Abstract
Christina: The morning I learned of Philando Castile's death, I wept. I grieved for his family who would no longer physically have him in their lives. I grieved for another Black life lost. Mostly, I grieved for the many Black folks, like myself, having to endure the state-sanctioned attack against Blackness as it played out on screen like a modern-day lynching. As I mourned another piece of my soul lost, I showered, put on makeup, got dressed, and drove to work—to a university less than two miles from where Philando was shot five times, twice in the heart, with his young daughter in the backseat.
I was in this mindset when I walked into my office and found a young Black student waiting for me. As I saw the grief, pain, and trauma in her eyes, I was at a complete loss as to what to do for her. I froze. I wondered, how could I guide her through her emotions when I could hardly see through my own? At that moment, all I wanted to do was alleviate the weight I knew had settled on her shoulders, but I realized that I had no idea how. As I saw the grief, pain, and trauma in her eyes, I was at a complete loss as to what to do for her. I froze
I found myself grappling with how I should respond and centering my own need to feel in control. Instead of providing her space to feel whatever she was feeling, I filled the silence between us with empty words. I gave her resources without ever asking what she needed from me at that moment. I told her that I understood her feelings, although I later realized I had not actually allowed space for her to tell me what her feelings were. I felt overwhelmed and clueless about how to help. Instead of providing her space to feel whatever she was feeling, I filled the silence between us with empty words
Five years later, after enduring another agonizing video in which the world watched George Floyd take his final breaths at the hands of Minneapolis police, I realized that—even with nearly a decade of experience in higher education—I still did not have the tools to help guide students through trauma.
In conversation with colleagues about my feelings, I discovered I was not alone. As I processed and discussed my personal experiences, colleagues Laura Livalska and Dr. Jayne Sommers shared their own stories of difficult conversations, fraught silences, and feeling unprepared to address student trauma.
Laura and Jayne: While we connected around these similarities, we also wrestled with the reality that significantly less emotional labor is asked and expected of us as white educators. It would be unjust to claim that trauma response is a shared and equal responsibility of all educators without also acknowledging that the unequal share of emotional labor currently falls to our BIPOC and LGBTQ+ colleagues.
As authors, we recognize and condemn this dynamic and aim to provide all educators with the awareness and tools to respond to student trauma more effectively, equitably, and empathetically. Trauma-response efforts in education can only be successful and sustainable when educators commit to sharing their experiences, fears, learning, and responsibilities around this work. We know that all educators share the common goal of supporting students, but we also hold different identities and varying levels of experience, training, and comfort in knowing how to respond when students share difficult things with us. Trauma-response efforts in education can only be successful and sustainable when educators commit to sharing their experiences, fears, learning, and responsibilities around this work
We have practiced and witnessed a wide range of responses to student trauma and know that not all responses are equal. For students, our colleagues, and ourselves, we aim to better define our roles and identify our skills as higher education professionals in responding to student trauma. This work is necessary, ongoing, and worthy of our reflection and continued learning both as individuals and as a field.
Trauma in Higher Education
Conversations about trauma have increased feverishly within and outside of education in recent years, broadly defining and discussing trauma in a variety of ways. In this piece, we define “trauma” as the effects of past or present life experiences that inhibit students’ ability to engage in learning. We are particularly interested in the effects of trauma that become barriers to students’ learning and access to educational success.
Trauma has always been present in higher education and students’ experiences—sometimes in highly visible ways, but more often in ways invisible to us as educators. Multiple realities of the present moment now compel us to bear witness to and more immediately confront the impacts of trauma in the lives of college students.
As the global pandemic forced students out of classrooms and off campuses, COVID-19 blurred the boundaries between school and home in significant ways. Students carry ongoing fears about the deadly virus while navigating uncertainties in school, housing, and work. Asian American students experience increased anti-Asian hate crimes. Black and African American individuals name the trauma of repeated public scenes of police violence. Undocumented individuals and DACA recipients navigate uncertainties related to citizenship paths as federal legislation outlining their rights has oscillated. Trans* community members wrestle with proposed and passed legislation that denying trans* youth access to gender-affirming healthcare and rights. Students experiencing food and housing insecurity live with unpredictability around their next meal or access to a safe place to sleep. Young people, like all of us, hold daily witness to unthinkable acts of inhumanity and violence across the globe and manage a sense of powerlessness and overwhelm. These are only a few forms of trauma that we know students experience, but these examples feel increasingly visible and intrusive in the world of higher education.
