Why Dating/Hooking Up Is Not a Good Idea for College Students and New Grads

In an era marked by rising tuition costs, crushing student loan debt, mental health crises, and economic uncertainty, college students and new graduates face mounting pressures from all directions. Amid this storm, the expectation to date—or participate in hookup culture—can seem like a rite of passage. But for many young adults, especially those without privilege or financial safety nets, dating and hooking up can distract from more urgent priorities, expose them to emotional and physical risks, and reinforce the same systems of inequality that exploit them.

It’s time we rethink the glorified image of the college romance and the casual hookup as liberating experiences.

Emotional Labor with Little Return

Dating and especially hooking up are often sold as part of the “college experience.” But what’s rarely discussed is the emotional cost: the anxiety, confusion, and heartbreak that often follow. For young people navigating their identities, finances, and future, romantic entanglements can amplify insecurities and derail emotional stability. Rather than providing intimacy or connection, dating in college often reinforces performative behavior and emotional detachment.

This is especially true in environments dominated by hookup culture, where emotional vulnerability is stigmatized and communication is shallow. A culture of disposability encourages people to use each other for attention or sex, often under the illusion of freedom, when in fact it's a distraction from deeper needs—like belonging, purpose, and healing.

Financial and Time Costs in a Precarious Economy

College students and new graduates are already financially strapped. A “cheap date” may still mean a $40 night out—money that could go toward groceries, transit, or student loan interest. For many working-class students, romantic relationships can add financial burdens they can't afford. Some even take on extra jobs or credit card debt just to impress a partner or maintain appearances.

Time is another critical resource. Hours spent chasing love or sex are hours not spent studying, building networks, applying for jobs, or sleeping. In the high-stakes reality of a declining job market and disappearing middle class, time and energy are luxuries. Romantic distractions can delay career paths, lower GPAs, or worsen burnout.

Exploitation, Power Imbalances, and Gendered Harms

In practice, dating and hooking up are rarely egalitarian. Women, nonbinary students, LGBTQ+ individuals, and students of color often face higher risks of exploitation, coercion, and assault. The Title IX system is overwhelmed and unevenly enforced, and many survivors are left unsupported, retraumatized, or silenced. The cultural normalization of hookup culture—facilitated by dating apps and alcohol-fueled party scenes—often masks deeply entrenched power dynamics.

For young men, toxic masculinity pressures them into performative sexuality and emotional suppression. For women and gender minorities, the stakes can be even higher, involving bodily autonomy, safety, and self-worth.

And while some college relationships are supportive and healthy, many are not. They may involve manipulation, codependence, or even intimate partner violence. At a time when mental health services are underfunded and stigmatized, these dynamics can go unnoticed and untreated.

The Illusion of Liberation Through Dating Apps

Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, and other apps promise connection and empowerment. In reality, they are profit-driven platforms that thrive on superficiality and dissatisfaction. Their algorithms commodify users, pushing us toward endless swiping rather than meaningful interaction. For many students, these apps become addictive distractions—dopamine hits that erode real-world social skills and deepen loneliness.

Moreover, dating apps collect massive amounts of personal data and monetize insecurity. Like the student loan system or the for-profit college industry, they prey on vulnerability and sell back false hope.

Post-Graduation Drift and Relationship Fallout

New graduates face enough instability: uncertain housing, job searches, cross-country moves, and identity crises. Romantic relationships often buckle under this pressure. What seemed like a connection during college may not survive the chaos of adult life. Graduates may find themselves navigating breakups while unemployed, uninsured, or thousands of miles from their support networks.

In worst-case scenarios, toxic relationships extend into early adulthood, delaying independence, or entrenching cycles of emotional or financial dependence. This is especially dangerous for those without parental safety nets or stable careers.

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Focus on Solidarity, Not Distraction

College students and new graduates don’t need romance or hookups to feel validated. They need community, purpose, and protection in a hostile economy. They need peer networks, mentorship, paid internships, unionized jobs, and access to affordable mental healthcare—not more heartbreak, ghosting, or gaslighting.

The myth of carefree college romance serves the same system that sells the dream of the American meritocracy. It diverts attention from the real structural challenges young people face and seduces them with fantasies that rarely play out as promised.

Rather than chasing validation through dating, young people might be better served investing in themselves, building collective power, and reimagining what intimacy and care can look like outside the logic of profit and performance.

Sources:

• The End of Love by Eva Illouz

• Trick Mirror by Jia Tolentino

• American College Health Association reports

• Pew Research Center on Gen Z dating and loneliness

• CDC: Sexual Violence on College Campuses

• Student Loan Hero: Average student loan debt statistics

• National Center for Education Statistics

• Data from Hookup culture studies, Lisa Wade (Occidental College)

Let the Higher Education Inquirer know your thoughts: contact us at gmcghee@aya.yale.edu.

Brutal and Beautiful: Advice for Incoming Freshmen on Navigating Life Mindfully

Starting college is a moment filled with excitement, hope, and a sense of possibility. It’s a time when many young people step into new independence, meet people from different walks of life, and discover passions that can shape their future. Yet, alongside the promise and energy, college life is often brutally challenging.

As an incoming freshman, it’s important to approach these years with mindfulness—aware that your experience will be a mix of hardship and beauty, setbacks and breakthroughs, confusion and clarity. The journey through higher education rarely follows a simple or linear path.

The Brutal Side
College can be harsh. The academic demands are intense, and the pressure to succeed weighs heavily. Many students face mental health struggles, financial strain, social isolation, and systemic barriers that can feel overwhelming. For some, the cost of tuition and living expenses leads to debt that will shadow their lives for years. For others, the classroom and campus culture can reveal inequalities and injustices that challenge ideals of fairness and opportunity.

You might encounter moments of self-doubt, exhaustion, or even failure. These experiences are part of the process—not signs of personal inadequacy. Recognizing the difficulties without sugarcoating them prepares you to face challenges without being crushed by them.

The Beautiful Side
Despite the hardships, college also offers moments of profound growth and connection. You’ll find friendships that change you, mentors who inspire you, and ideas that ignite your imagination. College can be a space to explore your identity, challenge assumptions, and develop a clearer sense of purpose.

The beauty of this experience is often found in resilience: how you respond to setbacks, how you carve out community, and how you claim your voice in academic and social spaces. It’s in the small victories—a paper well-written, a difficult conversation that leads to understanding, or the realization that you belong.

Being Mindful
Mindfulness means paying attention to your experiences as they come, without judgment or avoidance. It means acknowledging pain and joy alike and understanding that both are temporary, fluid parts of your college life. Cultivating this awareness can help you maintain balance and perspective.

Some ways to practice mindfulness during college include:

• Taking time to reflect regularly, through journaling or quiet moments.

• Seeking support when needed, whether through campus counseling, peer groups, or trusted adults.

• Staying aware of your physical health, as body and mind are deeply connected.

• Setting realistic expectations and celebrating progress, not just outcomes.

Chapter 1

Your college years will not be perfect or painless. They will be a complex mix of brutal and beautiful moments. Embracing that truth equips you with resilience and compassion—both for yourself and for others navigating this journey.

Approach your freshman year with open eyes and an open heart. The experiences you gather, both difficult and inspiring, will shape who you become—not just as a student, but as a person ready to engage with the world.

Welcome to this chapter of your life. It’s as challenging as it is transformative, and your mindful presence in it will make all the difference.

