When They Can't Hear Us, We Hear Each Other

Dear GTCC Community,

After a year's worth of thinking, and then some, I return with another Op-Ed, but this time I return under my own standalone name. During this year, I've had lots of time to think about how I should follow-up on my prior article under Titan Shout. I've also had the pleasure of observing and witnessing how the college had evolved since I posted my opinionated piece, and I've had time to come to my own conclusions. Why does my voice matter, though? To be frank, it doesn't. But being the first to lend out a hand to guide others does. That's what I return to do, in written form.

We are all struggling alone when we should be struggling together. Somewhere along the way, we forgot that we're not each other's competition—we're each other's lifeline.

To begin, we have to go back to 2024's November. This is when administration asked people that knew me (instead of directly to me) to rewrite my words about the eight-week transition. At the time, it felt small: I SAID NO. Respectfully, but firmly. I explained my position—that reducing in-person classroom time matters to the campus community, even if total instructional hours stay the same. I offered alternatives: dialogue, interviews, open discussion. This did happen, although I wish I knew what benefits came from them to the community. "The whole point of my piece is that these discussions should be an open discussion, not a matter of correction or assumption," I wrote. I saw it firsthand.

What I got back: “We're not asking you, we're telling you. We're managing perceptions.” And the students I'm hearing from—the ones reaching out, sharing their struggles, asking if anyone else feels this way—they're being ignored. But we don't get to hear that side, because they've never asked honestly. Our reassurances always comes sided with a point to accept.

I want to make this clear (which I will many times, you'll find): this is NOT about blame. This is about all of us—students, faculty, administration—recognizing that we're speaking different languages about the same problems. And until we learn to hear each other, students will keep falling through the cracks, and I will continue to advocate until we are valued enough.

In all, this is me saying: if the institution can't create the spaces we need to support each other, we create them ourselves. Not in opposition. In addition. Because if they don't have heart to the issues we face and resist, we can't wait.

Now buckle up. We have a long ride together.

I'll start off here: I keep seeing these moments where connection could happen, but just… doesn't. It's like the wires sometimes work, but most of the time, don't.

When I recognized a struggle in students adjusting to the 8-week change, I suggested creating spaces where students could talk to each other about navigating the eight-week format—share strategies, support each other, figure out what's working—but the response was that administration was already hosting forums to answer questions.

But those are different things. Both are valuable. Q&As help with logistics. Peer spaces help with survival. We need both. Why does suggesting one seem like criticism of the other? This distinction is important. They're telling us we already have what we want, but aren't giving us the objectives we ask for.

And, of course, I pressed the point.

I was told student-led forums would be "unproductive." The message was clear: asking for space to organize wasn't seen as leadership. It was seen as a problem, and this breaks my heart.

I don't share this to call anyone out personally. I share it because this pattern is bigger than any one person or decision. It's a pattern where student voices asking questions get categorized as issues to manage rather than perspectives to engage. It's an example of plenty.

Look at the Q&A article Titan Shout published with administrators about the eight-week transition, if you want another. Question one asked: "Could you walk us through the decision process for this shift, including how student perspectives were considered?"

The answer discussed Guided Pathways 2.0 since 2020, national data, research from other institutions. All valuable context. But it didn't actually answer the question students asked: were we part of shaping this, or were we informed after it was shaped?

The research cited—Odessa College, Amarillo College, Durham Tech—shows this model can work. I'm not disputing that. I think it is fair to say that many online students will adapt better to online schooling adjustments. But what I'm asking is: where are we tracking what's happening to OUR students right now? What are our withdrawal rates compared to last year? Which courses are students succeeding in, and which ones are creating bottlenecks?

I'm not saying the eight-week model is wrong. I'm saying we should be learning from our own implementation as we go, with student input as data, not noise.

In astronomy, when your observations don't match the model, you don't ignore the observations— you question the model. We need to apply that same principle here.

Here's what I'm hearing from students—and I want to be really clear, this isn't about blaming anyone. This is about naming what's happening so we can address it together:

Physics in eight weeks? Students are telling me that even the thought of physics in 8-weeks impacts their mental health. People have left, and we have lost physics majors.

I can't catch up. This is what I keep hearing. The pace doesn't allow for falling behind even once, even those who require more time. Miss one class, and you're scrambling for the rest of the session. Your instructor already decides the outlook by one small mistake.

It's great for humanities, but STEM students are burning out. The condensed format works differently depending on the subject. Courses that need processing time—where concepts build on each other and require practice—those don't translate the same way in eight weeks.

Our clubs took a huge hit. Meeting times are quieter. Fewer students have time to engage. The campus community activities that used to bring us together are struggling because everyone's schedule is too compressed.

Students are carrying a lot right now—financially, mentally, emotionally. I can't catch up. The eight-week format has real benefits that administration's research shows: more focus, fewer courses at once, potential for faster completion. That's real, and it helps some students. But it's also real that some students are struggling more. It's real that eight weeks feels different for a STEM course than a humanities course. It's real that building study groups and support networks takes time we don't have anymore.

Both things can be true at once.

