Disrupting, Politely

The New Model Institute for Technology and Engineering (NMITE) in western England offers an unorthodox approach to university life and learning by any standard. In the United Kingdom, where tradition reigns in higher education and has for several hundred years, NMITE President and Chief Executive James Newby says the fresh concept behind his college is especially radical.

Around 2021, when NMITE welcomed its first class of students, Newby joined the team of what he calls “closet revolutionaries,” dedicated to forming a new generation of engineers uniquely prepared for career. The approach centers highly practical, collaborative assignments that mimic dynamics in the workplace. The intimate, immersive, and accelerated pathway attracts a wide range of students, all hungry to get the most out of their education — and their money.

With LearningWell, Newby discusses the big idea behind NMITE and the many small deviations from the standard that bring it to life. He’s leading with the “politeness” to navigate British education from the inside and the boldness to envision how one institution could launch a movement.

LW: Tell us a bit about the concept behind your work and its history. Why is this new approach important right now?

JN: NMITE is a very rare thing in the U.K. higher education system — a new university starting entirely from scratch. It’s very unusual in the U.K. for new universities to happen at all, but to happen without evolving from some precursor institution is incredibly rare. 

There are really two key strands to our mission. The first is that the U.K. engineering employers have, for about 20 or 30 years, been complaining that the graduates they get from the traditional higher education sector just aren’t what they need — don’t have the right skills. They’re not ready to work. It takes too much time, too much money, and too much effort to convert them into really good, valuable employees. So we wanted to create a university that would just prepare a different type of engineering graduate, and our key focus was to make those graduates work-ready. It’s not just about producing brains on a stick or graduates who are good at winning pub quizzes. They need to be able to work and interact and understand what they’re doing. 

The second key strand of the mission was to put a university in a part of the country in the U.K. where there hasn’t been one before and, therefore, where very few young people went to university. When I explain this to Americans, they’re always very surprised because we always look like such a small country from the American vantage point. But there’s such significant regional variation in the U.K. that we feel like a number of very different countries all crammed onto this very small island. So the part of the U.K. that we’re in near Wales is very sparsely populated, and, actually, very few young people who grow up in this part of the U.K. will ever go to university and enjoy all the life benefits that come from having that level of education. There’s just a lack of ambition regionally. There’s a lack of pathways that are really clear and easy to access for young people here. So we wanted to create a new type of engineer and really warm up this higher education cold spot in the U.K.

Those are the two things we were set up to do. It’s fair to say it took a long, long time to get us off the ground. We knew we didn’t want to create something that would just add more capacity to an already quite crowded higher education sector. It had to be different. We had to be quite disruptive — in as positive a way as we can — to a sector in the U.K. that had really not undergone any kind of major reform, any structural reform for generations. Most young people in the U.K. who go off to university to do a degree do it in the same institutions in the same kind of way that they’ve always done it. Every other sector of our economy has been completely reformed in the last 30 or 40 years through market disruption or political prioritization. But higher education has largely grumbled on in the same way. 

LW: Was the prospect of leading that sort of rare change in U.K. higher education what personally compelled you to get involved with NMITE? What stage in your career were you at when you joined the team?

JN: I had been working in a big, traditional university — the sort I’ve been describing in disparaging terms. So I was probably part of the problem. But I was approached and asked whether I might be interested in this really mad idea of building a new university. It was one of those questions where you think, If I say no now and then just go and do another job similar to what I’ve been doing for the last few years and just plop on through to retirement in that way, then I’ll just regret for the rest of my time that I never did this. So I took the plunge and did it. I’ve never regretted it.

We tend to attract staff who are sort of “closet revolutionaries.” They’re really frustrated by the system they feel stuck in, and they really want to do something exciting and different. Even if it might fail, you just want to do it. Or we recruit people who just don’t come from the same traditional background. A lot of our team are early career academics, so they’re in their late twenties, perhaps postdoctoral students. They’re not embedded in academic traditions. They’re good at innovation. 

I lived near London when I joined. I was in the part of the U.K. where all the economic activity and the main jobs are, and all the innovation is. So I did have to grapple with moving my family to this rural corner of the country to do this. That was not an easy decision, frankly. I remember it because it’s the decision we ask a lot of our students to take when they come from London or Birmingham or Manchester. It gives you empathy, if you just remember how you felt. So I did it, and I can tell them it is the best thing I ever did, and they should give it a try. And when you’re 18, you should do things like that. You should take a few risks.

LW: So despite being positioned to bring in a new type of student in its rural area, NMITE also serves students from far and wide? 

JN: It’s both. The U.K. system actually isn’t as regionally rooted as the American system. Most of our institutions have a national outlook and a national focus, whatever the location of their campus. Some of the smaller ones, just by virtue of their geography, do tend to recruit more local students. And there’s a trend towards attending your local university slightly more than there used to be, but that’s because it’s so much less expensive to do that than to have to pay for accommodation at some distant institution. And that’s another reason why well-off kids can make all the choices that they want to make and less well-off kids simply don’t have the same choices. That’s something else we’ve always been conscious of. We want to drive social mobility and give opportunities — the same kind of opportunities for the same kind of quality — to kids who generally can’t move around the country just because of economic constraints. Our split between local students and those recruited nationally is about 40-60 in favor of national students, but 40 percent is a significant minority in the U.K.

LW: Got it. Can you elaborate on some of the other specific ways you’re flipping the script on educational tradition in the U.K.?

JN: Well, the model is distinctive in the following ways: We adopt block learning. Our students learn one topic at a time in the form of an immersive learning experience in a single module. That’s unusual in the U.K. Generally, degrees are built from various modules of building blocks, but you’ll learn them in a timetable that moves you around the campus from one topic to another in any given week. It’s a very inefficient way of learning. I often draw the comparison to learning to play the piano. You learn much quicker if you spend three weeks doing it in a completely immersive way with a full-time tutor teaching you the whole time than if you’ve split the same number of learning hours across a year and do it once a week for one hour along with everything else. That immersive form of learning significantly accelerates learning gain for students. They learn and become technically proficient much more quickly. 

The other thing that’s distinctive is we accelerate the program, so we compress the learning into a shorter time period. Whereas it takes three years to do an undergraduate degree in a normal U.K. university, it only takes two years at NMITE. The reason for that is we make our students work nine to five Monday to Friday in this immersive way. That’s a much more efficient use of time. It reflects much more accurately the rhythms and patterns of a job — the workplace. It’s really good for developing a work ethic. We work very hard to make sure our students are on task for much more of the time. That means they’re working on something purposeful.

When we say that, it sounds very earnest. But we try to inject quite a lot of fun. We definitely don’t disapprove of fun. But what we really want them to be doing is meaningful, on-task work. That’s because our observation of traditional universities is students just spend an awful lot of time rattling around between lectures, not engaged in anything purposeful. And when you are paying by the year, that’s just not getting you the payback for the money you are spending. It’s just not good value for the student or the taxpayer or the university. 

Our students are always working on challenge-based learning. Instead of putting them in lecture theaters and transmitting theory to them via PowerPoint presentation or a lecture, they’re working in a hands-on way. There may be a series of quite short, sharp seminars to transmit technical information, but most of the time, they’re working on something that delivers an output that reflects what happens in a workplace. They might be building a prototype or a series of codes or a circuit board. We don’t test them by traditional exams. 

We’ve developed a whole pedagogical approach whereby students only succeed if the team succeeds, and they have to work in teams. We’ve designed it so you can’t possibly do the course — it’s too much — to do on your own. You could only succeed if you work as a team — divide the work up. And it’s just the social skills that develop, the extra support that inevitably provides — the nurturing that gives to people who are more neurodiverse and who struggle with self-directed learning common in traditional universities. That scaffolding is just provided in a much more real-world kind of setting. We find that’s hugely effective. 

So those are the main elements of the model that are different from a traditional degree. One of the things we’re quite obsessive about is the accusation we might not be academically rigorous — that this is just too vocational in its style. We obsess about academic quality. We are absolutely determined that the students we produce will have the same level of technical knowledge and proficiency as a student from a top university. But what will be different is they’ll have much more practical capability and much more emotional intelligence. 

LW: And when you heard from employers unsatisfied with newest engineers, were those the main things — work ethic, work experience — companies said young people were lacking? Are there other areas this model is directly responding to?

JN: We wanted our students to be really ethically conscious. We do that by teaching them quite a lot of liberal studies. They have to know how to do some engineering, but they have to know why they should do it — or why they should not do it.

Just being able to do something doesn’t mean it’s the right thing for you to do. We want them to understand the sociological impacts, the climate impacts — the ethical things you have to grapple with. We do a lot of work with the defense and security industry in the U.K., and that creates lots of really fascinating engineering challenges, but it creates quite a few ethical things to think about, as well. If you are building a drone, you might be building it for humanitarian purposes to deliver aid to disaster areas, but it could quite easily be repurposed to deliver munitions in a war zone. We can’t make the world simpler than it is, and we can’t make those problems go away, but we can equip students with the emotional intelligence to cope with the debate that happens around them, so they can choose where they want to apply their skills and who they want to work for.

LW: And I imagine that ethical training serves the more academic focus you were talking about, in contrast to those detractors who may say this school is totally devoted to professional development.