Throwing the Flag for the Fourth Time: U.S. College Students Are Still Gambling with Student Aid

In this fourth installment of our continuing investigation into student gambling, one issue looms larger than ever: the misuse of student financial aid to fund risky betting behavior. This is not an isolated anomaly or a cautionary footnote. It is a widespread and worsening crisis that reveals the vulnerabilities in a higher education system increasingly entangled with digital addiction and financial exploitation.

An estimated one in five U.S. college students has used student aid—whether federal loans, Pell Grants, or other education funds—to place bets, often through mobile sports betting platforms. These findings, confirmed in recent surveys by Intelligent.com and state gambling councils, expose a troubling truth: higher education is not just failing to prevent this behavior; it may be silently enabling it.

Since the 2018 Supreme Court decision that overturned the federal ban on sports betting, online gambling has exploded in popularity. Students can now place bets with a few taps on their phones, often encouraged by targeted promotions, social media ads, and campus culture. A 2023 NCAA survey showed that nearly 60 percent of 18- to 22-year-olds had engaged in sports betting, with as many as 41 percent betting on their own school’s teams. What was once considered deviant is now normalized.

Financial aid, originally intended to help students pay for tuition, housing, and books, has become a silent reservoir for gambling losses. Students who misuse these funds often do so quietly, making it easy for the behavior to go undetected until academic or financial disaster strikes. This is not only a matter of personal irresponsibility but of systemic neglect. With little oversight of how aid money is spent after disbursement, students can easily divert those funds toward high-risk activities without triggering institutional red flags.

The consequences are severe. Students who gamble with loan money frequently fall behind on rent and tuition. Some accumulate additional credit card debt. Many report heightened levels of anxiety, depression, and academic disengagement. A subset drops out entirely—often with thousands of dollars in nondischargeable debt and no degree to show for it. What we’re witnessing is the transformation of long-term educational debt into a form of speculative entertainment, with young people bearing the cost and the state underwriting the risk.

Colleges and universities, for the most part, have done little to stop this. Fewer than a quarter have any formal gambling policy in place. Counseling centers are often underfunded and untrained in gambling-specific treatment. Awareness campaigns are limited and usually reactive. Meanwhile, the gambling industry continues to rake in profits and expand its reach on college campuses, sometimes through sponsorship deals or targeted advertisements that blur the lines between athletics, student identity, and wagering.

The NFL Foundation’s $600,000 commitment to gambling awareness may be well-intentioned, but it’s woefully insufficient when compared to the scale of the problem and the profits at stake. While a handful of schools have taken steps to limit advertising or incorporate gambling risk into financial literacy programs, these measures remain the exception rather than the rule.

This is not a moral panic. It is a public health crisis driven by the same factors that have fueled other digital addictions: rapid technological change, corporate lobbying, student precarity, and institutional inaction. It is part of a broader shift toward what we’ve described in previous articles as “digital dope”—a system in which tech companies engineer compulsive behaviors for profit, and colleges quietly adjust to a reality where student attention, money, and mental health are fair game.

The normalization of gambling, especially among male students, mirrors other troubling trends we’ve reported: rising alcohol abuse, declining classroom engagement, and growing alienation from educational institutions. Many of these students are not just gambling because it’s fun—they are using it to escape a deeper sense of disconnection, uncertainty, and despair.

To meaningfully address this crisis, institutions must confront the uncomfortable truth that financial aid is being used to subsidize digital addiction. That means enforcing clear restrictions on gambling app promotions, integrating gambling screening into student health protocols, rethinking how aid is distributed and monitored, and establishing formal policies that treat gambling risk with the same urgency as alcohol or drug abuse.

In publishing our fourth report on student gambling, The Higher Education Inquirer again asks: how many warnings are needed before the problem is acknowledged at scale? How many more students must drop out, spiral into debt, or fall into addiction before administrators, lawmakers, and the Department of Education take this seriously?

The answers are not hard to find. What’s missing is the will to act.

Sources:
Intelligent.com (2022, 2023), College Student Gambling Surveys
NCAA (2023), Sports Betting Participation Data
Nevada Council on Problem Gambling (2024)
Florida Council on Compulsive Gambling (2023)
CollegeGambling.org
Time Magazine (2024), “An Explosion in Sports Betting Is Driving Gambling Addiction Among College Students”
Kindbridge (2025), “Is America in the Middle of a College Student Gambling Addiction Crisis?”
Addiction.Rutgers.edu (2024), “The Rise of Sports Betting Among College Students”
HigherEducationInquirer.org (2025), “Student Aid and Student Gambling: Risky Connection”

Higher Education Inquirer: Transparency, Accountability, and Value

Our vision for the Higher Education Inquirer (HEI) has been to increase transparency, accountability, and value for consumers of higher education, workers in higher education, and student loan debtors.  Your insights, your stories, and yes, your critiques, are the lifeblood of this endeavor.

We remain committed to staying ahead of the learned herd, challenging orthodoxies, and asking the uncomfortable questions that others often ignore. But to continue on this path, we need your support. One of the most immediate ways you can contribute is by commenting on our articles—anonymously if you prefer—and sharing them widely. Every comment, every share, strengthens our community and amplifies the work we do.

With your continued input, we will persist in our investigative efforts: analyzing hidden data, exposing malfeasance, interviewing experts, and speaking to whistleblowers who trust us to tell stories that matter. Our goal is not merely to inform but to propose solutions. We seek to highlight best practices and showcase promising alternatives to the status quo—whether they arise from within classrooms or boardrooms, or beyond them entirely.

We also welcome collaborations. If you know of individuals or organizations that bring meaningful insight to higher education’s most pressing issues, please let us know. The Inquirer thrives on the collective intelligence and diversity of its contributors.

In the coming year, we intend to deepen our focus on several core areas of concern:

Mental Health Support: We will examine the quality and accessibility of mental health services for both students and campus employees. From long wait times to underfunded counseling centers, from financial barriers to the unseen toll of psychological distress, we will explore how these challenges intersect with academic success and retention.

Financial Literacy: Colleges often promise to prepare students for life beyond graduation, yet too many fall short in equipping them with the tools for financial independence. We will investigate how institutions teach (or fail to teach) personal finance, and how that connects to the broader burden of student debt and financial anxiety.

Economic Inequality: As higher education grapples with its own complicity in deepening socioeconomic divides, we aim to uncover how colleges and universities either exacerbate or alleviate inequality. Our reporting will examine affordability, access, and the real economic value of a college degree, especially for first-generation and low-income students.

Civic Engagement: In a time of political polarization, the role of higher education in cultivating civic responsibility has never been more urgent. We will explore campus-based initiatives aimed at encouraging informed, active citizenship—and assess whether they are rising to the challenge.

Sustainable Living: With climate concerns mounting, we will investigate how institutions are responding. Are they merely "greenwashing" or making measurable progress in reducing their environmental footprint? We will also explore how sustainability is integrated into both operations and curricula.

Reimagining Education: Finally, we will look to the future of learning itself. From innovative teaching models to the ethical use of AI, from lifelong learning to digital classrooms, our reporting will spotlight the possibilities and perils of reimagining education for a rapidly changing world.

This is a pivotal time for higher education—and for those of us committed to examining it critically and constructively. We invite you to walk with us, challenge us, and contribute to the stories that need to be told. Together, we can create a more just, transparent, and thoughtful academic landscape.

