Now, and Later
That whole every-end-is-a-beginning thing is happening, particularly for those of us in higher education. Graduation-time is always packed with all the emotions, and for this class, our 23s, it’s just a little bit extra.
Without question, we asked a metric ton of these 23s. The lifting and carrying they have done during their four years in college is remarkable — as in, I am remarking on it. They are our last class who started college in ‘normal’, pre-pandemic, times. They had a glimpse of what it could be like, and they were on the edge of wrapping their freshman year when everything stopped, and everything changed. For us in college athletics, most of them lost their freshman Spring season, or their sophomore Fall season was truncated, abbreviated, diminished. Not sure of what was next, they kept showing up.
These 23s looked to us, and trusted us, to create a path forward. That is a potent task. I’ll tell you now: we did not know. We did not know what we were doing, or how to do it, or what was next. I was on our Return Committee, figuring out (with a group of rockstar colleauges) how to safely get back to school and sport. Happy surprise: we were not doing this alone, but we were doing it without a map. It’s not like there was a manual for “How to Re-start Collegiate Athletics after a Global Pandemic”, but there kind of is, now. I learned so much about public health, national and state and local guidelines, NCAA and conference mandates, thresholds and markers, ventilation, proximity, isolation, quarantining, testing, and more testing. How to overlay any kind of sport training or competition into this sketched-out blueprint was so daunting. And it would not work unless the students made it work.
They made it happen. When we brought them back to school, that first fall after the shortened spring, they complied. They masked and distanced and isolated. They worked out in masks, so do not even start with me. They scheduled every single minute, and tracked every move. They worked out in small groups, and wiped all the equipment down. They came to study hall by appointment only; zoomed and team-called with tutors, were shielded and separated, and tested at every turn (not a metaphor). To every new plan, they said ‘okay’. Seasons were shortened, games were cancelled, travel was by bus only, limited (or no) hotel stays, only box lunches, masked and goggled during travel. No food on the bus. Outdoors in all weather, even as fall became winter. No fans. No band, no cheering, no parents or crowds. Empty arenas, empty stands. No gameday-energy other than what they themselves brought. They brought their A-game anyway.
They trusted us this would work. Sometimes it did. Sometimes they traveled to another city, only to find out the team they were playing had a positive, or even (bless) they themselves showed a positive on gameday. Get back on the bus. Flex, pivot, try again a different day. Somehow, in isolation and alone, these 23s repped their university and sang the fight song and cheered their guts out for each other, making their own energy. If you are an athlete and no sees you compete, are you still an athlete? The answer is unquestionably yes. Isn’t that a measure of character, how you act when no one is looking? They were all that, and so much more.
What happened was caring. They cared about teammates, and results, and readiness. They cared about complying, and suiting up and stepping out on the field or the court. Like everyone, they cared about not seeing grandparents, not having holidays together, traditions ending, virtual gatherings instead of real-time hugs. They cared about friends and dating and where they could go that was not their dorm. They cared about science and wellness, and would they have a normal college experience again. They learned to flex and pivot, adjust and balance. Over and over and over. It kind of defines them.
Gradually, that new-normal thing took shape. But in the midst of all that, they voted in their first major election, thinking about issues like science and wellness and public health and safety. That propensity for caring they had developed and honed was a broad and inclusive caring, and they worry less about pronouns and bathrooms and more about assault weapons and reproductive health issues. Turns out, they’d like to live a long life with freedom to make decisions about their own health and safety — and they have a pretty great firsthand understanding about freedom and health and safety.
This spring, Gallup published their State of Higher Education Report for 2023. It’s a tough read. For anyone working in higher ed, it is not surprising. Key findings include data like 41% of students enrolled in postsecondary education have considered ‘stopping out’ in the last six months. Forty percent agree it is difficult for them to remain in their programs. Over half indicate that emotional stress is the key factor regarding wanting to stop out. At the same time, they see the value of staying enrolled and earning a degree. Perhaps most telling is that sixty percent of enrolled students say that having a mentor, professor, or advisor who knows them by name and cares about them is critical. Hello, 23s, who schooled online, or were masked and isolated, for half of their undergraduate careers. Finding and developing a connection is the bridge — the actual bridge — to staying enrolled. If you have any nod of development theory, you see this as truth: micro-communities matter. Who will notice if you are not there? Who will notice if you are struggling, or want to stop out? When it is stormy, who are your people, who pushes you or holds you or pulls you? Who sees you?
Not just in our micro-community of athletics, but also in the classroom, this played out, chapter and verse. In my own classroom of college students, it was work (actual work) to encourage participation, you know, out loud. So much wariness about assessing the scene, getting a feel for it all, seeing what is at stake, and picking/choosing when to voice their voices. Talking to other colleagues, this was almost universal. Deadlines felt like suggestions, assignments felt like options, and we started to recognize that all the disruption of COVID years of learning have lead to uncertainty and caution. It made it all the more joyful to discover our students are not just resilient, but funny, and silly, and smart. However, left to their own devices, they were quiet like it was their full-time job.
I don’t have all the answers, but I will stake my claim on this: connecting is so significant. Caring about the ones who care so much is a freaking lifeline. Holding space to ask questions, give some transparency about why things need to be certain way (I could write an entire piece on what a hot take ‘transparency’ is for these 23s), set expectations then check in on progress, and understand that uncertainty breeds procrastination which breeds stress. Mostly, ask your people what feels heavy and what feels light, and care about the responses. Shout-out to my colleagues who all did this for each other lo these last four years, too — your support has been mighty, and has made us able to enable others toward success.
We joke that at the end of the year, we break up with our graduating students, and take their numbers out of our phones. (We actually do that, so not a joke, per se.) This year, with the 23s, that idea was met with vocal resistance. ‘Oh no, you’re keeping my number!’ was the refrain. So, like we have the last four years, we hit a compromise: I’ll keep your number if you use it to stay in touch. Eventually, graduates won’t need an advisor on the daily, but today — like this entire journey — the deadline to make that change feels more like a suggestion. We’re just going to see how this plays out…but what we know for sure, 2023s, you earned every bit of your degree and we are so proud. Current hot take: these kids are remarkable. Cheers, 23s.
