I took yesterday off as a mental health day. It was a last minute decision, but after glancing at my calendar Tuesday evening and noting how comparably light my schedule was, decided to take the plunge. There were no meetings to reshuffle; there were a few scheduled appointments that would be missed. I’ve been working near non-stop since mid-March, maybe earlier, with room selection and now closing. I make my own choices about my hours, but could feel the weight of the hours I was working on my shoulders. My warning sign when I’m nearing burn out is that I start taking things too personally. I recognized that on Tuesday in a meeting and knew a day off was imminent.
Throughout the day today, several people made jokes about my finally being back in the office. One feigned surprise that I answered my phone; another lamented their own inability to take time off in the immediate future. Despite the daunting number of hours I’ve put in over the past month, their words stung. Was the perception really that I wasn’t available on campus? Should I have forgone the day of lazing about the new house to push myself closer to an edge I knew was looming?
I spent most of my day off sleeping, another sure sign I was nearing burn out level. And in the hours I was awake, I unpacked some boxes after our recent move. I also researched and scheduled several doctors’ appointments that are overdue, a consequence of some poor self-care choices I’ve made. I ignored my work email. All day long.
We work in a field that can feel relentless and we often succumb to the pressure we put on ourselves. And after thinking about the comments I heard today, I realized that the taunts had less to do with my decision and more to do with the decisions of those who made the comments. I’m guilty of this — I know I am — and after today, I’m pledging to stop. We know ourselves and what we need better than others do; we shouldn’t have to defend how or when we use our given time off. We should be supportive of comp time, flex time, personal time. And instead of snarky comments, we should welcome each other back to the office and provide a brief update of what was missed without guilt, without assumptions.
I’m pledging to be better about this, both the taking of time off and not begrudging others who do.
I went through a phase in high school where I adored Oprah Winfrey and her talk show. It was a short lived phase, and I quickly moved into a phase of disdain. When asked about Oprah, I articulated my dislike in the context of her charitable work, which likely seemed counterintuitive.
Oprah has always done acts of service in grand ways, most memorably perhaps the episode where she gave cars to every member of her audience. But there were also special episodes about the Angel Network she founded and the school for girls she had built in South Africa. While the intent was always good, it bothered me that wherever Oprah was doing good, a camera crew was never far behind, waiting to showcase her work.
Many years ago at Sunday school, I learned about the Jewish teachings of Maimonides and his eight levels of charity. While the highest level is to give an interest free loan to a person or help them find a job, it was his second highest level of charity that resonated most with me — to give anonymously to a foundation or organization who will distribute the goods or money. The donor should not know the recipients and likewise. It removes any potential for direct gratitude, but also refocuses the meaning and intent behind charity.
This has been heavy on my heart for the past few days because it seems to be the season of relays, thons, walks, and more. The scrolling electronic donor boards on websites feature names and donation amounts, making the gift incredibly personal and also shining a spotlight on the good deed. I try to wear my invisibility cloak of sorts when giving back, whether financially or in service, and struggle with the culture that’s been created of showcasing donations and — seemingly — bragging about it.
I blame Oprah for this, only somewhat in jest, for creating this culture of needing to be affirmed for the good work we do that, realistically, represents the best parts of being members of a caring community. I’m not going to single handedly defeat the scrolling donor boards; I am going to keep advocating for more “Anonymous” buttons on websites and more ways to give with intention instead of recognition.
Almost two years ago, on the heels of my mother deciding to stop all treatment for her cancer and transition to hospice care, I had a panic attack in Target triggered by the sympathy cards. As I stood in the aisle, I could picture the fingers that would someday pluck cards from the sleeves, pulling the crisp, pressed paper with floral images to send to me. Though I knew for a long time that my mother’s illness was terminal, the moment she stopped treatment was an abrupt transition from the mundane to facing the suddenness of moments all becoming potential “lasts”.
I mailed her last Mother’s Day card to her and only two weeks ago took it from under the magnet on her refrigerator where it’s been since. I couldn’t stand the idea of throwing it away and so I tucked it into a box filled with other items I wanted from her house. The last Mother’s Day gift I bought her sits in a jewelry box in my bedroom. I didn’t want to mail it to her and so intended to deliver it on my next visit, but on my next visit she was in the hospital and losing coherency. I intended to return it to the store — I really have no use for it and likely never will — but I didn’t and so now it’s a small token of what was and what won’t be this year.
