Academia is a high-stress, high-surveillance environment. Faculty are asked to do more with less: more students, more reporting, more unpaid labor — and less time, less support, and less say in decisions that shape our work. For many of us, the job has become a constant negotiation between our values and institutional priorities.
And yet, I stay. Not for the salary. Not for the endless meetings or initiatives that depend on faculty labor but often move forward without our input. I stay because of my students. They are the reason I continue to show up.
At the California State University where I teach, my students come from a wide range of racial, cultural and economic backgrounds. Many are the first in their families to attend college. Few have had Black professors before. And I am one of very few Black faculty on campus.
It can be isolating. I attend meetings where no one else looks like me. I navigate policies that were not built with people like me in mind. Even well-intentioned efforts to foster belonging often feel top-down or disconnected from the everyday realities of teaching, mentoring and being visible.
But my students — across all backgrounds — support me in ways they may not even realize. It’s in the way they show up, engage with material, trust me with their stories, or quietly ask, “How are you doing?” They remind me: when Black professors are in the classroom, everyone benefits.
They understand that representation is about more than role models for Black students. It expands perspectives, deepens classroom trust, and allows for more honest, critical dialogue. Our presence in the academy challenges the status quo and makes space for voices that are too often ignored.
They are not my formal support system, but they are my community.
In a profession where recognition is rare and burnout is high, a thank-you note, a hallway chat, or a class conversation that sparks something real can carry me through weeks of feeling invisible in faculty spaces. My students remind me that this work — when stripped of the bureaucracy — still matters.
To be sure, students should never be expected to carry the emotional weight of supporting their professors. That is not their role. The gratitude I feel does not excuse the broader shortcomings of higher education. It simply underscores how powerful our relationships can be in the face of institutional neglect.
But universities must do more than celebrate diversity on their brochures. If they truly care about faculty success — especially for faculty of color — they need to listen to students. Students see us more than any task force or strategic plan. They witness our labor and our care firsthand.
Institutions should partner with students to co-create strategies for retaining faculty of color. That means going beyond traditional evaluations to foster real conversations about campus climate, mentorship and visibility. It means funding student-led efforts that recognize and uplift faculty who teach and build community — the very labor that fuels student success but often goes unrewarded.
Universities should also rethink what support looks like outside of formal structures. Sometimes what faculty need is not another committee, but a space to gather, breathe and feel seen. Student organizations often model this well. They create spaces that are joyful, inclusive and rooted in mutual care. Faculty can benefit from those spaces too — not as authority figures, but as participants in a shared community.
Creating sustainable change in higher education doesn’t require reinventing the wheel. It requires valuing the relationships already happening on campuses every day. When students trust their professors, when faculty show up with care, when conversations extend beyond grades and the syllabus — those are the moments that build true community.
Academia doesn’t always recognize our full contributions. And for those of us at the intersections of race, gender and class, it can be especially isolating. But my students remind me every day that I belong — not just because I teach, but because I matter. That, more than anything, is why I keep going.
This isn’t just about one professor’s experience. It’s a reminder to higher-ed leaders, policymakers and educators that student-faculty relationships are powerful levers for change. If we want to build inclusive, thriving campuses, we must center the people who are already doing the work of belonging — even when no one is watching.