JN: Yeah, I’m not entirely sure how it is in the American system, but in the U.K., we have this rather tedious binary debate about vocational versus academic training. I mean, it sort of goes without saying you need both to really survive in this world and to thrive in this world. You have to be good at the practical teamworking elements, but you have to have good theoretical knowledge, as well. We want to create students who can think and do — not one or the other. We try not to overcompensate on the risk that we are viewed as too vocational and not academic enough. But on the other hand, we try not to say we’re one or the other or that one is more important than the other. The whole point is you can only succeed if you’ve led them both and produce people with genuine intellectual intelligence but practical and emotional intelligence, too.

LW: How does NMITE differ from other schools in terms of its criteria related to math and science?

JN: That was a really important thing when we started. So to do an undergraduate engineering degree in the U.K., it’s nearly always a prerequisite that you have a maths or physics A-level. An A-level is an advanced level of pre-university study, and to get a maths A-level is quite hard. It’s one of the hardest pre-university subjects you could do. Physics is hard, as well. And because they’re difficult, fewer kids do them than really should. But what we found when we were developing the NMITE courses was that most of what you need for that maths A-level doesn’t actually present until much later on — year two or year three. So we asked ourselves the question: Why do we exclude people from engineering because they don’t have that maths A-level, when they actually don’t need the content in the maths A-level until at least a year into the course? That would give us plenty of time to get them up to speed — recover their maths learning — and it would stop us having to exclude them from becoming an engineer. But if we did that, we would open up the profession of engineering to this fantastically new pool of people who are currently excluded. 

Would you believe that includes an awful lot of women because women don’t do engineering in the U.K. in anything like the numbers they do in other countries? About 15 percent of engineers in the U.K. are female. So there’s a massive diversity problem. Most engineers look and sound like me — not enough females, not enough from different backgrounds, and not enough ethnicity in the profession. We wanted to focus on was the gender problem: Can we set a target to have 50 percent of our cohort as female, so that when we recruit a girl onto our courses, we don’t put her in a class with 28 other boys, so she just feels like a minority the minute she walks in the door? What we found was bright girls in the U.K. who do maths A-level almost never go into engineering. They go into medicine and other disciplines. But actually, girls who don’t do the maths A-level quite like going into engineering. We’ve got quite a lot, and they’ve really thrived. 

We tracked the attainment – their mathematical and their other attainment – and we found that students with the maths A-level perform at a higher level than those without in the first year of the program, as you might expect. They’ve had better academic preparation. But by the middle of the second year, they perform at exactly the same level. The playing field is leveled, and that’s because their attainment is being tested on engineering progress, not mathematics progress. You don’t need the maths A-level. You do need maths, but you need it in a way we’re teaching it. There is no reason for universities to exclude people because of the certificates they hold.

LW: Moving to the student life side of things, you said you’re not an “anti-fun.” I imagine that’s in the classroom and outside the classroom, but what does student life look like holistically at NMITE?

JN: NMITE is right for a certain type of student. We are not right for everybody. That’s the first thing. We don’t claim to have all the answers or to be the model that will replace all other models. We are right for students who value working in a smaller institution, where everybody knows each other’s name. We want our students to know that they matter and to feel like they matter. They’re not a statistic or a number in a big cohort. Most of them will say they really like just the personal nurturing atmosphere that the small teams and the smallness of the institution brings. 

Most of them like the fact that they’re kept busy and on-task, especially if you are slightly socially awkward or shy. And for a lot of neurodiverse kids, it often presents as a kind of social awkwardness or a difficulty in forming connections and relationships. They do well here because they can work in a small team that isn’t scary or intimidating. It feels quite nurturing and after a period of time, they gain quite a lot of social confidence from being able to practice in the safe place that a small team provides. So we are often struck by the fact that some of our kids join us without being able to even look you in the eye or talk to you properly. And then by the end of the course, they’re like George Clooney. They’ve got all this charisma and this confidence. That’s the transformational change that we really see.

The students that this isn’t right for are the ones like, frankly, my two sons, who want to go to a big city, where there’s loads of social things to do and sports facilities and bars and restaurants and thousands of other students and loads of clubs you can join. We are not the right institution for students who want to do that. 

LW: Right. Is it a challenge to attract students who maybe didn’t see college on their path, even if the school is in their backyard — to get them to see this as an option and to come?

JN: It was a real challenge to start with. It’s becoming a smaller challenge as we go, the more we deliver good results. We’ve now got a graduated cohort of students out in the workplace. Our first-ever intake has gone all the way through and has now left – finished, graduated – and they’re in the workplace. That’s enormously helpful to telling people, “This could be you.” That’s reflected by our application rates, which are very strongly up. But to start with, that was really difficult. Our opening pitch was, “Come to a university you’ve never heard of in a part of the country you’ve never heard of to do a degree that’s really hard and no one wants to do. How ‘bout it?”

LW: On that note, what is the buzz like in the engineering community around this program? Are you seeing a lot of students who were once planning on a traditional path but then looked at this model and said, “Wow, this is a lot more interesting”? 

JN: We get a lot of those. A lot of our students could have chosen any university in the country. They have the means and the academic preparation to do that. A lot wouldn’t have been given a second glance by the traditional system, but a lot could have. And the buzz from the employers is just fantastic. It’s very important we work closely with employers in our challenge-based learning in our studios. That’s an important part of our model. Employers are embedded in our curriculum in a way they’re not anywhere else, and there’s a bit of altruism involved. A lot of employers just wanted to get involved with this really interesting experiment in higher education. But now we’ve got employers who want to join because they know the graduates are so work-ready — so capable — by the end of their course that they want to get in early so they can pick them off before they get picked off by some other employer. So most — in fact all — of our first cohort of graduates got jobs before they graduated, and most of them got those jobs from partners they’d worked with during the course. They just formed those relationships. That’s a key part of the model. It smooths the transition from university to work. It’s not a completely continuous transition, but it’s very close to it.

LW: And what might you be looking forward to from here on?

JN: Because we’re small by design, our aim is not to grow bigger and bigger and bigger and then dilute the model, as we start reverting to the sameness of the sector. But we do think there’s an opportunity, at least in this country, to replicate the model. It can become a kind of surgical intervention in areas that are economically disadvantaged because we’re a small, quite agile university. So instead of the normal hundreds of millions of dollars or pounds it would take to build an academic infrastructure that universities normally involve, we see ourselves as a small, modular, nuclear reactor that could be put into an area, and then it can just warm it up. It creates new jobs — creates more knowledge-based jobs — which is hugely important, and it creates more really good opportunities for a professional, rewarding, economically secure life for kids who would otherwise never have the opportunity to do that. 

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

What is “Academic Flourishing”?

Tyler VanderWeele, Ph.D., has in interesting C.V. He is a social scientist, an epidemiologist, and a theologian. And in the world of flourishing research, he is somewhat of a celebrity. VanderWeele is the director of the Human Flourishing Program at Harvard’s Institute for Quantitative Social Science. The initiative aims to study and promote human flourishing and to catalyze knowledge across disciplines that intersect with key components, including family, friendship, virtue, community, work, beauty, forgiveness, religion, purpose, and meaning. 

The program’s most recent research, the Global Flourishing Study, made headlines around the world for its eye-opening preliminary findings. Among them was the collapse of the U-shaped pattern of flourishing, which traditionally indicates greater levels of wellbeing among young people and older adults. According to the report, it was the poor mental health and wellbeing of the Gen Z cohort that caused the disruption. 

This month, VanderWeele and his team launched a separate initiative examining flourishing among young people — this time college students and their role in what VanderWeele calls “academic flourishing.” He describes the concept as “the relative attainment of a state in which all aspects of an academic community’s life are good,” including the degree to which institutions help students grow as human beings. 

The Academic Flourishing Initiative invites colleges and universities throughout the country to join in data collection and reflection in three areas: the individual flourishing of students, the flourishing of the campus community, and students’ perceptions as to how university life has contributed to their own formation. The last area excites VanderWeele, as he sees the understanding of how colleges contribute to attributes such as citizenship, character, purpose, and meaning as both innovative and, in some cases, controversial. 

In his office in Cambridge, VanderWeele offers coffee and conversation about the issues he has made the center of his scholarship and curiosity. 

LW: How did the Academic Flourishing Initiative come about? 

TV: Our working definition of flourishing is “the relative attainment of a state in which all aspects of a person’s life are good, including the contexts, the communities, the environments in which they live.” And while we’ve been looking at this at a global scale across numerous countries with our Global Flourishing Study, we do also firmly believe that a lot of the actual work of promoting flourishing happens in more local institutions. And from our prior reviews, we suggest four major institutional pathways to flourishing: family, work, education, and religious community.

As we’ve continued to reflect on how to promote flourishing in practice, we’ve thought that what we need to do is focus on each of these institutional pathways — on the dynamics that are specific to each of them and on how we can further strengthen opportunities to flourish. That led to work with schools and thinking about colleges and universities as well. On the school front, we partnered with the O.E.C.D. to develop a framework for metrics for education, for flourishing, which we’re also now working on operationalizing. But being embedded ourselves in an academic context, we thought we should take these notions seriously for our own university community.  What does it mean for an academic community to flourish?  It certainly involves the individual flourishing of the students, the staff, and the faculty which involves our established flourishing assessments — happiness and health and meaning and relationships and character and financial security.

But the flourishing of the community is more than that. It is also about good relationships within the community, proficient leadership, healthy structures and practices in place to help sustain the community with a sense of belonging and a common mission. To that end, we’ve taken our community wellbeing measure and adapted it for university context. But then we also thought, let’s turn to the mission and vision statements of colleges and universities and see how they reflect on their own understanding of themselves.