I had a panic attack in Target this morning when faced with the Mother’s Day card aisle. For the first time in years, I won’t be mailing a card. I won’t stand in the aisle and read dozens of cards, looking for the perfect one. More notably, maybe, I won’t be celebrating with her. My birthday falls the week of Mother’s Day and so our annual mutual celebration centered on the intrinsic connection between the two events.
I knew this time of year would be hard. Her birthday is coming up and then mine and then Mother’s Day. In a very short time period, I will confront many “firsts” of this still new, fragile part of my life. I expect to struggle and hurt; I expect to laugh and tell stories to those who are willing to listen. I also expect that I will emerge on the other side of this having grown and learned and healed, which will be the reward for being temporarily stuck in this.
And sometimes that’s the best we can hope for.
As Ohio University has proceeded through March Madness, I haven’t been quiet in my support and enthusiasm for this incredibly exciting time. Coming on the heels of a phenomenal football season, this basketball season feels like an additional windfall of good fortune for my alma mater. I’ve celebrated their successes via social media and, much to the chagrin of my partner, by singing the university fight song as often (and loudly) as possible.
Tonight I settled in to watch the news and was surprised to see Athens County, where Ohio University is located, featured on the CBS News, particularly in a piece unrelated to the university’s athletic or academic successes. In fact, the story never mentioned the institution. The package focused on the poverty of the county — the poorest in the state — and Steve Liss, a renowned photographer who is documenting the stories of those who live there.
When I think about my six years in Athens, I easily describe them as the best of my life. I describe the beauty of campus, the depth and breadth of my education, the hands-on experiences I had in both of my degree programs, the relationships I formed. And somehow I am never adequately able to put into words the actual education about poverty, disparity and socioeconomic status.
Only miles from the campus, there are families going hungry. In particular, the decline of the coal and timber industries had significant impact on the area. The school districts struggle to provide resources to students because of the inequity in how Ohio public schools are currently funded. Non-profit agencies, including food banks, work tirelessly to provide resources and education in an effort to rehabilitate the economy, but there is so much work to do. Students who choose to involve themselves have myriad of opportunity to explore — and aid — this Appalachian gem.
As I loudly celebrate Ohio University’s journey to the Sweet Sixteen, I’m grateful for the somber reminder of life off of the brick paths that line campus. And as much I love my alma mater, my next donation will be not to the university, but to the United Appeal for Athens County. I am not only a product of my Ohio University education; I am a product of my Athens, Ohio education.
Alma mater, Ohio,
Alma mater, brave and fair
Alma mater, we hail thee
For we own thy kindly care.
Though it may be hard for my students to believe, I was once a college student and attended classes. I reliably attended and those classes were reliably held where they were supposed to be according to my schedule. Without fail, my political science class met in Bentley Hall. It didn’t matter if we were discussing elections, economic recovery, or political infrastructures. Every day I knew exactly where to go to find that class and the other students with whom I was learning.
But what if the class suddenly moved? How would I know which of hundreds of classrooms on campus it moved to for the afternoon? Students may be left searching for the new classroom and get separated, missing part of the lecture.
As student affairs conference season rapidly approaches, hashtags specific to conferences have popped up once again on Twitter. Each time I see this happen, I think of ACUHO-I’s Director of Marketing and Communication, James Baumann, who made the decision that year-round, the association will rally at the hashtag #ACUHOI. Such a simple, understated decision, this choice means members of the organization never have to wonder if they are missing the conversation. They know where to find others who want to share and converse with them. Every conference, webinar, and publication is shared through this universal hashtag, also allowing those who may not have known an event or discussion was happening to participate.
But if the organization changed hashtags for individual conferences or events, people would be lost. How would I know what the hashtag is if I’m not in attendance at the Living Learning Conference or at the virtual roundtable, whose topics change monthly? By the time a participant finds the new hashtag, opportunities to engage have diminished. And if two hashtags prevail – Conference12 and Conference2012 for example – how do people at the conference connect and how do those engaging from afar choose?
ACUHO-I’s use of #ACUHOI fosters a true backchannel, one that ebbs and flows to be sure, but also one that consistently allows people to be a part of the conversation and is representative of the lifecycle of the organization.
It would be an uphill battle to have every organization view their backchannel in this same way; I’m hopeful moving forward others start to adopt this best practice to consolidate conversation.
