After the election, hope and pain in the classroom (opinion)

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In a recent opinion piece in Inside Higher Ed, Austin Sarat wrote that universities were unprepared for the possibility of a Trump win. Now, with his victory a reality, we find ourselves facing the consequences. Many of our students and colleagues are despondent, devastated and fearful for the future.

I have been preparing for how to support my students in the aftermath of this election. Reflecting on 2016, I recall teaching a class in Tucson until about 9 p.m. on election night. As the evening progressed, an air of panic began to permeate the classroom. After class, in the parking lot, a student approached me and asked for a hug as they sobbed. I was too stunned to feel anything at that moment. Later, while at the gym, I watched people halt their workouts and gather around the TV as the results were announced, their expressions filled with dismay. I had to maintain composure, knowing I needed to teach human physiology the next morning at 7 a.m.

Driving to work that morning felt surreal. I started the lecture as usual, but the weight of the room was unmistakable. I could feel the unspoken emotions of my students as they struggled to focus. Within less than 15 minutes, the strain became palpable. I paused the class, admitting, “I think I need a break.” One student responded, “Yeah, I can’t concentrate, either.” Another student came up to check my vitals—a clear sign that neither of us was all right.

Reflecting on the lessons learned from 2016, I asked my students and advisees in the weeks leading up to election night about their feelings should their preferred candidate lose. I didn’t assume whom they were supporting, nor did I care to know. But in the event that their candidate lost, I asked, “How do you want me to support you?” Their responses were tinged with emotions of betrayal, abandonment, confusion and loneliness­­­­—but they overwhelmingly expressed fear and uncertainty. They didn’t seek answers or solutions—just the space to process their feelings and be acknowledged in their struggles. One student acknowledged, “There is no perfect way to help us …” Another student said to me, “Don’t act like it’s business as usual,” as I did in 2016.

In times like these, when many of our students and colleagues are devastated, what do we do? How do we move forward, or perhaps, how do we fall apart beautifully together? There is no clear answer, and maybe that’s the point—perhaps our next step is to acknowledge the overwhelming uncertainty, the fear and the grief. As educators, how do we help each other and our students navigate these emotions? How do we create space for processing the pain and feeling it fully, without rushing to solutions, false optimism or blame?

My conversations with my students helped me see that these moments demand our presence, our honesty and our willingness to sit with discomfort. These moments ask us to walk alongside our students as they grapple with the enormity of what has happened and to remind them and ourselves that we are not alone in facing it. It is in this perhaps desolate land that we can bear witness to our shared human experience—terrifying, messy, yet beautiful. So, I ask, what does it mean to cultivate a space where we can acknowledge our vulnerabilities? What might a pedagogy that embraces falling apart look like?

Kahlil Gibran wrote, “Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your/ understanding./ Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart/ may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.” I often turn to this poem and reflect on the imagery of the breaking of the shell, of understanding and of the pain imbued with it all. Gibran’s words remind us that the process of breaking—of being vulnerable, of feeling deeply—is what allows us to expand our understanding.

I have written before about hope in the context of education, and today I find myself wondering about perhaps the absurdity of hope. The Arabic words for hope and pain come from the same root: “أمل” (“amal”) for hope, and “ألم” (“alam”) for pain. In the Arabic language, many words are derived from the same three-letter root but take on different meanings based on the context and the specific patterns used to form them. This root-based system allows for a rich and interconnected vocabulary where words that share the same root often have related meanings or connotations. Understanding these roots and their derivatives is key to comprehending the nuances and relationships between words in Arabic.

The linguistic connection between hope and pain can serve as a powerful tool in education, helping us foster empathy and understanding. By recognizing that hope and pain are intertwined, we can create learning environments where students feel seen and supported in both their struggles and aspirations, thereby deepening their emotional and intellectual growth. These words are two sides of the same coin, illuminating the dual nature of our human experience—particularly in the context of education.

The word for hope, “amal,” conveys a sense of anticipation, aspiration and vision. In educational contexts, hope is the driving force that inspires students to strive for success. Hope is what keeps students moving forward, even in the face of uncertainty, and what allows them to imagine a different future for themselves and their communities.

Conversely, the word for pain, “alam,” especially in education, embodies the struggles and hardships that students face—academic challenges, personal setbacks, emotional distress. Pain is an inevitable companion in learning, but it is also a catalyst for growth and resilience. It gives depth to our understanding and fosters empathy, making the educational journey more profound and meaningful.

For educators and students alike, acknowledging both hope and pain is crucial because it allows us to honor the full range of human experience. Pain gives us the opportunity to learn, reflect and grow, while hope motivates us to envision and work toward a better future. There is a time to sit with pain, to bear witness to our students’ fears and anxieties, to validate their experiences and not rush to cover their pain with platitudes of hope. This liminal situation is where we, as educators, must model vulnerability and honesty. We cannot force hope; instead, we must hold space for the complexity of emotions that arise in difficult times. This is part of what it means to engage in trauma-informed practice—to acknowledge the depth of pain and to help our students make meaning of it, rather than simply moving past it.

And yet, in the midst of pain, there is also the invitation to imagine—to glimpse the possibility of something different, something better. It is in the cracks of what seems like a broken system that opportunities can arise. How do we teach our students to see these opportunities, to recognize their agency, to find purpose and take action even when the path forward is uncertain?

The role of an educator in times of collective pain is not necessarily to provide answers but to guide students through the process of questioning. Through questioning, students can begin to make sense of their experiences and find their own paths forward. Do we teach them to resist? To embrace the discomfort of uncertainty? To pause and introspect? Maybe all of these responses are necessary. Resistance is a natural and often vital reaction to injustice. But we also need reflection—a pause that allows us to understand the roots of our challenges.

With these reflections in mind, how do we move forward? Here, I offer a few suggestions that may or may not resonate with you. I invite you to do what honors your heart and those of your students.

In the end, our role as educators isn’t just about providing knowledge—it’s about holding space for both the pain and the hope that shape our shared human experience. As we guide students through challenging moments, we must allow them to vent, to feel and to be seen in their pain. And beyond that, we can also help them reflect on what possibilities might arise from this pain. Just as pain breaks the shell that encloses our understanding, moments of hardship can be opportunities to plant seeds of hope—seeds that may eventually grow into something meaningful, beautiful and transformative. It is through this delicate balance—bearing witness to pain while nurturing hope—that we can truly support our students in navigating an uncertain world.

Mays Imad is an associate professor of biology at Connecticut College, and serves as an AAC&U Senior STEM Fellow as well as a research fellow with the Centre for the Study of the Afterlife of Violence and the Reparative Quest at the University of Stellenbosch. She writes on higher education, effective teaching, stress, learning and the brain.