I watch students in hallways—earbuds in, eyes down, rushing to the next obligation. Maybe I'm even envisioning myself here. Everyone's alone. There's no time to stop and realize that three other people outside your tight circles who are genuinely struggling with the same concept you are. There's less and less time to form study groups that turn into support systems, and less motivation. No time to build the informal networks that actually get students through hard semesters.

And when students do ask for help? Too often, we're met with what feels like condescension. Faculty who treat accommodation requests as burdens rather than information. Processes that require us to justify our needs through advocates in DAS, sometimes getting approved, sometimes not with the right complaint. Why do we challenge what students need instead of asking why it would help them?

I'm not questioning anyone's intentions. I'm questioning impact. Because good intentions that don't translate to support aren't actually helping us. Caring is not a feeling, it is an action.

The world is absolutely chaotic right now, and we're inheriting it with less preparation and more debt. Education should be building us up, not wearing us down. When institutions can't meet us where we are, we have to meet each other there. Our teachers should be the biggest supporters.

I don't have all the answers. But I have some ideas and I see a whole lot of hurt, and I'm hoping to work with others who do too. This is what I'm building with other students who refuse to accept that our only option is to struggle silently:

Student-Led Forums—Real Ones

Not Q&As where administration defends decisions. Spaces where we talk to each other about what's actually working and what's breaking us. Where a student who figured out how to manage three eight-week STEM courses can share strategies with someone drowning in their first one. Where we organize, not complain. Where we problem-solve together.

We can respectfully create the peer support those channels can't provide. Both are necessary. Both make us stronger.

There are some ways to organize civilized data collection. Anonymous surveys about what's working and what's not. Shared information about which courses are adapting well to eight-weeks and which need different approaches. Information students actually need, gathered from student experience.

We're doing it because we know things administrators can't see from their position. That's called valuable data.

While sharing my heavy thoughts, I want to make something clear: when faculty treat us well, when courses are adapted thoughtfully, when administrators listen—we name that publicly too. Positive accountability matters as much as critique. We're not here to tear down. We're here to build up, and that includes recognizing when things work.

Because this isn't about opposition. This is about addition. Administration is doing what they think is best with the data they have. Faculty are working hard to adapt. I respect that. But respect doesn't mean silence. And criticism isn't the opposite of support—silence is.

If we can articulate the problem, we're halfway to the solution. But we have to use the right variables. Right now, we're solving for efficiency when we should be solving for sustainability. We're managing perception when we should be addressing reality.

I didn't step down from Titan Shout because I gave up. I stepped down because journalism means telling the truth even when it costs you something. Especially then. My passions will always get the best of me.

When I joined Titan Shout, I pledged to make a difference. Writing articles was part of that. But I've realized: that the work students need most right now is still being built.

This is not about being anti-GTCC. I chose this school. I've learned here, grown here, found mentors here. This is about being pro-student in a way that includes pushing for better, organizing for more, and refusing to accept that struggling alone is just how college is.

We should be building. And inviting everyone—students, faculty, administration—to be part of what we should want to create.

So, yeah.

They edited my words about disconnection. In doing that, they demonstrated the disconnection is real.

Student forums were dismissed as unproductive. That dismissal proved exactly why we need them.

Marketing replaced conversation. Glossy rollouts instead of honest dialogue about challenges and solutions.

What they didn't count on: students who refuse to stay isolated. Students who see the pattern and organize around it. Students like me, who build what's missing instead of just wishing it existed.

Organized students are supported students. Connected students are resilient students.

To faculty and administration reading this: This isn't a threat. It's an invitation. Join these conversations. Bring your expertise and your data for our betterment. Listen to our observations. Let's bridge the language gap together. You can't support us if you can't hear us. And we can't hear you if we're not in the same conversation. This is just the truth and isn't something to be corrected or ignored. We are relying on you.

To my fellow students: Stop competing for scraps. Start building the table together. Every person who withdrew thinking they were the only one struggling was wrong. They just weren't connected to the rest of us yet.

Chaos favors those in power. Organization is how we take care of each other.

But I want to end with a point about structures with gaps, and how harmful they can be, no matter how minor.

Faculty see students in crisis without infrastructure to help properly. When system gaps force them to improvise support, what happens?

We talk about, for random example, training faculty on boundaries. But who trains institutions to create structures where caring for students doesn't require choosing between policy and humanity?

What happens when someone tries to bridge that gap? When documented needs meet genuine response—imperfect, but present? Do we examine what created the situation? Do we learn from it?

Or do we reframe care as violation, label disability as disruption, and remove what we should study?

I know the answer. I'm evidence of it.

And when the disabled or the struggled gets labeled for "disrupting the educational environment," I would like for the administration to know that it's not because of a student's failing. It's because someone needed more than what the system says they can provide.

Misunderstandings of the misunderstood determined what I was as a struggling student, and for some reason I continue to fight because I know there's others out there thinking like me. I can feel it buzzing. So, instead of fighting it, I'll own it. And while doing it, I'll continue knowing exactly what I need and when or how to fight for it.

Sincerely,

The Liability

Last Updated: 12.3.2025 @ 9:57am