Many of my days take me across campus and back for meetings, or minimally, at least for lunch in the cafeteria. While I’ve long been a campus environments geek, I also enjoy these walks to observe how students are interacting on campus.
Today as I walked to the library, I noted a student sitting alone outside at a table with her laptop. While not completely out of the ordinary, given the gray, winter day, it did seem slightly out of place. As I approached, I realized she was talking. She turned the laptop toward the building and said, “This is the front of the library. I’m still getting used to having Internet access outside and wherever I go.”
And it all fell together — she is an International student, amazed by something many other students take for granted. She was video chatting with a friend or family member and showing them around our campus. There was so much wonderful in that moment — a student proudly showing off the campus, a student connecting with friends or family overseas, a student appreciating available resources, a student finding joy on a quiet afternoon.
Moments like this are the reason my response is almost always, “Yours” when a faculty or staff member asks, “My office or yours?” when scheduling a meeting. Small moments that otherwise may be unseen become a reminder of why this work is incredible.
What did you observe on campus today that made you smile?
Dear Vendor,
Thank you for the work you do. Without your software/furniture/gadget/linens/care packages, my job would be more difficult. I’m grateful to be partners in furthering the collegiate experience in ways that are sometimes meaningful, other times whimsical, but always for the benefit of students.
I respect that this is your livelihood, and I am a customer whose financial resources are essential to the success of your business. That said, there are some ways you can improve how we work together, and I promise to do the same.
Respect My Time: Meeting face-to-face is important. Please schedule meetings as far in advance as possible and schedule only the amount of time you need. Be on time for meetings and appointments. Things happen — we all know that — but if you’re 30 minutes late, please understand you’re only getting the balance of time left in your scheduled appointment with me.
Respect Our Timelines: Colleges and universities are, by nature, transparent organizations in terms of our busy seasons. Our academic calendars and many of our departmental events are listed online. Particularly as vendors who work with specific functional areas, you have a responsibility to know what time of year is best for connecting and when it may be better to ease off from the emails and phone calls.
Leave Me Out: For programs and services where you work with students, please work directly with students. I’m happy to help you navigate processes and, of course, step in if a situation is untenable; I don’t want to run interference between you and students for every step of every process.
Be Responsive: If you’re going to get me an estimate or set up a demo of a product, please provide the information requested in the time frame you promised. Rarely will I push you for a deadline, but if you set your own, stick to it. Also, if your website has a contact form, it’s your responsibility to respond to requests that come in via that medium. If you’re unable to do in a reasonable time period, remove the form.
Look Beyond the Customer and See the Person: When I leave an institution, I want to be able to take you, as a vendor, with me. I can only do that if you demonstrate you value people as much as you do processes and products. I don’t expect birthday cards or flowers or even dinner at a conference. I do expect some collegiality and rapport. My favorite vendor is one from whom I’ve never ordered a single dollar’s worth of product, but they remember me and reconnect at conferences. I may not be able to order from them now, but I will undoubtedly keep them on my radar for the future.
What other advice would you give to student affairs vendors with whom you work?
Last year I focused a great deal of energy on mental health issues of student affairs professionals. After a conference proposal on the topic was rejected, I pushed it as a Student Affairs Chat topic. Blog posts emerged with people disclosing their own experiences. I remained relatively silent, focusing on education more than story telling.
In 2009, I was diagnosed with a panic disorder. The diagnosis came following a panic attack so severe I lost consciousness. After a series of tests, including an EKG to verify there was nothing wrong my heart, my doctor explained to me that in 2005 what was diagnosed as a gallbladder attack was actually a panic attack. For years, I wrongfully blamed the ongoing attacks on phantom gallbladder attacks – my diagnosis is 2005 resulted in my gallbladder being removed.
There is so much that is misunderstood about panic disorder and, more generally, mental health. My panic attacks are not triggered by a specific incident. They are not a direct result of stress. They are attacks that occur so quickly, the best I can do is remove myself from a meeting or situation before it hits fully. They don’t happen frequently – I can go as long as six months between attacks.
For me, the panic disorder is like my allergies. It’s a medical diagnosis that changes my life a little, but is manageable and has little effect on others.
So why am I writing about this now, a year after I pushed the agenda?