Ketamine Is Not the Cure We Need

Ketamine is having a moment. Once used almost exclusively as an anesthetic and known on the street as “Special K,” it is now being hailed as a cutting-edge treatment for depression, PTSD, and anxiety. Private clinics are popping up in cities and suburbs alike, offering infusions, nasal sprays, and lozenges for a steep price.

But behind the hopeful marketing lies a troubling reality: ketamine’s rise is less about public health than it is about profit.

Follow the Money

In the past five years, venture capital and private equity have flooded into the ketamine space. Chains like Field Trip Health, Ketamine Wellness Centers, and Klarisana have been buying up smaller practices and opening new ones at breakneck speed. Telehealth startups—some born out of pandemic-era deregulation—now ship ketamine lozenges directly to patients’ doors, bypassing in-person medical oversight.

The business model is simple:

• Charge between $400 and $800 per infusion, often multiple times per month.

• Encourage ongoing “maintenance” treatments to sustain fleeting mood improvements.

• Package the drug in a spa-like environment to justify the premium price.

There is no insurance guarantee for most patients, making ketamine therapy a cash-based service—a dream scenario for investors who want high margins without dealing with insurers.

Science on Shaky Ground

While some studies show ketamine can offer rapid symptom relief, the effects often fade within days or weeks. The drug’s long-term safety for repeated psychiatric use remains poorly studied. Potential side effects include memory impairment, bladder issues, and dissociation.

Even the FDA has not approved ketamine for depression—it has only approved esketamine (a derivative, sold under the brand name Spravato) for limited use in treatment-resistant cases. Yet clinics aggressively market generic ketamine “off-label” to a far wider audience.

Selling a Chemical Band-Aid for a Social Wound

The deeper issue is not just that ketamine’s benefits are short-lived—it’s that the marketing of ketamine clinics conveniently sidesteps the structural roots of the mental health crisis.

The United States is facing rising rates of loneliness, economic insecurity, and chronic disease. People are working longer hours for less pay. Housing is unstable, communities are fragmented, and processed food dominates our diets. For-profit healthcare treats these conditions as secondary, focusing instead on profitable “treatments” for their symptoms.

Ketamine fits neatly into this paradigm: it promises quick relief without requiring systemic change. It turns social pain into a personal chemical problem, to be managed one expensive infusion at a time.

The Alternative We’re Not Funding

If we truly want to improve mental health, we need to invest in what actually works long-term:

• Connection: Strong, face-to-face social networks.

• Movement: Exercise as a cultural norm, not a luxury.

• Nutrition: Access to fresh, whole foods—not just cheap processed calories.

• Dignified Work: Jobs that pay living wages and offer stability.

These solutions don’t generate quarterly returns for shareholders. They don’t make headlines in glossy wellness magazines. But they build the kind of resilience no ketamine clinic can replicate.

The question is not whether ketamine can help some people in crisis—it can. The question is whether we are willing to accept a future in which our collective mental health depends on paying private companies to administer short-term chemical escapes, rather than creating a society where people don’t feel so broken in the first place.

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Sources:

• Schatzberg, A.F. (2014). A word to the wise about ketamine. American Journal of Psychiatry, 171(3), 262–264.

• Moncrieff, J., & Cooper, R.E. (2022). “Magic bullet” thinking in psychiatry: The case of ketamine. BJPsych Bulletin, 46(5), 285–288.

• CNBC. (2023). Ketamine therapy clinics see booming business, but experts urge caution.

• STAT News. (2024). Private equity eyes ketamine clinics as mental health crisis deepens.

How Well Are RAs Trained?

Resident Assistants (RAs) are often the first line of defense in college residential life. They’re expected to wear many hats: peer mentors, community builders, rule enforcers, crisis responders, and mental health triage workers. Yet most are undergraduate students themselves—barely older than the residents they oversee—and often underpaid or unpaid for the critical work they do.

Given these responsibilities, one pressing question remains: how well are RAs actually trained to do the job?

The Scope of the RA Role

At most colleges and universities, RAs are chosen through competitive application processes and undergo mandatory training before each academic year. Their job descriptions often include enforcing housing policies, resolving roommate conflicts, planning events, documenting rule violations, and serving as 24/7 on-call crisis contacts.

They are also the ones students turn to in the wake of sexual assaults, substance overdoses, suicidal ideation, or interpersonal violence—scenarios far outside the boundaries of typical student experience or authority.

This raises ethical and legal questions: Are institutions relying too heavily on RAs as stopgaps for inadequate professional staffing? And are RAs adequately equipped for what they’re being asked to do?

Training Duration Varies—Widely

RA training typically ranges from a few days to two weeks, depending on the school. Some institutions provide extensive workshops on topics like mental health first aid, Title IX reporting, diversity and inclusion, active shooter preparedness, and conflict mediation. Others prioritize bureaucratic compliance over practical preparation.

A 2023 survey by Inside Higher Ed and the Association of College and University Housing Officers (ACUHO-I) found that only 47% of RAs reported feeling “fully prepared” to handle crises. Over 25% said they had no meaningful training in trauma-informed response or de-escalation. And fewer than 15% received detailed instruction on dealing with students with disabilities or navigating racial bias incidents—both common issues in residential settings.

Mental Health Crises Are on the Rise

According to the American College Health Association, nearly 75% of students report moderate to serious psychological distress, with campus counselors increasingly overwhelmed. In many cases, RAs become the first responders—waking up in the middle of the night to assess whether someone is suicidal, high, or having a panic attack.

But the stakes are enormous. One misjudgment could lead to a suicide, a lawsuit, or a violent altercation. Without formal mental health credentials or trauma-informed care training, RAs often operate on gut instinct and patchy training.

Several RAs interviewed for this article shared a common sentiment: “We’re expected to be therapists and cops, but we’re not trained to be either.”

Legal Liability and Institutional Risk

Some universities have faced lawsuits and media scrutiny over failures in RA training. A few tragic cases—ranging from overlooked suicide warnings to mishandled sexual assaults—have exposed just how unprepared and unsupported RAs can be.

Despite this, schools continue to delegate serious duties to RAs while insulating themselves from liability. When crises escalate, RAs may be scapegoated or pressured to resign quietly. In return, they often receive compensation that doesn't match the job’s gravity—such as a free dorm room and a small stipend.

Burnout and Attrition

Many RAs experience burnout within the first semester, and turnover can be high, especially at large public universities where staff support is stretched thin. The emotional toll of constant availability, conflict management, and exposure to trauma can be immense.

In one Midwestern state school, RA vacancies jumped 40% in one year, prompting administrators to shorten training and raise hiring quotas—creating a vicious cycle of undertraining and overreliance.

The Disparity Problem

Elite schools with large endowments are more likely to offer robust RA training, professional backup, and wraparound services. Meanwhile, less-resourced regional publics and community colleges often treat RAs as glorified rule enforcers, with minimal oversight and training.

Additionally, BIPOC and LGBTQ+ RAs are often asked—explicitly or implicitly—to do more emotional labor around diversity, bias, and inclusion without being paid or trained for it.

This inequality mirrors larger divides in higher education, where students at wealthier institutions receive better support and protection than their peers at underfunded schools.