“Let’s turn to the mission and vision statements of colleges and universities and see how they reflect on their own understanding of themselves.”

You see pretty consistent themes, especially in research universities, related to the generation, preservation, and transmission of knowledge. But you also see, very regularly, notions of student formation — that institutions are here to help shape citizen leaders of the future, to help develop students who can contribute in important ways to society, to develop leaders who have creative capacities to address, in an ethical manner, some of society’s most challenging problems.

And we started thinking, Well, if we’re going to take the mission of these institutions seriously, we should start by assessing whether these beautiful, grand, important aspirations are, in fact, being achieved. Perhaps we can begin by asking students whether they think they’ve been shaped in these ways as part of their university or college experience. Has the university helped them to grow in wisdom and justice and leadership and capacities to work across difference — in addition to, of course, developing knowledge and capacities for critical thinking? It was those sorts of considerations that really led to this work and what we’re calling “academic flourishing.”

LW:  What is your pitch to institutions on why they should participate?   

TV: Essentially, we’re saying that the data collection that is typically taking place — often on retention rates and academic performance, job placement and salaries, mental health, experiences of bias and discrimination — is generally good. This is important work that should be done. But students who come to universities, and parents who send their children to universities — indeed, the universities themselves — often aspire to more. And if that’s the case, why aren’t we doing assessments on these other matters: whether there has been a growth in wisdom; whether they have greater capacity to think critically; whether they have been prepared for leadership; whether this has helped them to clarify their life purpose and define meaning? Students want this. If parents want this, and if universities and colleges aspire to this, let’s collect the data.

This is not being presented as an alternative to what colleges and universities are already doing, but rather as a supplement. And if colleges and universities don’t want to do that, then so be it. But what we’ve seen is that a number of them do, and so this is just an invitation to do so.

LW: In terms of the invitation to the colleges and universities, what exactly are you inviting them to do? How do you engage with them?

TV: We’re inviting them to participate both in assessment and data collection campus-wide, and then also to join a community of practice with other colleges and universities that are doing similar data collection. The idea is to reflect on the data, to try to understand it, and to try to work out together what the best ways forward are. How do you address the weaknesses as well as the strengths within a particular institution?

The heart of this academic flourishing survey is focused on — again — first, the individual flourishing of the students; second, the student’s assessments of whether the university or college is flourishing as a community; and third — and this is the real innovation — the students’ perceptions of the contribution of university life to their own development: to their growth and knowledge and critical thinking, yes, but also to their moral formation and character development and their capacities for leadership and citizenship, and their ability to find meaning and growth in the process of their college experience.

And so we’ve included 24 of these student formation questions, in addition to the individual flourishing and the community wellbeing questions. Universities are being invited to collect this data, and we have an automated Qualtrics survey to do this in a very straightforward manner. And we’ve now set up infrastructure to immediately convert that survey into a report for the individual school. And then that data will be used in a much larger database to try to understand dynamics across schools and universities. In addition, we’ll be hosting meetings and events to discuss the similarities and differences across institutions. If one university has a particular strength, we’ll talk about how this came about. How can the other universities strengthen in this regard?

LW: Do you get push back from people saying that flourishing and this student formation work is outside of the scope of higher education?

TV: In our academic paper, we include a principle with regard to the appropriate scope of efforts for flourishing in education. And we would agree that it’s not the school’s or the university’s responsibility to sustain all aspects of a student’s flourishing. This requires families. This requires neighborhoods. This requires workplaces. This requires religious communities. You can’t make the school responsible for everything, and they’re not equipped to do so.

On the other hand, just to say education is only about vocational career preparation seems too narrow because you have these extraordinary narratives — anecdotes — about transformative experiences. There’s real potential there, and we don’t want to restrict that potential. We’ve said what we’ve proposed is that the proper scope of educational efforts oriented towards flourishing concerns those aspects of flourishing around which societal consensus can be attained and for which educational leaders and staff and faculty are prepared to address.

LW: What has been the reaction to the student formation work?

TV: Different institutions each have a very different focus, and that needs to be acknowledged. We have divided the student formation questions into these four domains: knowledge and critical thinking, character formation, citizenship and leadership, and then meaning and growth. Not all of these aspects of student formation will necessarily be of interest to all institutions.

We think pretty much any college would be interested in increasing cognitive capacities and knowledge, so those we feel are always core. What we’ve also argued is, even for institutions that don’t embrace character formation as part of their mission, some of this is necessary to accomplish the cognitive and epistemic goals of their institutions. You need a certain level of perseverance to work through difficulties and to push one’s mind. You need a certain level of courage to work through controversial or challenging questions. And you need honesty in test-taking and research practices. We need justice and patience to be able to hear different perspectives we might not like.

I think everyone would agree on a lot of this. Take courage. Do we want our students to be cowardly? Let’s get a show of hands amongst the trustees and the faculty — who wants our students to be cowardly? What about honesty? Who wants our students to be dishonest? What about your practical wisdom? Who wants our students to be foolish? You’re just not going to get many takers. There’s a lot of individual character strengths that I think we can agree are important.

A number of colleges and universities have real visions of flourishing for their students, and that includes meaning and growth. Different institutions may place different weights on these various aspects of student formation, and we are not trying to be prescriptive. What we’re saying is, collect the data and hopefully your strengths align with where your primary areas of focus are. And if not, then it’s time to work on it.

LW: Do you find that schools are interested in flourishing because of the mental health association?

TV: Yes, I think there may be interest in flourishing because of mental health concerns, but we are trying to broaden beyond this. I think there may be roughly equal interest in the flourishing of the students and in these student formation questions. We’ve been leading with student formation as the real innovation here because there are other universities collecting wellbeing data. But all these aspects are related. I do think the mental health and wellbeing crisis amongst youth has gotten much of society to take these matters more seriously and to reflect upon them. What are the sources of that decline? I do think one of the sources is a lack of meaning, a lack of purpose. This is evident in surveys as well, when asking younger adults and students: What do they long for? What are they seeking? I think meaning is increasingly a common theme there.

LW: Four of your student formation questions are included in the Wall Street Journal college rankings. What does that indicate?

TV: We are certainly pleased that they would take these matters seriously, but we’ll let the college and university rankings folks continue their work. We are, however, going to try to use this data collection with the Wall Street Journal to launch the movement, but our goal after this is not to directly participate in any sort of ranking endeavors. We are focusing on the relative strengths and weaknesses of each institution, rather than comparing them. What can you be proud of and perhaps use in your marketing materials? Where are areas for growth, which you may not put in your marketing materials but want to work on internally? And then what do you learn from other institutions that may have different strengths and weaknesses than you?

LW: What’s next for the Academic Flourishing Initiative?

TV: We’re just starting out, and we’re focused on students. But as discussed in the academic piece, ultimately, if we’re talking about the flourishing of a community, that includes faculty and staff as well. So that’s another direction we would like to eventually go. We’d also like to look at alumni and parents. I think employers would be another interesting aspect of this. But we needed to begin somewhere, and students seem to be the right place to being.

Student Mental Health is Complex

Whether you’ve studied psychology for four years or one semester, textbook theories often pale in comparison to the lived experiences of those around you. As I navigated the diverse and layered culture of the University of Miami — both as a student and mental health peer educator — I came to understand just how vital and nuanced mental health is for such a malleable population.

Whenever our group, Counseling Outreach Peer Education (COPE), organized classroom presentations, housing events, or tabling sessions aimed at marginalized communities, I saw firsthand how deeply mental health is shaped by trauma, identity, and the pressures of socioeconomic hardship.

While this may seem like a fairly obvious point to make, a short conversation with someone outside your own echo chamber illustrates just how detached we all are from the dynamics that feed into our mental processes. 

In the banality of it all, we have forgotten how to ground ourselves and acknowledge the emotions that come with our most difficult experiences. One unfortunate effect of an individualistic culture is the tendency to downplay the severity of our traumas.

Mental health is not a one-size-fits-all experience. It is deeply nuanced, shaped by an individual’s upbringing, identity, environment, and lived experience. It cannot be measured solely by diagnostic labels or external behaviors.

Mental health is deeply nuanced, shaped by an individual’s upbringing, identity, environment, and lived experience. It cannot be measured solely by diagnostic labels or external behaviors.

For college students in particular, mental wellbeing exists at the intersection of transition, expectation, and uncertainty. What looks like resilience on the surface may mask exhaustion, and what is labeled as disengagement may actually be emotional burnout.

Understanding this complexity is vital, especially in peer support sessions, where emotional nuance is often the difference between surface-level interaction and meaningful connection.

I know the sentiment may seem rich coming from a student at a private institution, but if you look beyond the name of my university, you’ll see a community filled with students from backgrounds far removed from the monetary comfort that surrounds Coral Gables.

Many of us work tirelessly to support ourselves, trying not to place any additional burden on our families. We throw ourselves into student-led organizations to show our parents that being here means something — that their sacrifices weren’t made in vain. For some, excelling academically and remaining emotionally composed are not just goals. They are expectations. 

Within this context, peer-to-peer roles take on deeper meaning. Student leaders are not only building campus communities but also helping one another manage the weight of invisible pressures.

At nearly every event I participated in through COPE, I spoke with students facing unimaginable financial stress, complicated family dynamics, or overwhelming mental health crises — often with multiple factors compounding at once.

Although the student population is majority White, students from all backgrounds — especially those from marginalized communities — often face significant cultural stigma around mental health. In many cases, families may attempt to dismiss or hide mental health struggles to save face, or they may believe that mental illness cannot exist in a “first world” country.

