularity,” built on visibility, dominance, and the ability to set social norms. It’s less about being well-liked than being noticed and acknowledged as powerful. It often emerges in adolescence but continues to matter into adulthood, especially in environments that reward hierarchy, competitiveness, and performance. 

This is the terrain of old-school status that still exists, where the superficially strong survive and bullies thrive. Physical attractiveness still carries an advantage; in young adults, so do subtle cues of wealth or access, like coming from certain zip codes or private schools, having a luxurious vacation home or fancy car.

Students are remarkably clear-eyed about this. One junior who described her sorority as “top tier” recognized that social circles sometimes coalesce around people with access to attributes of wealth and connections. But even in that environment, access doesn’t buy genuine affection. “People hang out with some kids because of the things they have access to — like money, drinks, drugs — even if they don’t like them that much.” Clothes can matter as barometers of style, she said, but the more subtle the better, lest you be seen as trying too hard, or “too Gucci.” Those might be your party friends, but “you wouldn’t trust them with your secrets.”

Athletic success can function as modern status currency as well. Ben, a recent graduate of Northeastern University, noted that athletes who are recognized as being on the path toward professional fame can have name recognition on campus — though he was quick to add that if they are jerks, they might be more notorious than popular, per se. Tessa Garcia, a therapist who works with adolescents and young adults in the San Francisco Bay area, called athletic achievement one of the “most intense” forms of comparison, for better or for worse, because “it’s concrete — it’s right there, publicly seen, how many goals you scored or missed.”

On many campuses, Greek life reinforces a hyper-visible hierarchy. For some students, Greek life becomes a social safety net, perhaps after struggling to make connections elsewhere. But it can also be a gauntlet of scrutiny and self-doubt, of striving for “top-tier” houses that offer the QR codes as door entry to the best parties. Garcia compared parts of the sorority rush process to “getting recruited for a sport — except your sport is your identity.” Appearance, enthusiasm, and social-media presence are evaluated as if they were performance metrics. 

Donna Steinberg, a longtime college mental health counselor in New Hampshire who has worked with Dartmouth students, sees this emotional toll up close. “Freshmen are going to the frat parties, trying to belong,” she said. “By sophomore year they have to decide whether to pledge, and the Greek system can look like pure tiers and ranking. They can be crushed by rejection, and they have to make sense of it somehow. Usually, they patch themselves up by the time they become seniors, but that sense of questioning why can stay with them.”

The New Status Economy Online

If traditional status operates through in-person visibility, digital status popularity operates through metrics: follower counts, likes, shares, and algorithmic amplification. This form of popularity is volatile, public, and precarious. Any interpersonal conflict can become a public spectacle, and any student’s reputation can be remade or destroyed in real time, at least for those who put stock in digital popularity. 

If traditional status operates through in-person visibility, digital status popularity operates through metrics.

Online popularity looks a whole lot like status, Prinstein said. But instead of being inferred through social cues, it is quantified with numbers. Students now live with a permanent scoreboard next to their names. “Things like follower counts play a really big role, and that could be because you’re a good content creator and you just happen to attract a lot of people to your content, and that has nothing to do with your social skills. And that alone is enough to give you high status in your particular online niche.”

The University of Miami controversy illustrates how quickly online status can ignite conflict — and how swiftly it can smolder in public humiliation. Students who were previously known only within their campus community suddenly found themselves scrutinized by thousands of strangers. Some aspiring influencers who want to monetize this milieu choose majors in marketing, communications, and digital media, giving academic clout and higher stakes to the personal side of content creation and brand building.

For some undergraduates, courting this attention is intentional, but can be fleeting. Because online status can be gained or lost overnight, students may find themselves constantly monitoring, adjusting, curating, and performing — an emotional drain further removing them from the “real world” of interaction. It shapes perceptions — who is seen as aspirational, who is judged, who is excluded. Prinstein worries that social media collapses the nuance of human relationships into flattened, reactive fragments. “Your humanity is 128 characters long. You’re as good as your last post.” Young adults internalize this without realizing they are aligning their behavior with a system that rewards controversy, beauty, or performance more than kindness or integrity. 

