Scott Parker’s article, “The Only Reason to Go to College” (The Chronicle of Higher Education, March 28, 2025), is one of the more honest takes I’ve read in a while. It resonated with me—not just because I used to sit in philosophy classes wrestling with similar questions, but because, in my work with students, I see them asking those same questions every day: about meaning, survival, and identity in a system that often feels more focused on outcomes and metrics than on people.

The students I have the pleasure of serving are veterans, parents, caregivers, first-generation trailblazers, working professionals, and returning learners. Many have lived entire lives before stepping foot into our classrooms. They don’t arrive with dorm room posters and meal plans—they arrive with bills, full-time jobs, children in tow, and a relentless drive to create something better. So I understand the economic pressures that Scott Parker acknowledges—how college often feels like a lifeline to financial security. I see students who are calculating every credit hour, every tuition bill, every gallon of gas it takes to get to class. They are navigating systems that were not built for them, and doing so with grit and heart. But in our rush to reassure them that their degrees will “pay off,” we risk offering them only part of the truth.

Because here’s the other part of the truth—one I’ve witnessed in office hours, in student leadership retreats, and in the quiet moments after a campus event when someone lingers, hesitant to leave: Our students don’t just want careers. They want connection. They want to feel like they matter. They want to understand the world and their place in it. They want to become more fully themselves.

And that is what higher education, at its best, offers.

Parker writes, “The skills we are teaching bypass all career fields and move directly to the core of who we are and what we do.” This could not be more true of student affairs. Our work is not merely co-curricular—it is deeply human. We teach conflict resolution not just for future workplaces, but for roommates and relationships. We cultivate leadership not for resumes, but for communities. We create spaces for dialogue, identity exploration, failure, resilience, and self-discovery. We don’t just prepare students to be employees—we help them become whole people.

And yet, we too are complicit in the vocational framing of education. We build “career readiness” language into our mission statements. We tout outcomes and employability statistics. We celebrate internships and job placements (and yes, those lawn signs that say “TODAY IS A GREAT DAY TO FIND AN INTERNSHIP” are real). We do these things not because we don’t believe in the intrinsic value of education, but because we’re trying to survive in a system that demands measurable ROI. We know what students and families are told to prioritize, and we’re trying to meet them where they are.

But meeting students where they are doesn’t mean we leave them there.

What if we were braver about naming what we actually believe? That poetry is a way to process grief. That history gives us tools for justice. That ethics helps us parent, vote, lead, and live. That education should not just train us for the market, but awaken us to the depth and fragility of the human experience.

What if we reminded students—and ourselves—that college is a place to ask better questions, not just find better-paying answers?

At TAMUCT, we have an opportunity to do just that. Our students already bring with them the wisdom of experience. Many have faced loss, hardship, and systemic barriers just to make it to our campus. They don’t need us to sell them on education—they need us to show up authentically, to ask them what they care about, and to help them imagine what it means to flourish on their own terms.

When a student leader tells me they found their voice through planning a campus event, that’s not just a résumé bullet—that’s growth. When a parent in our student wellness center says she finally felt seen and heard—that’s not just retention—that’s belonging. And when a veteran in our writing center reclaims his identity through storytelling—that’s not just academic support—that’s healing.

Parker reminds us that education should feel more like music, sport, or play—something we do not for the payoff, but for the joy, the challenge, the connection. I’ve seen glimpses of that joy in our students’ eyes: in the late-night study group laughter, the pride of presenting at a student research symposium, the tearful hugs at graduation. These are the moments that defy metrics. They are the soul of higher education. And they’re worth fighting for.

So let’s reimagine what we say to students when they ask, “What will I do with this degree?” Let’s give them permission to also ask, “Who will I become?” Let’s have the courage to say what we already know in our hearts: that education, when done right, is not just preparation for work—it’s preparation for life.

Let’s be louder about the values we hold. Let’s model curiosity, compassion, and courage. And let’s remember that our deepest impact may never show up in a career survey—but it will echo in the lives our students go on to lead.