I recently met with my summer research students to discuss their project findings. During our check-in, nearly every student expressed anxiety about the upcoming semester and how worried they were about deadlines and exams and becoming overwhelmed quickly. Their unease resonated with me deeply; I felt their anxiety viscerally, even joking that while I wasn’t anxious before, their concerns had transferred to me! Acknowledging their fears, I recalled and shared with them one of bell hooks’s insights from Teaching to Transgress: “The classroom remains the most radical place of possibility in the academy.” I asked them to reflect on what hooks’s idea of radical possibility meant to them. Overwhelmingly, their reflections connected to the notion of well-being—for themselves and their peers.
Later, I realized that my feeling overwhelmed by anxiety during this conversation stemmed from my concerns about the possibility of genuine well-being in a world marred by stark political divisiveness, violent conflicts, and pervasive global crises. These issues, I worry, directly affect my students, influencing their outlook and academic performance as well as their overall well-being. In fact, my concerns for my students and their futures grow each day. And I ask: How can we, in the current moment of higher education, create a classroom environment where well-being is not merely a lofty goal but a probable outcome?
I have written previously about the idea of what I have termed a “learning sanctuary”—a place of refuge that inspires, elevates, and empowers students to envision and build a more humane and just society for everyone and where genuine well-being is a fundamental human right. When I feel disillusioned and struggle to make the case for hope, I seek a sanctuary. By extension, a learning sanctuary is an intentional response to the global challenges that affect student well-being, hoping to transform anxiety and uncertainty into empowerment and wisdom.
I realized that for my students (or anyone else) to shape and change the world—a world that is complex and unjust and uncertain and doesn’t center well-being—they must have the ability to resist falling apart. But how, then, can we nurture that ability, that strength, in our students?
In this essay, I explore why such a sanctuary must inherently encompass the concept of resilience. Traditionally, resilience is seen as “bouncing back,” akin to merely surviving. But I want to advocate for a broader interpretation—resilience as thriving, or “bouncing forward,” even in the face of adversity. I want to shift my focus from merely helping my students cope with anxiety and other difficulties to actively leveraging those difficulties as opportunities for meaningful connection, deep learning, and growth. In other words, I want to create spaces that build my students’ resilience in such a way that their challenges help them change the world for the better.
When my students come to me burdened with anxiety about the escalating climate crisis or violations of basic human rights, I don’t want them to merely compartmentalize these worries so they can navigate coursework and exams. Instead, I hope they recognize the value in their capacity to feel deeply and to perceive the injustices that surround us. I want to impart to them that their anxiety is not just a signal of distress but also a profound communication from their bodies that something in our world is indeed amiss. I encourage them to harness this discomfort rather than suppress it—to talk about these issues, bear witness to them, and act, however small those actions might seem. Each conversation, each acknowledgment of these global challenges, plants seeds for change, nurturing a collective consciousness that is critical for shaping a better world. This approach not only educates but empowers them, turning personal angst into a catalyst for societal transformation.
In this column and my next, I will address two approaches to the idea of resilience: here, by examining and expanding upon the traditional idea of resilience in nature and, next month, by exploring how to create systems that cultivate resilience in our students.
Resilience in nature
Consider, for example, as many have before, a tree in nature, which has a remarkable ability to withstand challenges: when a storm rages, the tree doesn’t stand rigid, attempting to fight the wind; instead, it bends and sways, moving with the wind rather than against it. This flexibility allows the tree to withstand the storm without snapping or breaking. Bending but not breaking—that is one type of resilience. Similarly, when faced with drought, a tree may lose leaves and halt fruit production to conserve water and survive. It undergoes a process of adaptation, self-preservation, and transformation. These reactions, too, are resilience.
Students are not trees; I don’t want my students to shrivel and perish when faced with harsh conditions, even if I do want them to learn to adapt, conserve their energy, and focus on survival. They may not be thriving at that moment—may not be producing “fruit” in the form of academic achievement or other visible successes—but in that adaptation they are laying the groundwork for future growth.