In fact, some forms of trauma are impacting students more directly today than ever before, for instance, through state and federal policies specifically targeting college campuses and school bathrooms. More individuals who have already experienced complex trauma—perhaps as a refugee or from a homeland at war—are also pursuing higher education, with needs and challenges not traditionally addressed by institutions. Students who in the past may have been more likely to leave higher education are now persisting with expanded campus supports such as veterans’ services and campus food banks.
Educators are not untouched by the shifting landscapes of institutions and the changing needs of students. As educators, we build relationships with students that may lead them to entrust us with their experiences of trauma or ask us for support. In many ways, we serve as unofficial “first responders” to student trauma, often without any formal acknowledgment or training. In many ways, we serve as unofficial “first responders” to student trauma, often without any formal acknowledgment or training
Some forms of student trauma that occur on campus are recognized as requiring institutional responses or accommodations (e.g., sexual and/or physical violence, some instances of discrimination, bias, or hate speech). As faculty and staff, we typically receive training on mandatory reporting protocols and appropriate campus referrals in these situations. However, when students divulge other traumas in less formal ways—perhaps in an advising meeting, class discussion, or written assignment—educators often feel uncertain, anxious, and less equipped to respond.
Moreover, when students experience trauma associated with historically marginalized identities (e.g., repeated racial microaggressions or misgendering by a faculty member), they may be more likely to disclose their experiences to educators who hold these same identities. Those of us who hold marginalized identities are consequently often engaged in higher amounts of emotional labor in the work of supporting students. At the same time, we can be navigating our own experiences of invalidation, injustice, and personal trauma from within and outside of our employing institutions. We see this in Christina's story as she sorts through her own emotions in response to violence against Blackness, while concurrently working to support a student with shared marginalized identities.
A simultaneous experience of trauma has benefits and drawbacks in our ability to support students. We may be able to better understand and empathize with students who share our social identities, but student narratives and needs can also trigger our own trauma responses. This delicate balance makes it challenging to maintain boundaries with students and can eventually lead to burnout, disengagement, or leaving the field.
Laura van Dernoot Lipsky and Connie Burk remind us in their book Trauma stewardship: An everyday guide to caring for self while caring for others (2009) that it is both a privilege and a serious responsibility to be entrusted with others’ stories. As educators, we can honor students’ experiences and their trust in us by investing proactively in the learning and skills that will help us better support students in navigating trauma. We can prepare ourselves by thinking critically about trauma's impact on students, reflecting on our own identities and experiences, and outlining some harmful and helpful responses to trauma. It is both a privilege and a serious responsibility to be entrusted with others’ stories
The Effects of Trauma
Trauma comes in many forms but generally stems from an incident or series of events that is violent, painful, or shocking enough to overwhelm the central nervous system. Each trauma experience and response is unique, but a growing body of research on the neurobiology and somatic effects of trauma points to some common responses to trauma in the immediate and longer term.
Bessel van der Kolk, a leader in the field of trauma research and medicine, outlines common emotional reactions in The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma (2014). Effects range from heightened emotional states (anxiety, fear, guilt, anger, and agitation) to blunted affect (apathy, depression, withdrawal, and dissociation) or extreme and unpredictable mood swings. Typical physical symptoms can include nausea and gastrointestinal distress, elevated heart rate, restlessness, heightened startle responses, extreme fatigue, nightmares or sleep issues, and flashbacks. In an effect referred to as somatization, trauma sometimes presents in an increased overall attention to bodily aches and pains.
Perhaps most easily observable in a student's behavior or presentation are the cognitive symptoms of trauma: confusion or trouble concentrating, repetitive or racing thoughts, memory problems, and difficulty making decisions. It is easy to imagine how these responses can have a detrimental impact on a student's ability to remain on top of schoolwork, stay engaged in class, or communicate about what they feel and need. Particularly with college students, other visible responses to trauma can present as persistent fatigue, engagement in high-risk behaviors or increased substance use, or noticeable changes in affect, hygiene, weight, or energy.
We introduce these common responses to trauma not as diagnostic tools, but to give educators a basic idea of how trauma responses can show up in the classroom or relationships with students. The identified range of effects clearly applies to issues beyond and unrelated to trauma and should not be used to label another person's experience as trauma or trauma response.