Because on Saturday I had a panic attack at the ACUHO-I Chief Housing Officer Institute during the faculty meeting. And this isn’t the first time I’ve had one at a professional conference. Or at a social event. The panic attack that resulted in the diagnosis was at my partner’s aunt’s 70th birthday party. Every time it happens in a public forum, I’m embarrassed and apologize profusely for the incident to those who help me.
But I never apologize for an allergy attack, something else I can’t prevent and is a genetically engineered part of who I am.
It’s my experience that the kindness and understanding we extend to students with diagnosed mental health issues is not often extended to our colleagues and other professionals. Or maybe it’s simply an unwillingness to talk about it, which perpetuates the stigma by cloaking the issue. We ignore it or make jokes about it; we avoid facing the conversation. We’ve addressed that more students than ever come to college diagnosed with a mental health issue – it logically follows that this increase translates to our field, or soon will.
How do we do this better? How do we demonstrate the same level of care for each other than we provide to our students?
I don’t have a solution, but I offer this as a first step – join the conversation.
I am currently in attendance at ACUHO-I’s Chief Housing Officer (CHO) Institute at Emory University. The three-day institute is an opportunity for current and rising CHOs to learn about current issues and trends, as well as network and share resources. Follow the backchannel on Twitter at #CHOI12
Case studies are an interesting phenomenon. They can be excellent tools for dissecting a situation in a safe space and tossing out ideas to peers instead in front of the president of a college or university. I watched yesterday as my group — composed of people who work at private, non-faith based institutions of 3,000 beds or less — read a case study about a change in leadership at a university. The case study, provided by Vennie Gore, detailed the new president’s goals, which seemed in contrast to the existing facilities on campus. Each group was tasked with describing the challenge and then outlining guiding principles for working with the change.
But student affairs folks, and maybe residence life in particular, are fixers. Our natural inclination was to start suggesting ideas on how we could renovate facilities and change our approach to occupancy management. As those ideas were shared — it bears mentioning they were all fantastic ideas for handling the outlined situation — we soon realized they weren’t what we were being asked to do. We collectively paused and zoomed out to 35,000 feet. We needed to look at the bigger picture instead of the individual problems.
As we wrapped up discussion, I thought about many of the challenges I’ve faced in my first three months in my new role at Lake Forest College. I’ve admittedly spent too much time trying to fix individual processes and problems instead of hovering at 35,000 feet. The change in perspective is startling; I started to more easily find answers and make connections in problems.
It’s a luxury, in some sense, to remove ourselves from the minutiae of the day-to-day and be able to zoom out. It takes intentional time and space, but the refocusing is essential to understanding our work and seeing the context. Staff retreats would be an excellent place to do this; instead of planning for the upcoming semester, zoom out and refocus.
How do you zoom out to 35,000 feet in your work? What does the change in perspective do for you?
During the past week, the “Sh!t ____ Say” meme spiraled into student affairs. From students to RAs to RDs to the things student affairs professionals wish they could say, the videos highlight and inflate commonly used [and sometimes maybe overused] phrases in our field to the point of hyperbole.
But why are these funny? Why do we laugh at them?
I’ve uttered the words in a job interview, “If you can’t laugh at the work we do, you may cry about it.” Much like crying, humor is a form of psychological and physical relief. Laughing releases endorphins; sharing a humorous moment can build a relationship. Humor isn’t superior to crying in terms of relief, nor crying to humor. Rather, humor provides a different route to achieving that release. You may choose Main Street and I may choose Market Avenue. We’re both going to arrive at our destination.
I maintain a sense of humor is part of my skill set and something I bring to my career as well as personal life. I seek office cultures where humor is valued and understood. I also maintain I know when it’s appropriate to crack a joke and when it would be a disservice to my work, and I try to instill those lessons in younger professionals because, to be honest, I wasn’t always this smart on such matters.
And so the videos are funny because we see ourselves and our colleagues from the outside. We see how we may be perceived in an exaggerated context. We share an experience that crosses departments. campuses and countries, and doing so brings us together in laughter. Yes, I talk about processes, learning outcomes and social media a lot. I talk about those things because they are important to me in the work I do. I can laugh at the videos because I also know that I can be proud of the work I do on my campus in those areas. When I stop being able to laugh at myself as a professional, the work is no longer fun and it will be time to look elsewhere.
In the meantime, I’m going to keep saying some of that sh!t.
Because it’s my job.
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