As a result, some students do not seek psychiatric care and instead turn to peers for emotional support. Peer education becomes vital in these cases, offering a space where students feel safe to share difficult truths they cannot express elsewhere. These conversations are not clinical interventions, but they are deeply effective, meeting students where they are and giving them space to feel heard.

College can be an isolating experience, but in those brief moments as peer educators, we create a space where students feel seen — because they know we understand what they are going through. We are not outsiders offering advice; we are peers navigating the same struggles.

Almost every student is struggling in silence, and what matters most is knowing that both their peers and their administration are showing up with genuine support. The effort to create safe, consistent spaces is what helps prevent this generation from repeating the silence of the last.

All of this reinforces the simple but often overlooked truth: Mental health conversations and peer education are essential to building a healthier student body.

Anisah Steele graduated in 2025 from the University of Miami, where she served as co-chair of Counseling Outreach Peer Education (COPE). Starting this fall, she will pursue her master’s in epidemiology at the University of Florida, hoping to bridge psychology and public health to inform more equitable, evidence-based mental health interventions.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not represent the University of Miami, its Counseling Center, or Counseling Outreach Peer Education (COPE).

When Questions Are the Answer 

At Roanoke College, purpose is part of the brand. With the motto, “Our purpose is to help you find yours,” the school prides itself on guiding young people towards full and rich lives focused on doing good in the world.  

The champion of this bold expression of formative education is Roanoke’s President Frank Shushok. With degrees in education and 30 years of experience in the field, Shushok is passionate about the role higher education can play in young people’s personal and professional growth and has compelling reasons for why they should be intertwined. In this interview with LearningWell, Shushok talks about creating counter-cultures on campus in which students are frequently asked meaningful questions without binary answers.  

LW: How has your background influenced your role as a college president?  

FS: First of all, I am a person of faith, and what I mean by that is my whole life has been shaped by a sense that life is for a purpose. Believing that my own life can push forward goodness in the world is something that both centers me and compels me. I’ve also been focused on interfaith curiosity and collaboration, and along the way, that has drawn me into many conversations about how people find meaning and purpose in their lives. 

Almost all people yearn to understand why they’re here, and I find very few people who, at the end of that question, don’t believe their life should be for something good. Whether I’m sitting at a table with Muslims, Buddhists, agnostics, Christians, or atheists, I have found that when we begin a conversation about how we find meaning and purpose in life, designing a life toward virtue is a really powerful connector. 

That framing says a lot about how I view higher education. I absolutely believe every student should be able to graduate and find work that can support them economically and support their families. But I also want them to find purpose in that work and to find an alignment between their gifts and talents and a need that the world has. When that happens, energy and hope abound, and who doesn’t want more of that?

I’m such a fan of the good work that’s being done on the science of hope and the idea that hope has three actionable components: goals, pathways, and agency. In short, to have hope, you need a goal you’re shooting for and practical ways to go after it. You also need pathways and a consistent belief that you can get there — agency. What I love about the agency part is some people have plenty of agency and some people are growing in their agency, and that’s the golden time when they need someone to walk alongside them until they have the confidence to make progress toward their goals. That’s our job. Fundamentally, I believe that higher education is there to inspire in students a sense of purpose, shaped by character, and that makes life so much richer for them and for everyone in their orbit — their families, communities, workplaces, etc.  

But for whatever reason, I find a lot of college students haven’t thought about how their education can be about connecting to much more than a job-slash-career. Often, it’s not a question or a conversation they’ve been having at home. And it’s not a conversation that they’ve been having in the educational environment they were in prior to college. Sometimes, they make it all the way through college and never have this dialogue with anyone, even within themselves. In fact, they mostly have had one conversation, which is about the return on investment question: “If I go to college, what should I study so I can get a certain job, so I can have a particular level of economic security?” 

Those are also good questions, but they’re much more powerful if they’re coupled with other questions like the imperatives we have in our strategic plan, which champions the exploration of purpose, the pursuit of character, and the graduation of leaders. This is a distinction of the Roanoke experience. We’ve created this entity called PLACE (Purpose, Life And Career Exploration) drawn from our old career center model, and what we’re saying here is this process is about so much more than getting a job.  

LW: Do you think these imperatives are particularly important at this moment in time?  

FS: Absolutely. I found a report released by the Harvard Graduate School of Education sobering. Thirty-six percent of young adults aged 18 to 25 are struggling with anxiety, and 29 percent are dealing with depression. The study reveals some likely suspects, including worrying about finances, feeling pressure to achieve, being concerned with the world unraveling, and feeling like they don’t matter to others. But the number one driver of poor mental health for young adults was a lack of meaning, purpose, and direction in their lives, with 58 percent reporting. We can’t ignore that deep yearning to understand what makes life matter.

LW: How do you go about “meaning making” with students?  

FS: There are many practices to engage, but we need practices that shape culture so that culture shapes practices. What I mean by that is we first ask good questions, which will help us get good at being thoughtful and spur us to think more deeply about better questions worthy of our time. In a way, it’s countercultural. The power of a question is a crucial thing to acknowledge. Occasionally, I experiment to see how long it takes for someone to ask me a meaningful question — a question that asks me to reveal something about who I am, what I believe, where I’m going, what’s motivating me, and why I care.

If you pay attention, you can go a whole day without anyone asking you that kind of question. I think what we can do in a place like Roanoke College or any institution of higher education is to create a culture where we teach ourselves to be countercultural and to ask questions of meaning and purpose, questions that engage all of our not-so-disparate parts: our intellectual selves, our emotional selves, our moral selves. But we have to acknowledge we live in a world where people are moving at warp speed. Technology overwhelms people, and no one’s asking them meaningful questions. In turn, they’re not developing the habit of asking other people meaningful questions. Without meaningful questions, there is little need for astute listeners. And when we don’t develop astute listeners, we’re often not encouraging thoughtful learners.

“Without meaningful questions, there is little need for astute listeners. And when we don’t develop astute listeners, we’re often not encouraging thoughtful learners.”

I have two questions that I keep at the forefront of my mind every day as I approach my work: First, what am I trying to increase the probability of occurring through my daily activities, conversations, and experiences? And second, what am I doing when I’m doing what I’m doing? See, every one of us is engaged in seemingly unidimensional transactions, but underneath them is a greater purpose. Whether you’re serving food in the dining center or you’re advising or you’re standing in front of a classroom, the kinds of questions you ask and the kinds of listening you do and the way that you view your purpose — what you’re doing when you’re doing what you’re doing — it shapes everything. So many people on a college campus don’t understand the incredibly transformational and powerful role they play as educators when they enact the important and powerful pedagogical practice of asking meaningful questions, followed by deep and curious listening.

LW: How do you get a whole campus to embrace this approach?  

FS: It’s slow and iterative, like all transformations. In many ways, the headwinds pull you away from doing these things, so you must drive into the wind. You must be committed and undeterred when the car’s shaky. Sometimes, you have to slow down a little, meaning it will take a little extra time, but it will be worth it. But if you believe that the whole world can shift by doing this, you can stay the course.

There’s a book that I’m particularly fond of by Peter Block called “Community: The Structure of Belonging,” where he talks about the small group as being the unit of transformation. You think of these movements as top-down, and they are to some degree because one of the first things you must do is declare a shift. In our case, we determined and stated that we would make the exploration of purpose, the pursuit of character, and the graduation of leaders a distinction of Roanoke College. 

But a stated plan becomes a cultural transformation at the small group level. It’s the small conversations. What new conversations do we want to have, where will we conduct them, and who at every level will start? These things happen at the micro level, and then they become exponentially more likely to occur naturally on a campus. Over time, you’ll be surprised that everything has been transformed.

My assumption about how we build people of character and shape virtue and moral fiber is that none of it happens outside the context of community, and you can’t desire community until you’ve experienced it. One of the immediate structural challenges when people enter a new environment is to help them experience community. There are a lot of young people who come to a college campus who haven’t experienced it, and they don’t know that they need it. They’re not going to look for it. We have many, many lonely young people. It’s up to us to play a structural role in creating an environment that increases the likelihood that community happens. 

LW: Would you connect this work to what employers say we need more of: people who understand people? 

FS: Yes. When you think about the technical skills that are required to build a 21st century aircraft, it requires incredible knowledge of physics, engineering, aerodynamics. But we also need people that can convene other people from different vantage points and communicate in adaptive ways that allow for understanding based on different acculturation. And look what happens from a character or virtue standpoint. If there is pressure to produce something in a particular timeframe that may not be safe, that’s not a technical question. That’s a moral question.

You really need expertise and character. You need a competent “what” and a firm “why.” You need to know what you’re doing when you’re doing what you’re doing. Are you taking care of humanity? Are you loving people? Are you looking for opportunities to lift others up? Are you viewing yourself as part of a greater community? Those are the kinds of questions, the kinds of values, that when coupled with the job that you have, make such a powerful combination.

LW: Does higher education have a role to play in addressing the polarization we are experiencing on so many levels? 

FS: Yes. I think this is why I’m attracted to this conversation of character. Most of the skills that are important in character formation are learning to listen and asking good questions, which may be as simple as forming a meaningful question, versus a question with a binary answer. You get better at these things when you’re equipped, and then you get to practice in an environment where there are people with diverse viewpoints and different backgrounds. And I think a legitimate critique of higher education is that we have preferred echo chambers and haven’t been interested in listening to and learning from some voices, and there are some good reasons why that’s been the case. But if we view leadership as growing the skill and capacity to bring people together to achieve a common goal that is good for all, then yes, we can widen the circle. And I think those who can do that most effectively must be well-informed people of character. Because that is what will keep you in a place of productivity when times are tough and conversations are hard.  