Despite the array of common effects, each person's experience of and reaction to trauma is unique, shaped by their prior experiences, mental and emotional health, coping skills, positive models of resilience, and access to support. Resmaa Menakem's seminal work on racialized and embodied trauma, My grandmother's hands: Racialized trauma and the pathway to mending our hearts and bodies (2017), also reminds us that trauma is often layered, intersectional, and overlapping in complex and insidious ways. Adults and children can experience trauma that is long-term or repeated, racialized and cultural, secondary or generational. One example is the trauma and racial battle fatigue students and colleagues of color can experience while carrying the weight of systemic racialized violence, identity invalidation, and frequent micro- and macro-aggressions in academia. Trauma is often layered, intersectional, and overlapping in complex and insidious ways
Regardless of the type or history of trauma, a key factor in any person’s processing and healing is whether and when they seek out trusted others for affirmation, support, and understanding. This is another reason that the responsibility of student trauma response holds urgency and importance for us as educators. We know that no one will respond perfectly to student trauma every time but find value in outlining our guiding principles and potential pitfalls in thinking through responses.
Flawed Responses to Trauma
By learning more about the basics of trauma, we gain a clearer sense of what students may be feeling or experiencing as they navigate both their education and trauma. With this contextual information, we can identify forms of responses that are helpful for students to hear, as well as responses that are unhelpful, unproductive, or hold the potential to cause harm. By learning more about the basics of trauma, we gain a clearer sense of what students may be feeling or experiencing as they navigate both their education and trauma
Interrogating Trauma
One way we unintentionally harm students is by acting as “gatekeepers” when students disclose an experience of trauma to us. We should refrain from any subjective judgment about whether a particular experience “qualifies’’ as traumatic or not and it can be useful to remind ourselves of our role: we are not an investigator, conduct officer, therapist, or attorney. It is not our job, nor is it helpful, to question exactly what happened and how: Did you really experience what you are sharing? Did it actually happen that way? Was it maybe just a misunderstanding? Do you think it was their intention to hurt you? These types of questions—even when asked with good intentions to gain information or try to understand—can feel dismissive at best, and at worst, invalidating or gaslighting. Questions along these lines have potential to retraumatize and shut students down.
When we question the circumstances around students’ experiences of trauma, we also shift the focus to the trauma itself and prioritize our own understanding of the trauma, instead of maintaining focus on the student and their lived experience. Students do not need to educate us or justify why their trauma is, in fact, trauma. They should not feel obligated to disclose details they may not feel safe or comfortable sharing with us in order to receive support. As educators, our responsibility is to center the student and their experiences, feelings, and needs from any form of trauma.
Fear of Discomfort
Our fear of sitting in discomfort—both students’ and our own—inhibits our ability to respond in a supportive manner. However extensive our higher education experience, when we are faced with a student disclosing a trauma that does not fall within our institution's Title IX policies or established campus response protocols, we may find ourselves at a loss for what to say to the student sitting across from us. As education professionals, we may be accustomed to providing students with support and resources in a way that feels confident and immediate, so our lack of expertise surrounding trauma response can feel disconcerting. Our fear of sitting in discomfort—both students’ and our own—inhibits our ability to respond in a supportive manner
Around oppressive or traumatic campus and cultural issues in particular, we often see educators express (and indeed, feel ourselves) the fear of “I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to get it wrong.” For example, when BIPOC students point out micro-aggressions committed by peers and faculty on campus, white staff often feel ill-equipped to help process these experiences, engage in conversations around racial justice, or respond as both a white person and a representative of the institution. I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to get it wrong
Discomfort can be reflexive in vulnerable and challenging situations, but the fear of “getting it wrong” often translates into action paralysis or silence—at least for individuals with the privilege to avoid engagement. We have seen discomfort emerge in words and actions of deflection, disbelief, or defensiveness. Each of these responses is harmful to the student and also further burden staff and faculty of color (continuing with our earlier example), who then become the sole support system for BIPOC students on campus. It is the responsibility of all educators who hold privilege or power to ensure that our own fear of discomfort does not allow us to fail students who are seeking support, shirk responsibility in denouncing oppression and injustice, or betray our colleagues through an inequitable division of emotional labor. Discomfort is natural, but there is no neutrality in silence or inaction; these responses cause harm at the individual, relationship, campus, and systems level.
On the other hand, fear may compel us to jump right into ideas, actions, or solutions without first asking what the student needs in order to feel heard, empowered, and supported. When we focus on how we can “save” the student by providing immediate next steps or solutions, we disempower the student by diminishing their choice and control—two major components necessary to move forward during and after an experience of trauma. As educators, we must remain aware of the beguiling “savior complex” that can creep into acts of helping, when our actions become more about making ourselves feel better for helping or fixing the situation than about what actually supports or empowers the student.
Overall, a failure to acknowledge our limits, challenge our privilege or acknowledge our fears can lead to flawed trauma responses that leave students feeling unseen and unheard.