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Toward a Better System

If RAs are to remain integral to campus residential life, colleges and universities must invest more in their training, support, and compensation. That includes:

• Standardized, evidence-based training protocols across institutions

• Paid year-round training with scenario-based learning and professional mentorship

• On-call professional support for crisis escalation

• Clear boundaries between peer support and professional intervention

• Mental health services for RAs themselves

At the very least, students should know what they’re signing up for—and institutions should stop outsourcing serious responsibilities to underpaid peers without the tools to succeed.

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Conclusion

Resident Assistants play a crucial role in shaping the campus experience, but the current model puts too much weight on too little training. As mental health crises, racial tensions, and campus violence continue to rise, the question is no longer whether RAs are ready—it’s whether universities are willing to admit they’ve been relying on a broken system.

Sources:

• American College Health Association: National College Health Assessment

• Inside Higher Ed / ACUHO-I RA Training Survey (2023)

• NASPA: Student Affairs Administrators in Higher Education

• Lawsuits and media coverage of RA-related incidents (ProPublica, Chronicle of Higher Education)

Music as Medicine

American life demands constant productivity, endless credentialing, and the ability to “push through” mental and physical exhaustion. In this kind of system, the healing power of music often gets overlooked. But for students drowning in debt and anxiety, and for workers scraping by on insecure jobs, music is not a luxury—it’s medicine.

Not the kind prescribed in a bottle, or preached from a wellness seminar, but the kind that gets passed around like food among the hungry. The kind that makes survival just a little more possible.

Rhythm as Resistance

Punk delivers a pulse. Hip hop confronts. Lo-fi offers stillness. Soul mourns and uplifts. Gospel affirms. Cumbia moves bodies and memory alike. Every genre has a place in the emotional survival kit. Music provides what many institutions will not: solace, solidarity, self-definition, and release.

In moments of despair or burnout, songs become tools. They make it easier to study through pain, to organize in the face of injustice, or to get through another shift when the body wants to quit.

Music isn’t an escape—it’s a way through.

Crisis of Mind and Spirit

The student mental health crisis isn’t new, but it’s getting worse. Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and burnout are rising, especially among working-class students, queer students, first-generation students, and students of color. Most colleges still underfund counseling centers while promoting toxic grind culture as “excellence.”

The workforce behind higher ed—adjunct professors, custodians, food service workers, library aides—faces its own mental and physical toll. Poverty wages, no benefits, unpredictable schedules. Institutions offer self-care slogans but rarely structural care.

Music fills that gap. It helps people regulate, reflect, and remember who they are beyond their role as a debtor, a grade, or a disposable employee.

Better Than Drugs. Better Than Casual Sex.

Music can do what substances and momentary escapes can’t. It doesn’t just numb. It heals. It doesn’t demand something in return. It gives freely.

It’s better than drugs. Better than casual sex. Not because it replaces pleasure or distraction—but because it doesn’t disappear when the high fades or the night ends. Music stays. It strengthens memory. It affirms identity. It provides both an outlet and a connection.

One song can bring someone back from the edge. One mixtape can hold together a semester of struggle. One shared playlist can spark a sense of belonging in a student who otherwise feels invisible.

Soundtrack to Survival

Labor movements have always known this. Music builds morale, strengthens solidarity, and carries memory. From protest anthems to spoken word to DIY tracks shared over group chats, students and workers use sound as shield and weapon.

A cafeteria worker begins a shift with cumbia in their ears. A grad student blocks out burnout with jazz. An adjunct powers through grading with Nina Simone. A student protester blasts Kendrick Lamar from a portable speaker before a sit-in. These are not just habits. These are survival strategies.

Political Practice in Every Note

Songs carry more than rhythm. They carry critique, hope, rebellion, and care. They are blueprints for a world where people matter more than profits. Music doesn’t just reflect the present—it helps imagine the future.

In the face of debt peonage, student surveillance, and wage theft, music reminds people of their worth. The right track becomes a reminder: You are not what the system says you are. You are not alone.

Music doesn’t require a login, a tuition payment, or a therapist’s referral. It’s available on bus rides, late nights, walkouts, break rooms, and dorm corners. It teaches without condescension. It organizes without hierarchy. It heals without permission.

The HEI Perspective

Most discussions of education policy focus on financial models, enrollment trends, or test scores. But we believe emotional and cultural survival matters just as much. Especially when institutions are failing those they claim to serve.

At the Higher Education Inquirer, we listen to what gets students and workers through the day. Not because it’s trendy—but because it’s urgent.

Music keeps people going when systems fail. That makes it a public good. A political force. And yes, a kind of medicine.

Healing begins when people feel heard. Rhythm helps carry the weight.

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The Higher Education Inquirer
Coming soon: Soundtrack for Resistance – curated by students and workers.

The Data on Marijuana Harms: A Higher Education Inquirer Perspective

Amid the normalization of marijuana use across the United States, the risks and costs associated with the drug are often minimized or ignored altogether. In academic settings, this normalization presents a public health challenge that intersects with issues of student success, mental health, and institutional responsibility.

Research over the past decade has revealed a set of concerns with both recreational and medical cannabis use—particularly among adolescents and young adults, the age group that encompasses most traditional college students. According to a 2024 report from the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA), daily marijuana use among college students has reached historic highs, with more than 11% reporting daily or near-daily consumption. While legalization has reduced arrests and the stigma of use, it has also coincided with increases in cannabis-related hospitalizations, emergency room visits, and reported cases of Cannabis Use Disorder (CUD).

Cognitive impacts are especially relevant in educational settings. Multiple longitudinal studies, including those published in JAMA Psychiatry and The Lancet Psychiatry, have linked regular cannabis use with decreased memory, attention, and learning outcomes. These impairments are often more pronounced in individuals who began using the drug in adolescence. A 2022 study conducted at Duke University found measurable IQ decline in long-term users who began before age 18.

There are also growing concerns about the mental health effects of high-potency cannabis products, now commonly available in legal markets. THC concentrations in commercial marijuana have increased significantly in the past two decades, with some concentrates exceeding 80-90% THC. The increased potency has been associated with heightened risks of psychosis, particularly in genetically predisposed individuals. A 2019 study led by researchers in the UK and Europe found that daily use of high-THC cannabis increased the risk of psychotic disorders by a factor of four to five, compared to non-users.

The link between marijuana and anxiety or depression is less clear-cut but increasingly studied. While some individuals use marijuana to self-medicate for anxiety, evidence suggests that chronic use can worsen symptoms over time. Colleges and universities have reported rising levels of anxiety, depression, and suicidality among students, raising questions about whether cannabis use is a contributing factor or a response to already worsening mental health conditions.

Another area of concern is academic performance and persistence. A multi-institution study published in Addictive Behaviors in 2023 found that regular cannabis use was associated with lower GPA and increased likelihood of dropping out. These findings are consistent across different types of institutions—public, private, and community colleges. At the same time, many campus counseling and health centers are ill-equipped to address substance use disorders, particularly those involving marijuana, which is often not viewed as a serious problem by students or staff.

The cannabis industry has also become a lobbying force in education and public health discourse. Legal cannabis companies, like their counterparts in alcohol and tobacco, have invested in youth-oriented branding, influencer marketing, and campus-adjacent advertising. This has occurred with relatively little pushback from higher education institutions or state governments, many of which have financial interests in cannabis tax revenues.