You can reach LearningWell editor Marjorie Malpiede at mmalpiede@learningwellmag.org with comments, ideas, or tips.

Global Connections

As our plane rolled into the terminal, my seat neighbor asked if it was my first time in Egypt. I told him it was — my first in the country and second in the Middle East, although I hadn’t been back since before I started college and studying Arabic. He told me he was born and raised in Cairo and coming home after a few months coaching squash in Dallas. 

We turned out to have more in common than being about the same age on the same plane. When he heard I went to Harvard, his face lit up in recognition. He quickly listed off the names of squash players, friends of his, who had been students. Some were Egyptian, others French and Canadian. Several of them I knew. We had lived together in the same dorm for years.

Within seconds of landing somewhere new, I met someone familiar. At the time, we laughed about the world being small. Now I wonder if it isn’t just that Harvard is big, its international network as wide as its roots in Cambridge are deep. 

I thought about my chance encounter in Cairo after news broke of the Trump Administration’s order for Harvard to stop enrolling international students. Around a quarter of my classmates came from other countries. The concept of their absence is difficult to grasp and harder to swallow. What rare moments of connection would be missed? How many global touchpoints lost?

After four years studying the Middle East, I felt tied to the place upon arrival not because of the books I read or language I learned but because of the relationships I formed. This international education was a personal one, and it had lasted long after my Arabic began to fade. 

When I was a student, even academic interactions with international students were personal. There was the friend from Marseille who edited my emails in French when I needed to reach out to subjects in Paris for my senior thesis. There was another from Cairo who, sitting across from me in the dining hall, would look up from her own math homework to answer my questions about Arabic. There were countless who deepened my understanding of course material — a place, culture, or tradition — because they reflected on it in the context of their own upbringing.

My most important relationship with someone from outside the U.S. had nothing to do with the Middle East. She was my randomly assigned first-year roommate, now my best friend. 

On paper (and in reality), we’re different. She arrived in the U.S. from the other side of the world for the first time a week before move-in, while I drove the 25 minutes up I-90 from the Boston suburbs the day of. She worried about economics lectures delivered in English, which she was still mastering. I cried over essays assigned in the only language I’d ever really known or been asked to know. She spoke her mother tongue softly on the phone to her mom in the mornings when the time difference was manageable. I sometimes saw mine for lunch on a weekday.

That my house became both our closest home bonded us. We’ve stayed close for a million other reasons: a similar outlook on the value of family and friends; a common sense of humor and appreciation for art; the love of tennis we each inherited from our parents.

More than anything, I think we like listening to each other, chit-chatting. A lot of the time, our views on an idea, a social issue, a personal problem, align. When they don’t, I consider why we’re divided and often, how where each of us comes from has informed the way we think and operate now. That tendency to want to understand difference, I hope, has made me not just a better friend but a better person, maybe even a better writer.

We’re not friends because she’s from another place. But I recognize and admire all the ways her home and upbringing are inseparable from herself  — her braveness and boldness, intelligence, humor, and singular thoughtfulness towards me and the world.

Sometimes a friend from a different country teaches you about the world; other times they teach you about the person you want to be. 

Sometimes a friend from a different country teaches you about the world; other times they teach you about the person you want to be. 

I know other students have had similar experiences. In her Harvard commencement speech last month, master’s student Yurong “Luanna” Jiang opened with her own testament to the university’s global footprint: While completing a summer internship in Mongolia, she received a phone call from classmates in Tanzania who needed help translating the Chinese instructions for their washing machine. “There we were: an Indian and a Thai, calling me, a Chinese in Mongolia, to decipher a washer in Tanzania,” she said. “And we all studied together, here at Harvard.” The crowd erupted.

Those cheers, I’m convinced, signaled agreement as much as pride. I imagine every recent Harvard student and alum could point to an instance when the university shrunk the world down a size, made a strange place knowable. They wouldn’t have had to study the Middle East like me or international development like Jiang, either. These moments usually come down to something with more staying power than a shared class or major: friendship.

Without a Map

In high school, guidance rarely reached me. The encouragement was well-meaning but abstract. I was full of potential, but no one translated that into actionable steps. No roadmap was provided.

I would have to chart my own course through systems structured by geography, class, and institutional habit and designed for students born into different expectations.

My journey through higher education followed no predictable path. It began with my basketball coach, who introduced me to St. Joseph’s College in Maine. Several players like me from Charlotte Amalie, US Virgin Islands, had enrolled there before, creating a tenuous bridge I could follow.

Dr. Rhoan Garnett

I arrived on campus filled with idealism, only to discover that my teammates and I comprised virtually the entire Black student population. For the first time, I had a white roommate, and I befriended people for whom I was the first Black person they had ever met. The cultural terrain matched no map I’d been given.

Then came financial reality. Unable to afford my expected family contribution, I stopped out with my transcript frozen due to unpaid balances. This began a fragmented, eight-year journey across multiple institutions. At the University of Southern Maine, I couldn’t qualify for aid without parental support — federal rules at the time required students to be 23. After a personal loan proved unsustainable, I enlisted in the Air Force. When medical issues intervened, I worked, re-enrolled at 23, and kept working until graduation.

What reads on a résumé as a non-linear path was, in truth, a masterclass in adaptation through systems offering little direction and even fewer second chances.

Seeing the System from Both Sides

My understanding transformed when, with my hard-won undergraduate degree in hand, I joined Bowdoin College’s admissions office. My recruitment trips revealed how significantly zip codes determine college access. At Chicago’s Hyde Park Academy, I found talented students with just one overwhelmed counselor for 1,800 predominantly Black students. Miles away at suburban New Trier, seven counselors served fewer students from far wealthier families. My role shifted from promoting Bowdoin to providing basic application instructions that affluent students took for granted.

The contrast was stark: brilliant minds with untapped potential, shaped by schools whose structures, not intellect, had narrowed their imagined futures.

Even as our team diversified Bowdoin’s student body, I recognized that admission alone wasn’t enough. Students who defied odds to enroll found themselves grappling with belonging and cultural translation, the very territories I had navigated years before.

This firsthand understanding later informed my dissertation research on “undermatch,” illuminating how talented students from historically marginalized backgrounds often enroll below their academic potential, not from lack of ability, but from systemic barriers to information, guidance, and belonging.

Not Grit, But Grace

The prevailing narrative celebrates individual grit while ignoring the systems we navigate. What distinguished my journey wasn’t exceptional perseverance but moments of grace when relationships created bridges across institutional gaps.

At Saint Joseph’s College, classroom discussions about poverty were framed through a white lens. As a low-income Black student among peers who shared my economic background but not my racial experience, I carried the invisible labor of translation, navigating coursework while bridging unacknowledged differences.

What made the difference wasn’t superhuman resilience but relational infrastructure. I pieced mine together slowly, while students in programs like Posse arrived already equipped with mentoring, cohort support, and cultural translation, structures mirroring what intergenerational college-goers receive naturally. When someone explained unwritten rules or affirmed the right to belong, seemingly insurmountable barriers became navigable challenges.

This reveals a deeper truth: educational environments often leave students unprepared for meaningful dialogue across difference. We raise students in segregated spaces, then expect authentic engagement without preparation. When institutions create environments where diverse students build networks and process belonging uncertainty together, they transform individual struggles into collective strength, benefiting everyone, regardless of background.

Designing Belonging

After years navigating systems not built for students like me, I began asking: What would higher education look like if belonging were deliberately designed, not left to chance?

Too often, access becomes the endpoint, and success stories become misleading proof that the system works — classic survivorship bias. Real equity requires shifting from celebrating those who overcome broken systems to designing ecosystems that recognize all students’ needs. This means partnerships between colleges, high schools, and communities, ensuring readiness extends beyond academics to navigational knowledge.

Real equity requires shifting from celebrating those who overcome broken systems to designing ecosystems that recognize all students’ needs.

One promising approach scales the relational infrastructure found in effective mentoring programs. My research shows information travels best through trust. Students act on guidance from people who understand their context. Systems embedding personalized support within human connection democratize opportunity.

These solutions aren’t just technical. They’re deeply personal. I’ve lived in systems that confuse potential with preparedness and mistake access for belonging.

As students, especially from low- and middle-income backgrounds, rightly question whether college is worth its rising cost, I offer no simplistic promise of prosperity. The debt crisis is a matter of justice.

Yet even as the system must change, I hold fast to what Baldwin called the “liberation of consciousness”: education that sharpens critical thinking, deepens empathy, and gives us language to name systems as they are and imagine how they could be.

In a world of rising disinformation and artificial shortcuts, real education helps us discern signal from noise — a clarity I once sought amid the quiet pressure to trade opportunity for survival. It is not only a path to making a living but also to making a life. As Mandela reminded us, it remains one of the most powerful tools for changing the world, not just for ourselves, but for each other.

Inside the System I Once Observed

Even in doctoral education, belonging isn’t automatic. My research on underrepresented students navigating mismatched systems became autobiography. Despite strong initial mentorship, structural supports faded. My focus on equity didn’t align with traditional research models, and I often lacked a peer cohort or institutional roadmap. I was simultaneously in the system and not of it.