Relating Our own Trauma
Another major part of centering the student’s experience involves creating and maintaining clear boundaries between the student’s experience of trauma and any experiences of our own. If we have experienced microaggressions, violence, or housing or food insecurity ourselves, for instance, we may feel compelled to share our own story in an attempt to demonstrate empathy and solidarity.
Our personal experiences and feelings are, of course, valid responses to our own trauma, but allowing them to take up space in the moment of a student's disclosure can feel diminishing or comparative to the student. If our immediate response to a vulnerable disclosure is to counter with our own, the student may feel uncomfortable, guilty for sharing, or as if they now have to reciprocate comfort and emotional support to us. A future conversation or check-in may provide a space to say “me too” or “you are not alone in this,” but the first moment of disclosure is not the time for relating or relaying our own trauma.
Centering the student's experience while holding onto or deferring our own trauma response can be difficult and exhausting, especially when our experiences echo the student's story and we feel their pain as our own. This challenge is particularly salient for staff and faculty who belong to historically excluded and oppressed communities with identities currently under attack. It is important we affirm that the trauma experienced by our faculty and staff who hold marginalized identities is real and valid.
As we see in Christina's story, BIPOC educators face high levels of systemic and structural oppression daily, both in and outside of academia, while simultaneously being expected to remain professionally high functioning and often having to outperform their white counterparts in similar roles. The result is an inequitable distribution of emotional labor on the shoulders of our colleagues who, especially in times of injustice and systemic discrimination, need our peer and institutional support the most.
We cannot address trauma in education until we name and redistribute the emotional weight of student trauma response, working collaboratively to share responsibility and resources. We can also find grounding and guidance in this work by looking to disciplines beyond our own. The fields of psychology, healthcare, and survivor advocacy, among others, offer research and insights on effective trauma response. In particular, a trauma-informed and human-centered framework provides useful and transferable principles for shaping our work with students. We present this approach not as a binary opposite to the flawed responses discussed earlier, but as a set of guiding principles that can equip us to better serve students.
A Trauma-Informed, Human-Centered Framework
When a student is courageous enough to share something difficult and vulnerable with us, we can honor their experience by using a trauma-informed and human-centered lens to focus on their feelings and needs in the present. In the context of student work, this means starting with the acknowledgment that trauma affects students as whole people in complex ways. Each trauma experience and response is unique, but we recognize that diverse forms of trauma can have far-reaching somatic and psychological impacts on students and challenge their ability to show up, feel safe, and learn. In practice, adopting a trauma-informed and human-centered lens entails offering students empathy and validation, choices, and empowerment.
Offering Empathy and Validation
We maintain focus on the student by identifying and attending to the barriers that trauma creates for their engagement, learning, or sense of safety and belonging. By focusing on how the student is affected by their experience of trauma—and not fixating on the trauma itself—we more effectively address the challenges trauma creates around learning and safety, while critically stating to the student: you are not your trauma. A trauma-informed lens helps separate the student from the traumatic experience(s) and critically communicates to the student: you are not broken and you are not the problem.
A human-centered lens impels us to show up as empathetic humans first, affirming the student's humanity and making it clear we do not intend to “fix” the problem (or worse, “fix” the student). Rather, we let the student know that our job is to provide support and empowerment, asking, “Given your experiences, feelings, and needs in this moment, how can I best support you?” Given your experiences, feelings, and needs in this moment, how can I best support you?
Validation reminds students they belong here—in classrooms, on campus, and in higher education—even amidst their struggles. Many students who hold historically excluded and oppressed identities repeatedly face barriers and institutional structures that invalidate them. A form of trauma in itself. Our signaling to the student, “I see you, I hear you, and I believe in you” is critical to students’ healing, resilience, and ability to persist in higher education. Validation reminds students they belong here—in classrooms, on campus, and in higher education—even amidst their struggles
An asset of a trauma-informed, human-centered framework is that it does not require educators to hold any expertise, similar identity, or shared experience of harm. Instead, it gives us permission to say, “I’m not sure exactly what to say in this moment, but I am really glad you came to me. I know sharing took a lot of courage and strength.” As educators, we typically feel comfortable in the position of holding knowledge and sharing information with others, but this is one space where it is okay to not have immediate answers. We can validate whatever the student has shared with us through simple and honest affirmations that bear no judgment and propose no solution, for example, “that sounds like it was really difficult,” or “no one deserves to be treated that way,” or “I am sorry you experienced that.”
