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

In a recent op-ed in Within Higher Edwrote Austin Sarat that universities were unprepared for the possibility of a Trump victory. Now that his victory is a fact, we are faced with the consequences. Many of our students and colleagues are despondent, devastated and afraid of the future.

I have been preparing for how I can support my students in the aftermath of this election. Looking back on 2016, I remember teaching in Tucson until about 9pm on election night. As the evening wore on, an air of panic began to permeate the classroom. After class, in the parking lot, a student came up to me and asked for a hug while they were sobbing. I was too stunned to feel anything at that moment. Later, when I was at the gym, I watched as people stopped their workouts and gathered around the TV as the results were announced, their expressions filled with horror. I had to stay calm knowing I had to teach human physiology at 7am the next morning

Driving to work that morning felt surreal. I started the lecture as usual, but the weight of the room was unmistakable. I could sense my students’ unexpressed emotions as they struggled to concentrate. Within less than 15 minutes the tension became palpable. I paused the lesson and admitted, “I think I need a break.” One student responded, “Yes, I can’t concentrate either.” Another student came by to check my vitals – a sure sign that neither of us was doing well.

Reflecting on the lessons I learned from 2016, in the weeks leading up to election night, I asked my students and advisors about their feelings if their favorite candidate lost. I didn’t assume who they were supporting, nor did I care. But in the event that their candidate lost, I asked, “How do you want me to support you?” Their reactions were tinged with emotions of betrayal, abandonment, confusion and loneliness, but they overwhelmingly expressed fear and uncertainty. They weren’t looking for answers or solutions – just space to process their feelings and be acknowledged for their struggles. One student acknowledged, “There is no perfect way to help us…” Another student told me, “Don’t pretend everything is normal,” as I did in 2016.

What should we do in times like these, when many of our students and colleagues are devastated? How do we move on, or perhaps: how do we fall apart beautifully together? There is no clear answer, and perhaps that is the point – perhaps our next step is to acknowledge the overwhelming uncertainty, fear and sadness. How do we help each other and our students as teachers to deal with these emotions? How do we create space to process the pain and feel it fully, without rushing to solutions, false optimism or blame?

My conversations with my students have helped me see that these moments require 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 the only ones facing this. It is in this perhaps desolate land that we can bear witness to our shared human experience – terrifying, messy and yet beautiful. So, I ask, what does it mean to cultivate a space in which we can acknowledge our vulnerabilities? What might a pedagogy that embraces dissolution look like?

Kahlil Gibran wrote, “Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding./ Just as the seed of the fruit must break so that its heart can stand in the sun, so must you know pain.” I often turn to this poem and think about the images of the breaking of the shell, of understanding, and of the pain that permeates it. Gibran’s words remind us that the process of breaking – of being vulnerable, of feeling deeply – allows us to expand our understanding.

I’ve written before about hope in the context of education, and today I’m wondering about the absurdity of hope. The Arabic words for hope and pain have 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 provides 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 understanding 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 promote 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 their ambitions, deepening their emotional and intellectual growth. These words are two sides of the same coin and highlight the dual nature of our human experience – especially in the context of education.

The word for hope, ‘amal’, conveys a sense of expectation, 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 community.

Conversely, the word for pain, ‘alam’, especially in education, embodies the struggles and hardships that students face: academic challenges, personal setbacks, emotional problems. Pain is an inevitable companion to learning, but it is also a catalyst for growth and resilience. It adds depth to our understanding and promotes empathy, making the educational journey deeper and more meaningful.

For teachers and students alike, recognizing both hope and pain is critical because it allows us to honor the full range of human experiences. Pain gives us the opportunity to learn, reflect and grow, while hope motivates us to imagine and work towards a better future. There is a time to deal with pain, to witness the fears and anxieties of our students, to validate their experiences, and not to rush their pain with platitudes of hope. In this liminal situation, we, as teachers, must model vulnerability and honesty. We cannot force hope; instead, we must hold space for the complexity of emotions that arise during difficult times. This is part of what it means to engage in trauma-informed practice: recognizing the depth of pain and helping our students make meaning of it, rather than simply ignoring it.

And yet, amid the pain, there is also the invitation to imagine – to glimpse the possibility of something different, something better. It is precisely in the cracks of what seems like a broken system that opportunities can arise. How do we teach our students to see these opportunities, recognize their agency, 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 asking questions. By asking questions, students can make meaning of their experiences and find their own way forward. Do we teach them to resist? To embrace the discomfort of uncertainty? Want to pause and introspect? Maybe all these responses are necessary. Resistance is a natural and often vital response 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 the hearts of your students.

1. Be transparent and authentic. Recognize that things are not as usual. Let students know that you understand it is difficult. This can be as simple as saying something like, “I know for some or most of you the election didn’t go the way you wanted it to,” and being acutely aware of the range of feelings they may have. experienced.
2. Encourage reflection and dialogue. After acknowledging the situation, suggest that your students talk about how they feel and find comfort in the community. If you feel comfortable, tell them how you would handle it if you were them. When you’re ready, suggest they have a dialogue with peers who might not share their views.
3. Plan flexible curriculum options. Be willing to adjust your plans based on the emotional climate in your classroom. Sometimes it is helpful to set aside curriculum objectives and focus on current events or student needs.
4. Self-care model. Show students how to manage stress and maintain balance during difficult times. This modeling can provide them with practical coping strategies.
5. Provide and normalize resource use. Share resources for emotional support, such as counseling services or mindfulness exercises. Make sure students know where and how to seek help if they feel overwhelmed.

Ultimately, our role as educators is not just about providing knowledge; it’s about making space for both the pain and hope that shape our shared human experience. As we guide students through challenging moments, we must give them the opportunity to vent their pain, feel it, and be seen. And we can also help them think about the possibilities that can arise from this pain. Just as pain breaks through the shell that encloses our understanding, moments of hardship can provide opportunities to plant seeds of hope—seeds that can 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 as they navigate an uncertain world.