Even at the highest levels, I drew my own map in the dark. Reimagining belonging must extend to doctoral spaces, where too many still arrive unsupported, underfunded, and alone. This requires not only mentorship and peer networks but institutional recognition of the financial and emotional labor required to navigate systems never designed for us.

For Those Still Searching

My journey has come full circle, from navigating unfamiliar terrain to charting pathways for others. In my work with postsecondary transitions, I see what statistics miss: for every student who makes it through broken systems, countless others with equal potential never find their way. When I listen to students at their own crossroads, I hear familiar echoes: brilliance without direction, presence without recognition.

What ultimately matters isn’t celebrating exceptional navigation of broken systems but transforming those systems themselves. My story isn’t a model — it’s evidence for why we must design education where belonging is a foundation, not an accident, and where no student must draw their own map in the dark.

Dr. Rhoan Garnett’s work bridges the personal and systemic, informed by his journey as a first-generation immigrant student who navigated educational systems without clear guidance. Through his research-practice consultancy WeBe Collab, he leads transformative initiatives, including postsecondary mindset and transition research for the Gates Foundation and AI-enhanced learning systems at College Unbound. His dissertation on undermatch, mismatch, and reverse transfer — recognized with the Gordon C. Lee Award — continues to inform equity-centered approaches to educational design.

Have Fraternities Changed? A Parent’s Perspective

When the save-the-date from my son’s fraternity landed in my inbox, I was confused. I had never heard of a “Mom’s Weekend.” His older siblings hadn’t participated in the Greek system in college. The email mentioned a few activities and reminded us to bring a contribution for the silent auction. Photos of past baskets were attached to guide our creativity: a customized Yeti cooler filled with beer; a margarita-themed bucket with cactus-shaped glasses, limes, and a handle of tequila; a poker-motif basket with cards, bourbon, whiskey, and cigars.

Mom’s (and Dad’s) Weekend, I learned, is a tradition in the Greek system. It’s an opportunity to have special time with your student and get to know their friends during a number of planned activities. This is no small thing for mothers adjusting to seeing far less of their children, feeling your role in their daily life fade, to some extent, into the background of a Facetime square. Our Mom’s Weekend schedule was pretty open, with just a handful of organized social events, among them a cocktail-reception-house-tour, followed by a pub night, mimosa brunch, and silent auction, with proceeds benefiting chapter activities. 

I’m not a drinker, but all of it was a welcome window into my son’s freshman experience, more than a thousand miles from home. I decided to make it a road trip and visit family along the way. I gassed up the car and packed up my auction contribution — a barbecue-themed basket of grill utensils, spices, and sauces. (Sorry boys, not that kind of sauce.)

But I was coming into the weekend carrying more than my basket. My own experience at a small university was one where fraternities played an outsized role in campus culture and where, as editor of the newspaper, I was drawn by a campus controversy into the darker aspects of Greek loyalty. But that was then; this is now. I was hopeful I would come away from Mom’s Weekend with the sense that belonging to a fraternity today, in its more modern form, represented a positive opportunity for community among young men, including my son.

He is a private person, and I had only the vaguest idea of how his pledging process had gone earlier in the spring. Because he hadn’t participated in many of the fall rush activities — meaning, he hadn’t let it dominate his orientation to college social life — his options were limited, though he said the house he’d joined was “chill” with “good guys.” In his shorthand, that meant the parties weren’t the craziest, or the members too intense about their demands on his time. His grades were good, he had a steady girlfriend in his dorm, and nothing about the road to initiation had set off alarm bells at least from our parental perspective. We’d gotten a letter from the fraternity president assuring parents that they took their anti-hazing vows seriously.

***

During my own senior spring in college, I was working with the newspaper staff late one night to close an issue when the telephone rang on the office wall. An anonymous caller claimed to have recently broken into a secretive fraternity’s notorious windowless chapel and stolen decades of ledgers. In the pages, long-ago members had allegedly recorded their thoughts and activities, and over the years, generations of brothers had added notes the margins. The caller offered to bring me the ledgers.

At the time, I had only an English major’s best guess at the intricacies of journalistic freedoms and liabilities, something I would later study as part of a master’s degree in my chosen field. But I suspected I should not accept original stolen materials. So the caller made photocopies and left them in my car. There were references to some unsolved crimes on campus, chilling racial commentary, coded language about sexual encounters, and hazing episodes that had taken an alarming turn. More recent entries addressed changing rules and attitudes on campus and vowed that if the house were compelled to “build bridges,” they should only give enough lip service to remain the same. I began writing an article and called university administrators to let them know. They didn’t tell me I couldn’t run the piece. But they did advise against it and said they couldn’t insulate me from repercussions. 

After the article appeared, the rallies and protests began. There were calls to suspend or ban the fraternity and some to eliminate the Greek system on campus, a move that had been raised for years. Fraternity and sorority members pointed to the benefits of bonding and the charitable deeds done. The fraternity’s alumni leaders flew in with lawyers and investigators, determined to find out who had been behind the theft. I laid low. It wasn’t my place to offer opinions or get involved in debates. But I’d taken the call and written the article, and my car tire was slashed, and the university house where I lived as an RA had a window broken. I heard the fraternity’s legal team wanted to speak with me, but there was never a subpoena. The state’s shield law protected journalists’ right not to reveal their sources, but whether that covered university students remained to be seen. My father asked me to keep a low profile because he’d rather not take out a second mortgage to explore that precedent in court. 

Things quieted down a few weeks later when students left campus for the summer, but the fallout went on for years. The fraternity was suspended, moved to private property, and went underground. The faculty voted to abolish the Greek system, but the motion was symbolic and not supported by the administration. After I graduated, I received a manilla envelope in the mail with a printed list of companies that supposedly would never hire me. A year later, after I’d begun working at a magazine, I had a surprise visit. The receptionist said an industry publicist had arrived for an appointment and buzzed a man inside. He sat down in my cubicle, pulled a tape recorder out of his briefcase (there was once a thing called a briefcase), and started asking questions about the night I received the call at the newspaper office. 

***

Then and now, the takeaway for me about the Greek system is this: What happens when impressionable young adults join societies like these? Membership fosters group loyalty through a secretive selection and initiation process, rituals, identity, and language. To what extent is that loyalty inclined to supersede the individual morality these young people are still developing? This is the place where you live and (literally, with fraternity cooks) the hand that feeds you. These are the people you spend your weekends with, gravitate towards in classes, and have likely committed to live with going forward. Brotherhood, and all the ways that is entwined in your life, is a lot of your world. 

Loyalty is a funny thing when you live smack in the middle of it. It isn’t just a friendship where you go out for pizza and play video games, particularly if something doesn’t sit right in this new family-away-from-home. If we stick with the video game metaphor, you’ve been initiated by the people who created the world-building behind it. That shared game is your universe, and it feels like everyone in other Greek organizations have their own, too. The roles and personas and tones are set, whether it’s inside jokes or repeated stories, or old ledgers. 

The experiences you have in college, positive and negative, go on to shape your character and identity, as well as your resilience in the face of adversity. The lessons learned during these years contribute to making you you — either because of the environment, or in spite of it. A college’s atmosphere set by the administration and faculty can make the difference between a student feeling like their school has their back, or doesn’t. Mine didn’t. 

The lessons learned during these years contribute to making you you — either because of the environment, or in spite of it.

Mom’s Weekend was, to me, a smashing success, in part because most of what we did together existed beyond the footprint of the “weekend” itself. My son and I did a few of the organized activities, and I met some of his new fraternity brothers. But we skipped the bar crawls, and because it was too rainy to hike, went to the gym to work out. We had a delightful three-hour dinner at a local restaurant, and I got to know his lovely, down-to-earth girlfriend. She described for me her own pledging process, the pressure from sororities to present a cool image that’s your own impeccable brand, right down to a written statement about yourself and proof of a masterful social media presence. She is pursuing a demanding major and seemed to have kept pledging in perspective, though she saw it wreak havoc on others. A few weeks after Mom’s Weekend, I saw a story in the news that a fraternity at my son’s school had just been suspended for 40 years — though it was later revised to 15 — for repeatedly violating hazing rules while they were already on probation. They had been paddling pledges at the off-campus home of an alum. 

My son has confided to his father that he’s had some mild pressure from upperclassmen who say he doesn’t spend enough time at the house. He’s already committed to living in the fraternity during his sophomore year and, just recently, also in his junior year at one of the fraternity’s off-campus annexes. He tells us that kind of advance signing is required so that the brotherhood can retain its hold on valuable rentals. I’ve long felt that my boy is his own dog and doesn’t roll over to social pressure when he has a solid home base. Still, it’s not lost on me that this housing commitment years into the future in effect makes the fraternity the primary scaffolding of his college experience. This, before he’s even declared his major. That’s a lot of clout for an organization to have over my kid, an organization I can’t say I know much of anything about. I guess I can say that the house was pretty clean during the tour.

And yet. Another part of my maternal brain knows that belonging is so important to young people’s sense of connection and community. My son’s age-cohort was the one that entered high school remotely as the pandemic did its damage, and part of that damage was their dislocation from their peers and their academic world, slouched in front of Zoom, hoodies up. The last thing I want for him is isolation. What I do want for him is the development of a discerning character — steady in his sense of himself and true to his values, whoever he’s with, whatever they are doing. 

Leaving dinner that night, my son and I decided not to go to “around the clock” at the favorite local bar, where pitchers started off in the single digits in the afternoon, then go up by a dollar every hour. I dropped him and his girlfriend back at their dorm, then headed back toward my rental house. But first I had to stop back at the restaurant, where I’d forgotten my umbrella. 