And yet, the paradox is striking: Online popularity is everywhere, yet often irrelevant to the relationships that make college life meaningful. Someone cultivating an influencer persona isn’t necessarily an authentic person others want to call friend. 

“You see these people trying to be influencers, posting day-in-the-life videos. Usually, it’s considered kind of… cringey. Like it’s trying too hard,” said Sophie, a senior at the University of Virginia. The reaction, she said, is often skeptical: “We know you. You’re not living that life.”

Zoe, a sophomore at Vanderbilt, sees similar disconnects. “Someone can be huge on TikTok,” she said, “but on campus nobody cares. It doesn’t translate.”

Some students recognize this, and speak about the difference between the friends you “go out with to clubs” and the friends you “go grocery shopping with in pajamas.” 

Interestingly, many students emphasize the shift from status-based judgments in high school to authenticity-based judgments in college — a form of social standing that depends less on being admired and more on being someone others feel comfortable around. Once you find your people, Sophie said, there’s really no such thing as popularity anymore. 

“Honestly,” Ben agreed, “I don’t think there is really the idea of popularity in college these days, or at least not at Northeastern. There are fraternities; there are sororities; there are athletes and theater kids and everything in between. But nobody really looks at a different clique and feels like they’re less. Do you know a lot of people and do fun things? It’s not like high school. There’s no prom king.”

Warmth, Empathy, and the Social Skills that Last 

Likability — or sociometric popularity — reflects the degree to which someone is genuinely well-liked, trusted, and valued by peers. It emerges from warmth, empathy, emotional intelligence, and kindness. A young person who embodies these traits is often recognized early as someone other kids want to be around and parents want their children to spend time with. 

That degree of natural confidence might be the most organically attractive factor of all: the confidence to be kind to others without worrying how cool it makes you look or not, or whether being nice to someone who isn’t cool will be a social liability. “Being a generally likable person — someone who is a really good communicator, a good listener, and someone who’s interesting, — is what honestly makes you well-known and well-liked by the greatest number of people,” Sophie said. 

Zoe echoed this. Being outgoing and confident is naturally attractive, she said. If you are comfortable in your own skin, and interesting, it makes others want to be in your orbit. And it also gives you more latitude to be different. “People are attracted to people who’ve got spice and pizzazz. One of my guy friends is a huge history geek. He went to a museum during his fraternity formal road trip to New Orleans,” she said. “People really respect when you got something that’s a little bit edgy to you because it shows that you have a personality. There’s more than just what meets the eye. It’s endearing and alluring because it’s like, ‘Oh, I want to hear more about this person.’”

Prinstein considers likability the most important of the popularity types, noting that it predicts our health, our marriage, our salary, our parenting skills, even our age at death. Unlike status, which can be addictive but hollow, likability forms the basis for stable, meaningful relationships across the lifespan and decreases the chances that we’ll be lonely — a real wellness risk as we age.

Educators’ Takeaway: Recognize the Forces at Work

College students today are navigating an exceptionally layered social reality. For educators, counselors, and other adults who work with young adults, understanding this complexity is essential to being able to provide guidance that resonates with them.

Adults who grew up in an era before social media may underestimate the emotional force of public scrutiny, said Garcia, who emphasizes that these students are “the first generation growing up with themselves being exposed in ways previous generations weren’t.” And the punitive repercussions of social media situations like those at the University of Miami have to be recognized as a significant risk to wellbeing. Acknowledging the legitimacy of these pressures is the first step toward helping students manage them.

Because likability predicts long-term well-being, educators can foster it through intentional shifts in group discussions, promoting collaborative rather than competitive norms, and creating structured opportunities for students to form meaningful relationships.

In environments where Greek life, varsity athletics, selective majors, or elite internships are status dynamics that carry enormous weight, educators and counselors can help students make sense of these systems and disentangle personal worth from external ranking. For students who may feel “crushed” by rush rejection or other status-based competitive pressure, compassionate reframing can prevent temporary disappointment from becoming lasting harm.