Offering Choices
Another critical form of validation is helping the student understand their options, while affirming their choice and control over what happens next. Author and activist Sarah Super (2016) highlights the importance of using invitational language with survivors of trauma and suggests phrases such as, “If you would like…,” “When you are ready…,” or “You are welcome to…” Super clarifies that we are not offering a real choice unless we provide options, offer an “opt out,” and validate all options. Per Super's formula for real choice, an educator might ask a student: Would you like my help in thinking through some of your options or possible resources? If not, that is okay too. You get to decide what would be most helpful for you. I am also happy to just listen if you are looking to share or process aloud.
If the student says they would like our help, we can then ask, “How can I be helpful to you right now?” If they are unsure, a validating response will affirm their choice and agency and create space for further reflection: It is also okay to not know exactly what you need right now. Would it be helpful if I checked back in with you (offering specifics here: by email, in person, after class, on Tuesday, etc.) after you have had more time to think about it? You are also welcome to reach back out to me if or when you feel ready.
Creating space often means getting comfortable with silence and not speaking the first or final word—an occasionally awkward balance that can become more tenuous when we hear critiques of the institution or systems we represent. If a student requests our assistance in sharing the reality of their experience with others on campus, we can use our power and campus relationships to follow up with administrators, colleagues, and other educators. These actions can help campuses identify when student trauma reflects an access issue, need for policy reform, or place for accommodations. While this sharing and response should not come at the expense of students, it is both appropriate and necessary when a student requests our assistance in this way.
One instinctual way we respond to student trauma is by referring them to mental health staff or other professionals on campus. However, referrals should only be made after we have affirmed the student's experience and when the student has explicitly requested our assistance. We should proactively develop a robust understanding of the resources available to students on our particular campuses to inform intentional referrals. For instance, a student of color navigating repeated microaggressions in a classroom alongside viral coverage of violence against people of color may benefit from a connection with a campus office focused on diversity, equity, and inclusion (which may also host affinity groups for students who share marginalized identities), as well as a connection to a mental health professional on campus.
Instead of viewing referrals as “hand offs” of students and their problems onto others, it is helpful to reframe referrals as opportunities to broaden the student’s community of support. As Katie Schultz and colleagues found in their 2016 study of community connectedness in healing from trauma, this bolstering of community for students may be one key factor in their ability to move through and beyond traumatic experiences (Schultz et al., 2016).
It is possible that students may approach us with a high level of relational trust but a distrust of the larger institution or higher education system as a whole, in which case it is appropriate and useful to help the student identify alternative or community resources outside of the institution. For instance, a student who discloses domestic or relationship violence may find the most effective support outside of the campus community. We can acknowledge our lack of knowledge around external resources but still affirm a desire to support the student by stating, “I don’t have specific answers or solutions for you right now, but I am invested in working with you to explore some options or resources, if you would like. You are not alone in this.” We can acknowledge our lack of expertise around external resources but still affirm a desire to support the student
Offering Empowerment
When the time comes for a student to leave our office or conversation after disclosing a traumatic experience, we may wrestle with an unclear sense of obligation to them. It is vital to establish clear boundaries and expectations—not promising help on which we may not be able to follow through, or making vague offers such as, “I am always here for you” or “call any time.” Instead, we can empower the student to act according to their own timeline or needs, saying, “I will leave it up to you to keep me updated, if you would like to. If not, that is okay, too.”
Empowering students means communicating that regardless of the effects of trauma on their lives, they are creative, resourceful, and whole people with the capacity to take action on their own behalf. The goal of a trauma-informed approach is for students to leave our interaction clearly understanding what our level of participation will be moving forward, how they can reach out, what we are able and willing to provide them, and feeling that they are ultimately in control.
Living our Mission as Educators
Responding to student trauma effectively and empathetically is an honor, challenge, and responsibility we hold to students and our fellow educators. We begin with a recognition of the individuals who currently do the bulk of this emotional labor and then commit to identifying ways we can more equitably support those impacted by trauma. Responding to student trauma effectively and empathetically is an honor, challenge, and responsibility that we hold to students and our fellow educators
While “trauma response” might feel like a newly required skill, we know that educators have supported students with trauma throughout the history of education. We hold no illusions about the challenging nature of this work, but can approach it more confidently, capably, and equitably by asking colleagues about their own learnings and experiences and giving ourselves grace in practicing these skills. We can welcome student disclosures as gifts of vulnerability and trust. Finally, we can embrace and commit to this work because it offers us powerful opportunities to practice our mission as educators: to affirm students, address barriers to learning, and ensure that education remains accessible and transformational for all. We can embrace and commit to this work because it offers us powerful opportunities to practice our mission as educators