As more states legalize marijuana for recreational or medicinal use, the responsibility of higher education institutions to respond thoughtfully and evidence-based becomes more urgent. Silence or ambiguity can be interpreted as approval. At the same time, overreaction risks alienating students and perpetuating distrust. A public health approach—grounded in data, transparency, and consistent messaging—may offer the most constructive way forward.

Sources:

National Institute on Drug Abuse. “Monitoring the Future Survey, 2024.” University of Michigan Institute for Social Research.
Meier, M. H., et al. (2012). “Persistent cannabis users show neuropsychological decline from childhood to midlife.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.
Di Forti, M., et al. (2019). “The contribution of cannabis use to variation in the incidence of psychotic disorder across Europe.” The Lancet Psychiatry.
Arria, A. M., et al. (2023). “Marijuana use and academic outcomes among college students: A multi-institution study.” Addictive Behaviors.
Hall, W., & Lynskey, M. (2020). “Assessing the public health impacts of legalizing recreational cannabis use: the US experience.” World Psychiatry.
JAMA Psychiatry. (2021). “Association of cannabis potency with mental health outcomes.”
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). “Key Substance Use and Mental Health Indicators in the United States: Results from the 2022 National Survey on Drug Use and Health.”

The Hidden Crisis: Debt and Inequality Among Ph.D. Graduates

For decades, a Ph.D. has been viewed as the pinnacle of academic achievement. Yet behind the prestige lies a growing financial burden that disproportionately affects students in the humanities, education, social sciences, and health-related fields. As the cost of higher education continues to rise and funding disparities persist across disciplines, many doctoral graduates are finding themselves saddled with unsustainable levels of debt—and limited job prospects to match.

Data from the Survey of Earned Doctorates (SED), administered by the National Science Foundation, shows that new Ph.D. recipients in the humanities and arts are among the most likely to graduate with high levels of education-related debt. In 2020, 18% of these graduates reported more than $50,000 in debt, compared to under 5% of engineering and physical sciences Ph.D.’s. Nearly 90% of engineering, math, and physical sciences graduates completed their programs with less than $10,000 in debt. This level of disparity reflects long-standing inequities in how doctoral education is funded.

Yet the humanities are not alone. Several other doctoral fields show similar or worse financial patterns, often with little public attention.

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Education Ph.D.’s: High Ideals, Heavier Debt

One of the most indebted groups in graduate education is those earning Ph.D.’s in education. In 2020, just 47% of education doctoral graduates left without any graduate education debt—down from 62% in 2004. Despite being among the lowest-paid doctoral degree holders, education Ph.D.’s are expected to take on leadership roles in schools, districts, or universities—many of which are increasingly reliant on part-time labor or austerity budgets. The mismatch between debt incurred and income potential is among the worst in higher education.

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Psychology and Behavioral Sciences: A Pipeline to Precarity

Students pursuing doctorates in psychology and related behavioral sciences also face rising debt, especially in clinical and counseling specializations that require unpaid or underpaid internships and practicum hours. While 63% of new graduates in this area reported less than $10,000 in debt in 2020, a significant minority fell into the $30,000 to $90,000+ range. The financial burden is compounded by licensing requirements and low reimbursement rates in mental health professions. Many psychologists work in strained public systems, often serving low-income and vulnerable populations.

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Health-Related Doctorates: Not All Medical Degrees Pay Off

Professional doctorates in healthcare—such as the Doctor of Physical Therapy (DPT), Doctor of Nursing Practice (DNP), and Doctor of Pharmacy (PharmD)—are often marketed as high-demand credentials. Yet they carry massive tuition bills and limited institutional funding, especially compared to MD or Ph.D. programs. Graduates in these areas routinely report $100,000 to $150,000 in debt, with some exceeding $200,000. And as new programs proliferate—especially at private and for-profit institutions—the job market has become increasingly saturated, particularly for pharmacists and physical therapists.

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Social Work and Public Service: Debt-Fueled Altruism

Doctoral degrees in social work and public administration are frequently pursued by those seeking to lead in nonprofits, public agencies, or higher education. But the returns are modest. Many social work Ph.D.’s and DSWs leave school with $50,000 to $100,000 or more in debt. Jobs are often emotionally demanding, poorly compensated, and subject to burnout. Despite the “practical” nature of these degrees, financial insecurity remains a constant for many graduates.

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Race, Debt, and Structural Inequity

Debt burdens also mirror longstanding racial and economic inequalities in higher education. Between 2015 and 2020, 55% of American Indian/Alaska Native and Black/African American humanities and arts Ph.D.’s graduated with more than $30,000 in debt—far higher than the average for other racial and ethnic groups. Indigenous students in particular face disproportionate debt levels relative to their representation and institutional support. These figures reflect a broader pattern of exclusion, where marginalized communities pay more to gain access to degrees that offer fewer economic returns.

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The Polarization of Graduate Debt

Across nearly all disciplines, the period from 2015 to 2020 saw a shift in the distribution of graduate debt toward the extremes: more students finished either with no debt or with very high debt. For humanities and arts Ph.D.’s, the share of debt-free graduates rose by 8 percentage points. But at the same time, the share with over $90,000 in debt also increased, pointing to a bifurcated system where some students are fully funded while others are left financially exposed.

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An Unequal System of Doctoral Education

The disparities in debt and job prospects among Ph.D. fields reveal deep problems in the political economy of U.S. graduate education:

• STEM fields benefit from federal research funding and industry partnerships that help subsidize tuition and provide stipends.

• Humanities, education, and social work programs rely heavily on student loans and tuition revenue, often at under-resourced public institutions.

• Women and students of color are disproportionately represented in fields with high debt and low pay, reinforcing broader patterns of inequality.

Despite these challenges, universities continue to market Ph.D. programs as tickets to professional success and personal fulfillment—ignoring the growing body of evidence that for many, the costs may outweigh the benefits.

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A Call for Structural Reform

The growing debt crisis among Ph.D. graduates in non-STEM fields reflects more than just poor financial planning—it reveals a system in which certain kinds of knowledge and service are undervalued. As policymakers and institutions consider the future of graduate education, they must confront the realities of underfunding, labor precarity, and racial inequality that have become embedded in the Ph.D. pipeline.

Without meaningful reform—including equitable funding, debt relief, and transparent job placement data—the doctorate risks becoming a credential for the privileged and a trap for the rest.

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Sources

• Survey of Earned Doctorates (SED), National Center for Science and Engineering Statistics

• Humanities Indicators, American Academy of Arts & Sciences

• American Psychological Association (APA)

• American Association of Colleges of Nursing (AACN)

• American Physical Therapy Association (APTA)

• National Center for Education Statistics (NCES)

• Andrew W. Mellon Foundation

• National Endowment for the Humanities

Juiced: How HEI Uses AI—and Why Humans Still Matter

At the Higher Education Inquirer, we report on the structures that shape—and often distort—American higher education. We focus on debt, power, labor, and policy. We also use tools that help us do that work better. Artificial Intelligence is one of them. This article explains how we use AI, what concerns it raises, and why our work remains human-centered.

AI helps us review large volumes of documents, spot patterns in legal filings and government data, and summarize long reports. It helps us write more clearly and publish more regularly. It’s a tool—fast, tireless, and useful when used with care.