Popularity today is a complex and sometimes contradictory matrix of status, visibility, and genuine connection. Students may be admired online but lonely on campus, or socially powerful in one community and invisible in another. They may chase influence without realizing they are sacrificing belonging — or believe they are failing socially when they are actually cultivating the kind of friendships that endure. 

Prinstein’s research underscores that these distinctions matter. For educators and other adults, the work is not to dismantle popularity but to guide students toward the version that sustains them. In a world where social media can amplify every misstep, and where the stakes of visibility feel impossibly high, helping students build the skills of authentic connection is not ancillary to their success — it is central to it. 

“Likability and status can go hand in hand. In fact, about, I think, a third of kids who have high social status are also very likable,” Prinstein said. “We should be investing lots of time and energy in helping kids to appropriately navigate a social world in real life instead of chasing metrics that end up not lasting. Even kids who are having the hardest time with peers can do really, really well with one trusted mutual friend and positive friendship. We need to help those who are suffering by helping them to have an actual relationship with a real human offline.” 

Prinstein emphasizes moving away from metrics: encouraging students to invest in the relationships that ground them, rather than the platforms that distract or distort — and to appreciate that status doesn’t have to build at the expense of authenticity. You can have status and style and still be the friend people choose to go grocery shopping.

James Forten was nine years old when he stood among the crowd outside the Pennsylvania State House to hear the newly signed Declaration of Independence read aloud for the first time. In 1776, he was a free Black boy, for whom the universal human rights laid out in the Declaration were far from promised, nor intended to be so as a result of the forthcoming revolution. Forten still fought for America. At 14, he joined the Continental Navy and, upon being captured by the British, chose imprisonment at home over an offer of release to England. He survived the war and went on to grow a flourishing sail-making business. It made him one of richest men in Philadelphia and funded wide-ranging abolitionist efforts, including William Lloyd Garrison’s famous paper, “The Liberator.”

Those who tune into the latest documentary from prolific filmmaker Ken Burns, “The American Revolution,” will learn about Forten in the final episode. His is one of many lesser-known stories in the six-part, nearly 12-hour series and, perhaps, a favorite of Burns, who invoked the young revolutionary during a panel discussion at New York University last week: “He does not for a second believe these self-evident truths don’t apply to him,” Burns said emphatically of Forten’s immediate grasp of what the Declaration of Independence could mean. “He knows they apply to him.”

To Burns, Forten seems to offer a model for how today’s young people, too, might pull from foundational American ideals to shape their own vision of the future. The documentarian was at N.Y.U. as part of a campaign to promote his new film among students at colleges and universities. On November 19, the “Campus Conversation” brought together Burns, his co-director Sarah Botstein, two experts featured in the film — law professor Maggie Blackhawk of N.Y.U and history professor Christopher Brown of Columbia University — and a moderator, politics professor Patrick Egan, also of N.Y.U. They asked each other: At a time when students might feel removed from — or repelled by — their nation’s early and flawed history, how could this film’s fresh telling be helpful to them, even inspiring?

Coinciding with the event was an announcement from its host school: The day prior, N.Y.U. launched its new Berkley Institute for Civil Discourse and Civic Solutions. It’s one of the latest centers of its kind, designed to promote engagement with diverse perspectives, in an ongoing trend towards building them on college campuses. Egan, the moderator of the Burns conversation, is the institute’s inaugural director.

Early American history would certainly be fertile ground for civil discourse centers interested in taking up and sorting through topics fraught with controversy. “The American Revolution,” for one, does not shy away from challenging, sometimes disturbing truths; their inclusion is part of an explicit mission to offer a complete portrait of this moment in history. The patriots of the 13 colonies may have bravely defended their freedom from tyranny, the film reveals, but they also hanged British representatives in the streets — poured hot tar over one in particular and covered him humiliatingly with feathers. Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence asserting the necessity of liberty for all, while being attended to by an enslaved valet, the young son of Jefferson’s father-in-law and one of his slaves. George Washington, who also owned hundreds of slaves, was the revered general who led his forces to victory and recruited them in part by promising each enlisted hundreds of acres in Western, Native-populated land that wasn’t his to give away. 