I parked as close as I could on a side street behind the main drag of town, home to many of the annexes like the one by son had just committed to for his junior year. Just in front of me, a group of laughing young men weaved on and off the sidewalk, shirtless in the 40-degree torrential rain. From the other side of the street, another group called out to them, chanting something about… I don’t know what, but it seemed to be positive, or maybe they were mad. They ran and crashed into each other in the middle of the street with perfectly executed chest bumps, delighted or angry, yelling things I couldn’t understand. I gave them a wide berth, more than happy to be an inconsequential NPC in the background of their game. 

When I returned to the rental, my two housemate-moms were hanging out in the living room with their sons, watching basketball and eating popcorn. They’d gone to “around the clock,” then wanted to come back and chill at the farmhouse and watch TV. As the rain pounded the windows and wind threw the screen door back and forth, the four slouched, wrapped in blankets on a sectional in the dark room, ageless in comfortable silence. 

The Weight of the World

Imagine holding a backpack full of bricks. Each brick is something you’re told you should care about. “Speak up about racism.” “Be an entrepreneur.” “Get an internship.” “Fight for the planet.” “Be strong for your family.” “Post the right thing.” “Don’t mess up.” “Make a difference.”

No one tells you how to carry the backpack. No one teaches you how to take breaks. Or how to breathe. Or how to say, “I’m not okay.”

This is the silent story of so many students. We look fine on the outside, but inside we’re overwhelmed. We scroll on Instagram and see everyone achieving. We try to keep up. But no one posts their fears, their breakdowns, or their quiet days of doubt.

When I was a student, I often felt like I needed to be perfect. Get perfect grades. Land the dream job. Be kind, confident, smart, and calm — every single day. I felt like I had to fix things that were broken in the world. Climate change. Mental health. Inequality. And I wasn’t alone.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve had honest conversations with more than 200 students. What I heard wasn’t just stress. It was a quiet cry for help.

They said things like:

“I care about so many things, but I don’t know where to start.”

“I’m tired of pretending I’m okay when I’m falling behind.”

“I feel like I have to change the world, but no one showed me how to take care of me.”

We tell young people to lead movements, fix broken systems, and speak up for justice. But we forget to give them the tools to handle that pressure. We forget they’re still learning who they will be as people. And we rarely say, “You’re good and strong just as you are.” This isn’t just a college problem. It’s a people problem. It’s what happens when expectations grow louder than support.

This isn’t just a college problem. It’s a people problem. It’s what happens when expectations grow louder than support.

Let’s be clear: Stress isn’t always bad. Some stress is actually good for us. It pushes us to show up, to prepare, to grow. I have worked at startups, as well as big consulting firms like Deloitte and EY, and yes, everything you’ve heard is true. There’s pressure, deadlines, new problems every day. But I also saw something else. I saw how stress, when supported with teamwork, trust, and celebrating small wins, can make you stronger.

Some of my most demanding managers became my greatest teachers. I learned how to think fast, stay calm, and keep going because I wasn’t alone. I had people to guide me, challenge me, and remind me that growth doesn’t happen in silence. It happens when we reflect, learn, and lean on others.

That’s the difference between healthy stress and harmful stress. It’s about not just how much you carry but whether you feel supported during that time. When we never pause, when we never reflect or ask for help, stress turns into burnout. And burnout turns into breakdowns.

Action feels better than overthinking.

An important lesson I learned from my mentors and coaches who supported me in my journey is that purpose is what wakes you up. Not the buzz. Not the likes. Not the trends. Don’t wait for motivation. Build discipline.

It’s not about how strong you feel one day.

It’s about showing up, even when you don’t feel like it.

It’s about what you do again and again.

We don’t become leaders by talking. We grow by doing. And if young people are taught how to take small steps, one at a time, they build confidence. They take action. They shine.

I wish someone had told me sooner, so I’m amplifying these lessons here: 

Your journey doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s.

You can be both kind and bold.

Asking for help is a strength.

You don’t have to save the world alone.

We need to give youth these messages with tools and mentors that can back them up. We need to remind them that they matter as people, not just as achievers. We can create systems that support their growth, not just their performance. We can move from saying, “Take care of your mental health,” to actually showing them how. 

We tell them it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being present.

We don’t need a generation of burnt-out heroes. We need a generation of strong, kind, purpose-driven humans. That’s how we build a better world. And that’s how we shine. 

Deepanshi Bansal is a Babson College M.B.A. graduate (class of 2024) and founder of ShineQuo, a student-centered space combining action-oriented life coaching, peer support, and executive functioning support to build essential life skills for college and beyond.

Not by the Book

Here at LearningWell, we are always interested in new approaches university leaders take to foster community on campus—with students, among students, and within the faculty and administration. So our ears pricked up when, at a recent gathering of educators, we heard Connie Book, the president of Elon University, speak about her practice of ambushing parents with good news phone calls. 

We asked her to expand on this and other things she does to help cultivate connection. Her experience and insights tap into her years as the first female provost and dean at The Citadel, a military college in Charleston, S.C., and far earlier to her own upbringing in a large family as the sixth of nine children.

LW: I heard you speak recently about your Friday phone calls to parents of students who’d done something noteworthy. I love this idea of catching students in the act of doing something good. Can you tell us more about it? 

CB: Sometimes it’s when they’ve done something like won an academic award, but other times it’s when they’ve taken on some role on campus, like they’re on a committee or helping us with something new that we’re trying to accomplish. Or sometimes it’s just students that I think, Oh, he’s really interesting. He just makes the student body more present. It’s such an easy thing to do. The parents are always grateful, and the kids are, too.

I do it on Friday afternoons because at the end of a long week, Fridays can be a day that some unpleasant things get dumped before the weekend. When I worked at The Citadel, the military guys would never take appointments on Friday afternoons because they said that’s when the second lieutenants came in and wanted to dump the problems on them, and they didn’t want to let this ruin their weekend. So it’s my realization that my Fridays could, depending on what was going on campus, really stage either a terrible weekend or a relaxing weekend. So I started being a lot more intentional about Friday afternoons. 

LW: As a mother of college kids myself, I imagine it could be really moving for a parent to get that call. Can you give us an example?

CB: The first call I made was in my second year here at Elon when one of our first-generation college students won a Goldwater Award. If you’re in higher ed, you understand what that means. But I thought, I think her parents don’t even realize what a significant achievement that was. So I just decided on Friday afternoon, I had the staff pull her record, and I called her father. They see the out-of-state area code for the university come up on their phone, so the first thing I say is, “Your child is healthy and fine and not in trouble.” Just to get all that off the table. I did have such a powerful conversation with him that day. It felt so good to share with him what a remarkable daughter he had and that she was doing such good things, and then explain what the Goldwater was and how much our community here enjoyed having her. And then he shared about all the hard work she had done to get to college from the time she was very young. It was a conversation about the hard work that young people do to make sure they have a good opportunity, the process, and the appreciation when scholarships come through and they can afford college. Just leaving home from Arizona to come to Elon was a risk. After I hung up, I thought, Wow, I should do this more often because it was driving my sense of mission and purpose about the work. You can get so wrapped up in politics or budgeting or some other challenge that it can be a barrier to really feeling the mission, and on those calls, I feel the mission and the impact it’s having. 

LW: What are some other ways you make yourself more present for the student body? Do I recall hearing you mention something about Ping-Pong?

CB: Yes. Friday is my day to connect with students. So I play table tennis at one o’clock for an hour. They sign up on a whiteboard. There’s always a line there to play. Students will say, “This was on my bucket list, to come play with you before I graduated.” I have parents show up, because they’ve heard I do it, and they’re good at it. So they’re like, “Oh, the next time I’m on campus, I want to play the president.”

LW: And how did this activity occur to you? 

CB: When my son was in middle school, he really started answering every question with one word answers. “Yes. No.” I could not get him to talk about anything. So I told him that winter, let’s bring the Ping-Pong table inside. We had played occasionally, but we started playing every day. And then I noticed that because you talk when you play, he would start talking more after a couple of sets. 

That’s true with the students here, too. I’ll always say, “Well, what’s your major? Where are you from?” And we get talking. My son now is an Olympic-rated table tennis player, so I know how to play, and I like to win. If they have a good hit and beat me, I’m always like, “Aaand … What’s your name again?”

LW: So this game isn’t just a walk in the park! But that is true about communication with teens, having that shared activity to get you talking. 

CB: I actually do walks with students, too, a couple of times a semester. I’ll invite student groups, post where I’m going, and anybody can show up and join us. What’s really funny about that is that students, when they see where I’m going to be, sometimes they do come to lobby me for different things. I had some theater students ask for a budget increase. It’s almost like I had a little tracker on me. “Yeah, we know where she is.”

LW: Ha! Future politicians. What about community building with faculty, staff, administration? Do you have strategies for outreach with them as well?

CB: I would say our culture is pretty open already. Like last week, I had two faculty conversations that I announced literally on Monday and had them on Friday. And I always have audience microphones. I have three suggestion boxes on campus and an online one where anybody can tell me anything.

LW: Are they used? 

CB: Yes. And they do tell me anything. Some are like, “The doorknobs are broken here.” But they are usually about things that make the workplace or the learning environment better. “Have you considered doing this?” 

I am a believer in letting people know you are open, saying to them essentially, “Hey, if you see something, let me know because I can’t see what you can see.” It may not create the solution they have in mind. Bring me the problem, but don’t get too wedded to the solution. They have to be open to us problem-solving together. 