But we don’t trust it blindly. AI is being used in journalism and education in ways that often sidestep accountability. It generates articles, grades essays, writes marketing material, and shapes student profiles. In doing so, it introduces errors, reinforces bias, and reduces complex decisions to code. It can create false citations, misidentify sources, and spread misinformation.

AI is also replacing workers. In journalism, it’s cutting out editors and reporters. In education, it’s being sold as a cheaper alternative to faculty and staff. These changes don’t just affect paychecks. They affect trust, accuracy, and depth of understanding.

There are environmental costs too. AI requires large amounts of energy and water. Data centers draw on power grids and aquifers, often in areas already dealing with scarcity. Universities and media companies using AI at scale contribute to this footprint, even while promoting sustainability elsewhere.

There’s also the issue of psychological stress. AI-generated content is flooding screens. The volume of material, much of it shallow or repetitive, can lead to overload and distraction. Readers struggle to filter what matters. Attention suffers. The noise grows.

That’s why we still do the core of our work by hand. We write, edit, and fact-check each piece. We ask questions AI can’t: Who gains? Who loses? What’s the history? What’s being left out?

We don’t treat journalism as a technical task. It involves judgment, memory, and responsibility. AI can assist with certain parts of the process. It cannot replace what matters most.

We use AI because it helps us get more done. But we use it carefully. We know how technology can be misused in education and media. And we know the limits of what machines can do.

Sources:

American Press Institute, “How AI is Changing the Newsroom”
Columbia Journalism Review, “AI and the End of News as We Know It?”
Mozilla Foundation, “The Ethical Risks of Generative AI”
U.S. Department of Education, “Use of AI in Higher Ed: Opportunities and Concerns”
MIT Technology Review, “AI’s Carbon Footprint Is Bigger Than You Think”
Nature, “The Environmental Toll of AI”
American Psychological Association, “The Impact of Digital Overload on Mental Health”

The Higher Education Inquirer is an independent, human-run publication investigating power and inequality in U.S. higher education.

The Nursing Shortage Hoax: Burnout, Exploitation, and the Real Crisis in American Healthcare

For decades, the American public has been bombarded with headlines warning of a “nursing shortage.” News outlets, healthcare lobbyists, and policymakers routinely echo the claim that there simply aren’t enough nurses to meet demand. The implication is clear: if only we could train more nurses, our healthcare system would recover.

But this narrative is a dangerous hoax—one that obscures the root causes of the crisis in nursing and shifts blame from hospital administrators, healthcare corporations, and public officials to workers and schools. The real problem isn’t a lack of nurses. It’s that too many nurses are burned out, disrespected, and driven from the profession by the very institutions that claim to need them.

Supply Exceeds Demand—Until the Budget Shrinks

According to the National Council of State Boards of Nursing (NCSBN), there are over 5 million licensed registered nurses in the United States. But only about 3.1 million are employed as RNs. Thousands more work in non-nursing roles because they can't find hospital jobs that pay a living wage—or because they’ve left frontline care for their mental health.

Meanwhile, colleges and universities have ramped up nursing programs, often with hefty tuition costs. For-profit nursing schools and online diploma mills have further expanded the pipeline, in part due to government pressure to "solve" the shortage. Yet the jobs nurses are entering—or leaving—are grueling, underpaid, and too often unsafe.

The real issue is retention, not recruitment. And the people driving nurses away know exactly what they’re doing.

The Burnout Epidemic

Nurse burnout has reached catastrophic levels. A 2023 report by the American Nurses Foundation found that over 60% of nurses report symptoms of burnout: emotional exhaustion, depression, depersonalization, and a sense of futility. Nearly one in three consider leaving the profession entirely.

The reasons are no mystery:

• Chronic understaffing, often intentional, means nurses are responsible for too many patients at once—sometimes double or triple safe ratios.

• Mandatory overtime and unpredictable shifts prevent recovery and family life.

• Violence against nurses has increased, with minimal support from hospital leadership.

• Moral injury is common: watching patients suffer due to insurance denials, lack of staff, or profit-driven policies.

Hospitals—especially those owned by private equity firms and mega-health systems—maximize profits by minimizing labor costs. That means keeping staffing levels dangerously low and leaning on travel nurses, gig workers, and new grads instead of building a sustainable workforce.

A Manufactured Crisis for Policy and Profit

Why perpetuate the "nursing shortage" myth? Because it serves multiple powerful interests:

• Hospitals and health systems use the shortage narrative to justify importing nurses from abroad under temporary work visas, often under precarious conditions.

• Politicians use it to avoid deeper conversations about working conditions, safe staffing laws, or universal healthcare.

• Education providers, especially for-profits, profit from the flood of new enrollees chasing stable careers—often leaving with crushing debt.

• Tech firms and “innovative” hospital administrators push AI tools and robotic solutions, promising to replace or "augment" nurses instead of investing in human care.

The supposed “shortage” also justifies anti-labor rhetoric. When nurses organize, strike, or demand safe staffing, they’re cast as selfish or unrealistic. After all, shouldn’t they just be grateful to have jobs in a system that’s desperate for them?

Calling the Bluff

If there were a true shortage, we would see rising wages, sign-on bonuses, and long-term benefits. Instead, we see hospital administrators earning millions while bedside nurses struggle with burnout, PTSD, and poverty.

If there were a true shortage, hospitals wouldn’t fight tooth and nail against safe staffing legislation, like the kind passed in California. They’d welcome rules that make the work sustainable.

If there were a true shortage, we wouldn’t be flooding the system with underprepared students while bleeding experienced nurses.

And if nursing education was truly about solving the crisis, we would be making it free, community-based, and integrated with healthcare reform—not driven by predatory institutions or private equity.

Toward a Real Solution

The future of nursing—and healthcare—depends not on how many nurses we can mint from expensive degree programs, but on how we treat the ones we already have. Solutions must start with:

• Mandatory safe staffing ratios, nationally.

• Debt relief for nurses and free public nursing education.

• Mental health support and trauma-informed care for care workers.

• Union protections and fair contracts to reduce turnover and improve morale.

• Accountability for hospital administrators and investors who prioritize profits over people.

It’s time to end the charade. The nursing shortage is not a natural disaster—it’s a policy choice. And it’s killing both nurses and patients.

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Sources:

• National Council of State Boards of Nursing (NCSBN), 2024 Workforce Report

• American Nurses Foundation, Pulse on the Nation’s Nurses Survey Series

• National Nurses United: Safe Staffing and Workplace Violence Reports

• Center for Economic and Policy Research: "The Real Cause of the Nursing Crisis"

• The Guardian, “Private Equity and the Hollowing Out of U.S. Healthcare” (2023)

If you’re a nurse, nursing student, or former nurse with a story to tell, reach out to us at the Higher Education Inquirer. We’re listening.

The New York City Midtown Shooting, CTE, and the Cult of Football

On Monday evening, violence erupted at 345 Park Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, a sleek tower that houses the offices of private equity giant Blackstone and the National Football League. Just before 6:30 p.m., a 27-year-old man named Shane Devon Tamura walked into the building’s lobby carrying an M4-style assault rifle. Within minutes, he had killed four people and injured a fifth before taking his own life. Among the victims was NYPD officer Didarul Islam, who had been working a private security detail, and Wesley LePatner, a senior Blackstone executive. The shock of the event was compounded by what Tamura left behind—a three-page note referencing the NFL, the dangers of brain injury, and an eerie final request: “Study my brain. I’m sorry.”