At N.Y.U., Burns captured one of the most central and slippery contradictions of early America — as both anti-colonial mission and burgeoning empire at once. “We called it the Continental Congress and the Continental Army, and we knew where we were going,” Burns said in reference to plans for westward expansion. 

Confronting these contradictions may be how “The American Revolution” draws in today’s college students. In moving beyond a traditional or glorified rendition of the founding, the documentary digs up details that feel less tired or overfamiliar. Even more, it presents a period whose intense divisions are evocative of American life in 2025 and how people at every level of society, not just the top, drew from the emerging notions of equality and democracy to push for personal understandings of justice.

“The people who wrote it down may not have been representative of us, but the people who have put it into motion — even until today — are us. And it still is something that a lot of us are pushing for and that young people do care about it.”

Yasmeen Rifai, a junior studying politics at N.Y.U., attended the conversation with Burns and said she appreciated its inclusion of “all the other groups that are so often left out.” What resonated with her most was the discussion of how those at the margins adopted and repurposed certain foundationally American ideals, for example, from the Declaration of Independence.

“The people who wrote it down may not have been representative of us, but the people who have put it into motion — even until today — are us,” Rifai said. “And it still is something that a lot of us are pushing for and that young people do care about it.”

Young people in particular were central to the revolutionary movement, said Christopher Brown, the Columbia history professor who participated in both the panel and the documentary itself. So despite ongoing cycles of older generations grumbling about the politics of younger ones, a youthful inclination to fight for the future appears to be as old as the country itself. “Political activism is part of our culture. It’s part of what freedom is about,” Brown said in an interview with LearningWell. “So I also think that the Revolutionary Age is a little bit of a reminder that this is a country that was founded in political division and was energized by political mobilization rather than political quiescence.” That goes for politics across the aisle, he said.

Young people may find the applications of Burns’s film are not only political or intellectual but also personal. In the style of “formative education,” engaging with the liberal arts, history included, is a way of exposing students to different ideas and traditions they can then use to reflect on their own, larger values — moral, spiritual, and otherwise. Stanton Wortham, an anthropologist and dean at the Boston College Lynch School of Education, said this process of reflection is what he and others in the formative education field call “discernment.”

“It’s a projection of yourself into a historical situation,” Wortham said of the practice for students of history. “That gives you a chance to develop not just intellectually because you’re learning new things and learning how to reason and look at evidence and so forth, but it also gives you a chance to engage with this ethical challenge that somebody else was facing and think about your own values and what your own values would lead you to do.”

The purpose of the approach, then, is not to tell students what to believe, but rather to expose them to the kind of provocative questions that let them consider for themselves. When it comes to the American Revolution, questions of tyranny and rule, justice and violence, might emerge. “A lot of people got killed. Was that okay? Was it okay that a whole bunch of people got killed for these particular ideals because they imagined a particular way of life was right?” Wortham said he might ask students of the period. “Does that apply today? There are lots of people today who are living in situations that are unjust, so should we be supporting people who are fighting back against what we or they consider as unjust things?”

Of course, all the ways students could interact with Burns’s new film are not a promise that they will, in fact, do so. Yasmeen Rifai, the junior at N.Y.U., had yet to see the series at the time of the campus event, although she said the conversation did make her want to start. Christopher Brown said former students now in their 30s and 40s have written to him to say they saw him in the documentary, though more recent ones have not. 

Amanda Garvey is only a first-year at N.Y.U. but already knows she wants to pursue a major in history. She attended the conversation with Burns last week because, she said, she loves the American Revolution. Originally from Bucks County, Penn., she grew up a short drive away from where George Washington once famously led troops across an icy Delaware River and towards a crucial victory in the war for independence.  

By Garvey’s discernment, the panel discussion illuminated an important and enduring legacy of not just crisis, but possibility. “What’s happening right now, it’s kind of a crazy time. I think the idea that these people were fighting for what they truly believed in — I think it still can be applicable today,” she said.

“Not everything is lost. There’s still hope, and I like that.”

You can reach LearningWell Reporter Mollie Ames at mames@learningwellmag.org with comments, ideas, or tips.