LW: Do you have an example of some kind of problem brought to you that way?

CB: We have an ombuds program here for the faculty. It’s very official. You have to do the training. We pay a stipend. But one of the staff people that serves as the ombuds also happens to be an employee in Human Resources. And people said, “I’m not comfortable going to HR to talk to the ombuds person because it’s supposed to be a confidential unit.” I had never thought of that because we have been doing this through HR for a long time, and it never occurred to me that people saw that as a disciplinary unit so that there was hesitancy. We did add another ombuds person to the mix. And we worked together on the job description to give people more choice. 

LW: What kinds of things did you learn from the requests coming into the ombuds person? 

CB: What was really powerful about that is that I was always thinking it was workplace disagreements, but I learned a lot that people need somebody to talk to about personal challenges. They were coming to her for things like food insecurity, car repairs. And I was like, Wow, it’s almost like pastoral care. We have on-site counseling services for students but not employees. So it was a good learning moment for me as well. 

LW: Is that going to spark any kind of a change in the way you offer counseling services or pastoral services for employees? 

CB: It could. We have a chaplain here, and the chaplain has an emergency fund. Part of it was letting the ombuds person know they have a resource in the chaplain, who can help. But for some people, religion might be a barrier, too. 

LW: Is there anything else you’d like to add about community building? We’re at a very difficult moment nationally—both socially and politically, as well as educationally. Is there anything you do at Elon to break down barriers? 

CB: Well, we have 7,000 students on campus at Elon, and there’s a longstanding community dead-period—a time where you don’t have any classes—on Tuesday and Thursday mornings around 10 o’clock. On Tuesdays, we have College Coffee—free coffee and donuts outside when the weather is good—and there’s always several hundred people that come. And then on Thursdays, we have a spiritual program with singing. We’re not religiously affiliated. We’re independent. But there’s certainly a really vibrant feeling with multiple faiths represented. 

Also, we have a street that runs down the middle of campus, and during really difficult times, we will put a chalkboard out there. The day after the election, for example, we put up boards inviting the hopes that students had about the future. Politically, we don’t overly lean one way or the other, so the responses were really down the middle. Like, “There’s happiness for all to find joy in every day.” Or, “Strength and unity. God is good. We can all love and accept each other, no questions asked.” And then we kept them up in the student union for several weeks. I decided to take some pictures of them because every now and then I like to remember that part of what we’re doing on college campuses is the critical work of a future that we won’t be alive to witness, but we are planting all these seeds for a really strong future for all of us all around the world. To me, that is purpose-driven work. And I like to pull it out and be reminded.

“I like to remember that part of what we’re doing on college campuses is the critical work of a future that we won’t be alive to witness.”

LW: You have a very insightful and empathic way of talking about students and the experience of leading a university, something people might not expect to evolve from working in a military environment. How did you come by this mindset? 

CB: That’s a really good question. Growing up in my own family, I’m number six of nine kids, and both of my parents were educators. I think about all the great lessons of sharing and compromise and negotiation that you learn in a family. I think one of the things as a president that I think a lot about is that I see and witness things. And then my job is often to tell the story of that to people who influence the resources and regulatory policy that shape the world we live in on campus. 

LW: Thank you for that plug for the benefits of a large family. I have five children, but it doesn’t always feel like the world sees that as a positive. 

CB: Oh yeah, the good lessons of humility, of being an equal and doing your part. My job was to do the laundry growing up, three loads a day. 

LW: The chore chart. And the role of fairness and truth-telling. And squabbling and learning to work it out. Those are powerful things.

CB: I have been really aware of the power of this witnessing piece. And so now I think I’m intentionally looking all the time, talking to parents, and wanting to be effective in sharing the power of the work that’s going on on college campuses. Especially at a time when the negative rhetoric is suggesting that it’s not needed and it’s not worth it. Yet we all know 99 percent of what we’re experiencing on a college campus is good and powerful. 

Reclaiming the Flame

In the myth of Prometheus, the Titan who dared to bring fire—symbolic of knowledge and enlightenment—to humanity is eternally punished by the gods. That ancient allegory resonates powerfully today as America’s universities stand increasingly constrained by forces that seek to shackle academic inquiry, undercut faculty authority, and reshape the mission of higher education itself. As detailed in my research “Prometheus on the Quad,” these attacks have intensified not just from reactionary politics but from creeping bureaucratization, misguided federal funding incentives, and ideological rigidity across the political spectrum.

But if faculty are the keepers of the academic flame, students are its essential beneficiaries—and too often, the first to feel the chill when the fire dims.

This connection between faculty autonomy and student engagement is more than symbolic. It is empirical. Institutions that promote genuine academic freedom, uphold tenure protections, and invest in faculty-led instruction consistently report stronger student satisfaction, deeper classroom engagement, and better post-graduate outcomes. The wellbeing of students is not an isolated variable; it is intrinsically tied to the institutional health of the professoriate and the educational environments they co-create.

The wellbeing of students is not an isolated variable; it is intrinsically tied to the institutional health of the professoriate and the educational environments they co-create.

A Fragile Contract: Faculty Freedom and Student Impact

The erosion of tenure, the expansion of contingent faculty, and administrative bloat—each detailed extensively in “Prometheus on the Quad”—do more than destabilize careers. They reshape classrooms. When faculty must teach overloaded course rosters, adapt to top-down curricular mandates, or fear repercussions for discussing controversial topics, students receive a sanitized, diluted, and ultimately less transformative education.

The result is a classroom culture of caution, not curiosity.

Students learn not just content but modes of thinking, inquiry, and expression from their instructors. A professor who is constrained in their teaching—by fear, by surveillance, or by policy—is unlikely to foster critical thinking or intellectual courage in their students. On the other hand, students in classrooms led by supported, secure, and respected faculty report greater psychological safety, a stronger sense of belonging, and increased motivation to participate in campus life and democratic discourse.

Engagement Rooted in Relationships

Research continues to show that meaningful relationships with faculty are among the strongest predictors of student retention, academic success, and wellbeing. The Gallup-Purdue Index found that graduates who had a professor who “cared about them as a person” were more than twice as likely to thrive in all areas of wellbeing (social, purpose, community, financial, and physical). But nurturing these relationships takes time, autonomy, and institutional support—resources increasingly siphoned away by administrative priorities or subsumed by faculty burnout and precarity.

In contrast, when institutions emphasize faculty mentorship, peer collaboration, and interdisciplinary learning, they empower students to co-create knowledge and find personal meaning in their education. At its best, this is the promise of higher education: not a rote path to credentials but a dynamic space for identity formation, moral development, and intellectual awakening.

A Campus Culture of Inquiry—Not Ideology

One of the most powerful ideas in “Prometheus on the Quad” is that neither the political Left nor Right holds a monopoly on the impulse to restrict inquiry. Whether through right-wing legislative censorship or performative DEI mandates, the consequences are the same: a narrowing of the questions that faculty are permitted to ask and, by extension, students are allowed to explore.

Student engagement and mental wellness suffer when campuses become battlegrounds for ideological conformity rather than havens for rigorous, open dialogue. True inclusivity doesn’t mean sheltering students from discomfort; it means equipping them with the tools to encounter, understand, and respectfully challenge competing ideas. That cannot happen when either political pressure or administrative fiat dictate what knowledge is safe to teach.

Universities must actively protect spaces for dissent, ambiguity, and difference—not only to uphold democratic ideals but to foster student agency and resilience. Students trained only to navigate echo chambers or scripted “correctness” are poorly prepared for the complexity of civic life or professional decision-making.

Structural Reforms to Fuel Student Flourishing

To reverse these trends and reignite the transformative mission of higher education, institutions should take tangible steps that strengthen both faculty freedom and student wellbeing:

1. Revitalize Tenure and Shared Governance

Tenure is not merely job protection. It is the bedrock of intellectual risk-taking and long-term mentorship. Universities should recommit to robust tenure systems and ensure faculty have meaningful roles in curriculum design, hiring, and governance.

2. Rebalance Administrative Spending

As highlighted in the source essay, the explosion of non-instructional administrative roles diverts resources from classrooms. Universities should conduct audits of spending and reinvest in instructional staff and academic advising.

3. Support Faculty-Student Research Collaboration

Paid research assistantships, co-authored projects, and inquiry-based learning deepen engagement and provide students with firsthand experience of the scientific and scholarly process.

4. Protect Academic Freedom and Viewpoint Diversity

Institutions should craft clear, consistent policies that defend free expression for both faculty and students, while resisting partisan pressures from donors, legislatures, or advocacy groups.

5. Center Pedagogy in Faculty Development

Offer training and support for inclusive, high-impact teaching practices that are grounded in evidence—not ideology—and which prepare students to engage across lines of difference.

6. Reimagine the Role of DEI with Academic Integrity

Diversity initiatives should enhance rather than dictate inquiry. Support frameworks that amplify underrepresented voices while ensuring that faculty retain the freedom to pursue diverse intellectual paths.

Conclusion: Lighting the Way Forward

In times of political instability, misinformation, and cynicism, the university remains one of the last best places to model the values of reason, reflection, and rigorous dialogue. But it can only do so if it protects the very people tasked with carrying that torch: its faculty.

To engage students, we must first empower scholars. To promote wellbeing, we must preserve the freedom to ask difficult questions. And to build a future of informed, thoughtful citizens, we must ensure the light of Prometheus does not go out on our campuses.

Ken Corvo is an associate professor in the School of Social Work at Syracuse University