Tamura, who had driven from Las Vegas across the country, appeared obsessed with chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), a degenerative brain disease associated with repeated head trauma. Whether Tamura actually played football, or merely saw himself as part of the broader culture shaped by it, his writings expressed a sense of betrayal. He accused the NFL of hiding the truth about brain injuries and framed his act of violence, disturbingly, as a kind of vengeance or warning.

This incident would be troubling in any context, but its location—inside a building that symbolizes the merger of capital and American sports mythology—demands closer scrutiny. It touches the raw nerve of a national cult that HEI has investigated before.

In October 2024, we published The Cult of NCAA Football and the Destruction of Young Men, an examination of how Division I college football programs systematically exploit young athletes. These programs market dreams of glory, mobility, and masculinity, only to discard players whose bodies or minds no longer serve the machine. We reported on the toll this system takes—not just in physical injuries, but in suicides, depression, substance abuse, and post-collegiate disillusionment. The culture around football demands pain and silence, while the profits flow to coaches, administrators, and television executives.

That investigation built on earlier work, including The Tragedy of NCAA Athletes Who Died Young, which chronicled the stories of former college athletes who died early—some by suicide, others from heart conditions, overdoses, or unexplained circumstances. These deaths were not random. They were systemic, the result of intense physical demands, inadequate medical oversight, and emotional isolation within a culture that worships toughness and punishes vulnerability.

The broader evidence around CTE has grown increasingly clear. As of 2023, researchers at Boston University had identified CTE in 345 of 376 former NFL players studied after death—an astonishing 91.8 percent. A 2024 study by Mass General Brigham found that one in three former NFL players surveyed—approximately 35 percent—believed they were experiencing symptoms of CTE, such as memory loss, depression, or emotional instability. Even among those who had never been officially diagnosed with a concussion, symptoms were common. Scientists now argue that it is not concussions alone, but repetitive sub-concussive impacts—those hits that don’t cause symptoms but still jostle the brain—that pose the greatest long-term threat.

The crisis starts early. A study funded by the CDC found that youth tackle football players aged 6 to 14 sustained 15 times more high-magnitude head impacts than flag football players. Despite the NFL’s public safety campaigns and rule modifications, many of these reforms have not trickled down to college, high school, or youth programs. Guardian Caps—foam covers placed over helmets to reduce head impacts—are now standard in NFL practices but remain optional or absent in amateur leagues.

Tamura’s final request to have his brain studied postmortem mirrors the last acts of former football players like Junior Seau, Tyler Hilinski, and Phillip Adams, who took their own lives and were later confirmed to have suffered from CTE. The difference here is that Tamura reportedly had no known football career. His identification with CTE suggests something darker—a cultural proximity to violence and despair reinforced by football’s influence on masculinity, toughness, and worth.

Football is not just a sport in the United States; it is an institution that binds masculinity to sacrifice and identity to violence. It teaches boys to ignore pain, suppress fear, and prove their value through physical domination. For those who succeed, there are scholarships and contracts. For those who don’t, there are broken bodies and forgotten names. And for a growing number, there are stories ending in suicide, addiction, or in this case, public violence.

The NFL has the resources to protect its players. Universities have the responsibility to care for their students. But what remains in question is whether either institution has the will to do so. HEI has chronicled the recurring patterns—of exploitation, denial, and silence—in both sports and education. We have seen young athletes discarded after injury, whistleblowers ignored, and mental health support offered only when it serves branding or liability defense.

Monday’s shooting was not simply a tragedy—it was a mirror held up to a society that profits from physical destruction while ignoring psychological harm. It reminded us that the myth of football’s nobility has a human cost. And that silence, whether in locker rooms or corporate boardrooms, is not safety. It is complicity.

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Sources
Higher Education Inquirer. "The Tragedy of NCAA Athletes Who Died Young." April 2025. https://www.highereducationinquirer.org/2025/04/the-tragedy-of-ncaa-athletes-who-died.html
Higher Education Inquirer. "The Cult of NCAA Football and the Destruction of Young Men." October 2024. https://www.highereducationinquirer.org/2024/10/the-cult-of-ncaa-football-and.html
Boston University CTE Center. "BU CTE Diagnoses in NFL Players." Updated 2023. https://www.bu.edu/cte/
Mass General Brigham. “One in Three Former NFL Players Believe They Have CTE.” 2024. https://www.massgeneralbrigham.org/en/about/newsroom/press-releases/study-finds-1-in-3-former-nfl-players-believe-they-have-cte
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. “Comparing Head Impacts in Youth Football.” 2024. https://www.cdc.gov/traumatic-brain-injury/data-research/comparing-head-impacts
ABC News. “Shooter’s Note Referenced NFL, CTE.” July 29, 2025. https://abcnews.go.com/US/midtown-shooting-suspect-left-note-mentioning-nfl-cte/story?id=124163966
People. “Blackstone Executive Killed in NYC Shooting.” July 29, 2025. https://people.com/blackstone-executive-wesley-lepatner-new-york-city-mass-shooting-victim-11780775

The Nation of Everything but Happiness

“Love our families? We live in a nation of broken homes. Walk in nature? We live in a nation of the obese. Read the great works? We live in a nation of the illiterate. Dream new dreams? We live in a nation of fear and desperation. We consume. We shop. We can have everything we want the next day—except happiness.”

These words, uttered by a disillusioned higher education executive, cut to the core of a national sickness. They are not just an indictment of American culture—they are a mirror held up to a society in collapse. Behind the marketing slogans and innovation-speak of American higher education lies a deeper rot: institutions that no longer produce wisdom, foster reflection, or cultivate the common good. They produce debt, anxiety, and compliant consumers.

In the 21st century, higher education became increasingly transactional and performative. Degrees were marketed like fashion, skills were bundled into micro-credentials, and students were rebranded as “customers.” Behind every glossy website lay crumbling adjunct faculty conditions, student mental health crises, and financial aid schemes rigged to entrap rather than empower.

This system did not emerge in a vacuum. It is the natural outgrowth of an economy where the line between marketing and meaning has disappeared, and where truth is whatever keeps the donor pipeline flowing. In this world, critical thinking is a threat, reading the great works is a waste of time, and loving one’s family is optional so long as the tuition gets paid.

The American dream, once tied to education, now runs through warehouses and fulfillment centers. You can click your way to convenience, but not to connection. Universities partner with Amazon, Google, and Blackstone, hoping some of that algorithmic magic will rub off. But what gets lost in the process is incalculable: imagination, community, citizenship.

Broken homes? A generation of young adults crushed by debt can’t afford to start families.

Obesity? PE is gone, recess is shrinking, nature is privatized, and students sit in Zoom classes fed by vending machines.

Illiteracy? College students now arrive without ever reading a full book—and many leave with diplomas having never done so.

Fear and desperation? Campus shootings, climate anxiety, unpaid internships, and the looming threat of being replaced by AI all feed into a student body running on caffeine, anxiety meds, and borrowed hope.

What do we tell young people today? That if they take out $100,000 in loans, hustle harder, and say the right things on LinkedIn, they might land a gig job in the "knowledge economy"? Or do we tell them the truth: that higher education has been captured—by corporate interests, by cowardice, and by a political system that rewards short-term metrics over long-term meaning?

We live in a country where you can overnight a yoga mat and a mindfulness app, but you can’t overnight purpose. The institutions that once claimed to cultivate the mind and soul have outsourced their very missions. Presidents are now brand managers. Professors are content providers. Students are monetizable data streams.

The businessman’s quote, raw and despairing, reminds us that the crisis is spiritual as much as it is structural. Higher education cannot fix everything, but it could be something more than it is now. A space to reflect. A place to reconnect. A tool for healing—not just hustling.

But not without a reckoning.

Because in a nation where we can have everything but happiness, the question remains: what is higher education for? And if it can’t help answer that, what’s left of it worth saving?

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Sources:

• Anonymous quote from higher education executive, 2025

• National Center for Education Statistics: Literacy and Outcomes

• American College Health Association: Student Mental Health Trends

• U.S. Department of Education: Student Debt Statistics

• Higher Education Inquirer investigations on academic labor, edtech partnerships, and institutional mission drift

 

This story was originally published by Chalkbeat. Sign up for their newsletters at ckbe.at/newsletters

Fighting for my students’ right to read, I lost my teacher’s license. I’d risk it all again.

Summer Boismier, Chalkbeat

Jul 24, 2025 at 2:22pm EDT

“The Hate U Give.” “Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.” “Challenger Deep.” “The Poet X.” These are just some of the titles my students researched and recommended as part of a 2018 project-based learning unit I had assigned. The goal: to diversify our high school’s required reading lists. “Why don’t we have these books?” the superintendent of the district where I was teaching English at the time asked me.

The following school year, these books were integrated into the English I curriculum as choice reads for our literature circles. I find it hard to fathom such a thing happening today.

Four years later, I was teaching in another school district, this one in Norman, Oklahoma. Just days before we were set to return for the 2022-23 academic year, teachers were advised during a faculty meeting to restrict or remove student access to classroom libraries.

Such a sprint toward soft censorship was a response to the Oklahoma State Board of Education’s enforcement of House Bill 1775 of 2021, which restricts conversations around race and sex in academic spaces. Concerned about a potential accreditation downgrade for violating this law, a school site administrator suggested I cover the 500-plus books in my classroom library with butcher paper, which I did. But that was far from the end of the story.

Without the classroom library that I had spent my career curating, some of my students walked into class that first day to find stories that reflected their lives had been reclassified as contraband. So I wrote on the butcher paper covering my shelves, “Books the state doesn’t want you to read.” A protest in pixels, I also added a QR code for students to scan for information about Books Unbanned, a nationwide initiative from Brooklyn Public Library, offering students ages 13-21 free eCard access to the library’s more than 500,000 digital items.

I’ve never taught a math class, but I knew that 500,000 books > 500 books. I also knew that this act of resistance could cost me my job or even my teacher’s license. But if state leadership was going to censor classrooms, I was going to make sure my students still had ample opportunities to read, think, and decide for themselves.

Oklahoma’s HB 1775, which is facing a challenge in federal court, and similar laws from Texas to Florida to Iowa, followed the first Trump administration’s 2020 Executive Order on Combating Race and Sex Stereotyping. These state mandates are often referred to as “divisive concepts” laws. But really, they are censorship by another name. And they don’t just silence ideas; they silence people. They resist the inclusion of historically marginalized voices, such as BIPOC and LGBTQ+ perspectives, because those voices challenge the comfort of the dominant narrative.

“Most characters/authors are straight white guys, and that kind of reflects how we treat literature,” one of my students reflected back in 2018, as they were working on the reading list project.

That student said they wanted to see more diversity in the assigned reading. Unfortunately, the progress made to integrate inclusive, relevant texts into curriculums and libraries is now at risk.

Friday, August 19, 2022, was my first day of year nine as a certified English teacher in Oklahoma public schools and my second year in the Norman district. By day’s end, however, I was placed on leave and told to report to district offices first thing Monday morning. Although the district expressed hope I would return to the classroom, I chose instead to resign so that I could continue to speak out for intellectual freedom and against HB 1775. Soon, my story was making headlines.

And while in 2023 an assistant state attorney general recommended against revoking my teaching license, the Oklahoma State Board of Education still took it away the next year. That has put my livelihood and my life on hold for the foreseeable future and taken an irrevocable toll on my mental health.

Recently, at my eldest nibling’s kindergarten graduation, I was ambushed somewhere around the second chorus of Imagine Dragons’ “Believer” by a panic attack. To an outside observer, I was there in that small-town auditorium, listening to a stage full of big little voices as they belted out “Pain! You made me a believer, believer.”

However, at that moment, I could not have been further from row G, seat 1.

Suddenly and without consent, I was lost amid the voices in my head that for almost three years have relentlessly labeled me a loser, letdown, failure, and fraud — my entire being seized by a feeling akin to what I can only describe as white-knuckling an electric fence.

Until recently, I associated post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, with literal soldiers scarred by the hell of war. Yet I’ve spent most of the past decade not on the battlefield, but in the classroom. I’ve learned, however, that the majority of PTSD diagnoses do not in fact stem from past military service. Apparently, standing up for students’ right to read can leave its own scars.

Despite the deep personal and professional costs, it’s impossible to convey just how little remorse I have. None at all, really. Because not every battle worth fighting is winnable. Because sometimes “Paycheck or principle?” isn’t a rhetorical question.

We are living through a near-constant deluge of crises that are designed to make meaningful teaching and learning unsustainable and undesirable — from efforts to dismantle the Department of Education to the wholesale retraction of diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives, from book bans in PK-12 schools to ideological litmus tests imposed on American universities.

In this era of renewed threats to civil liberties coming out of the White House, the statehouse, and the courthouse, I’d challenge all teachers in the schoolhouse to ask themselves: What’s your QR code?

To teach is to take a stand. And just like teaching, taking a stand can look a lot of different ways, including:

• Recommending a story to a student that speaks to them as they are.
• Incorporating diverse voices and perspectives intentionally in lesson plans.
• Affirming students’ identities through intentional language and identity-sustaining classroom culture.
• Facilitating workshops for teachers on responding to educational gag orders and preserving access to diverse texts.
• Bringing together educators, librarians, and community members for public events defending inclusive curriculums.
• Documenting and reporting instances of censorship and/or policy overreach.

Sometimes, it can even look like resting, a radical act of resilience for the fight ahead.

As the youth scholar and artist Jasmine Lewis shared with me in a recent email exchange, “[The world today] reminds me how important it is that we continue reading, writing, and harnessing care in any/every space that we are able to.”

Against the torrent of extreme partisan interference in our public schools, it is your persistence, teachers, that forms the foundation for meaningful resistance to censorship efforts. Despite everything you’re up against, we need you for what comes next: the 2025-26 school year. There’s a lot riding on the integrity of those spines beyond books.

Summer Boismier (she/her) is an English language arts educator and doctoral student at the University of Oklahoma whose work focuses on free expression issues, culturally sustaining pedagogies, and educational equity in public schools. A nationally recognized youth free expression advocate, she is also a recipient of the Oklahoma State Department of Education’s 2019 Rising Star Award and Piedmont Public Schools’ 2018-2019 District Teacher of the Year honor. In 2024, the Oklahoma State Board of Education unanimously revoked her teaching certificate for telling her students about a public library card.

Chalkbeat is a nonprofit news site covering educational change in public schools.