It is okay not to be okay. In the face of tremendous adversities, we want our students to understand that it’s okay to bend, to feel the impact of the hardship, and to sway with it, learning and growing from the experience. Just like a tree, they may lose some of their leaves in the process—they may experience setbacks, changes, or temporary defeats—but this doesn’t mean they’ve broken or failed. It means they’re weathering the storm, and with time, they’ll return stronger.
Crucially, a tree doesn’t bend in the wind only because of its inherent flexibility; it also relies on its root system, which anchors it firmly to the ground and provides stability. The strength and depth of the roots can greatly affect the tree’s ability to withstand strong winds. The soil and the presence of other trees or vegetation also provide support. Thus, the tree’s resilience is a product of both its individual, learned adaptability and the support it receives from its environment—even if that environment can sometimes challenge the tree’s ability to thrive.
As a neurobiologist, I also think of resilience as the ability of an organism, including humans, to adapt and recover from stressors or disturbances in their biological systems. Biological resilience encompasses the strength and capacity to cope with adversity and maintain stability in the face of stress. Notably, resilience isn’t about being in a constant state of physiological equilibrium, known as homeostasis, but about the capacity to return to that balanced state despite external or internal disturbances.
An example of biological resilience in the human body is the immune system’s response to infections. When the body encounters pathogens like bacteria, viruses, or other harmful microorganisms, the immune system initiates a series of complex reactions to eliminate the invaders and protect the body. This response includes the activation of various immune cells that work together to target and eliminate the pathogens. During infection, we may experience fever, inflammation, extreme fatigue, energy depletion, weakness, or even pain. These are signs of a healthy body fighting off an infection. The body may be struggling, not thriving, so it can help restore physiological balance. Once it clears the infection, the immune system slowly returns to a state of homeostasis, and the body recovers from the illness. This immune system’s ability to react, adapt, and recover from infections is a demonstration of biological resilience in action.
I draw on these analogies to underscore, once again, that it is okay not to be okay. During an infection, we don’t expect our body to bounce back and be healthy immediately; we cannot simply “will” our body back to health without first experiencing those symptoms. We follow our biological timetable, allowing the body to take the time it needs to heal and recover. The body has its own natural processes and rhythms that determine the pace at which it responds to challenges. A resilient immune system is not about ignoring the infection and its sequelae but rather about finding ways to stabilize, heal, and eventually bounce back physiologically.
Like the tree, the immune system doesn’t operate in isolation but is part of a larger network of systems within the body. For example, the circulatory system transports immune cells to sites of infection, the lymphatic system helps to eliminate waste and toxins, and the endocrine system regulates immune responses through the production of hormones. Therefore, the resilience of the immune system is not only a reflection of its inherent capabilities but also a product of the support it receives from the rest of the body.
I also draw on these analogies because of their parallels in teaching. Just as a tree relies on a root system and the support of its surrounding environment to thrive through adversity, our students depend on a supportive educational ecosystem to cultivate their resilience. In the classroom, this means that I create an environment where my students feel anchored by a sense of community and supported by the resources and relationships that community provides.
More than “OK”: Creating places that support resilience
Importantly, the two examples above (tree bending, immune system fighting off infections) underscore that resilience is multifaceted and extends beyond individuals to encompass the broader support systems or environment. But there is an essential difference: while trees cannot, as far as we know, intentionally and actively influence their environments, we humans can. And while we cannot definitively control how any of our bodies’ mechanisms react to infections, we can influence some of our immune responses by adopting healthy behaviors, such as calibrating our response to stress or ensuring adequate sleep. These proactive measures not only boost our immune systems but also improve our overall capacity to adapt to and recover from health challenges. More importantly, as individuals and collectively, we can influence larger societal factors and systems that impact our health. This capability to influence our environment extends into the realm of teaching and learning. How might we intentionally curate educational spaces that prioritize well-being and adaptability and empower students to not only manage their personal challenges but also engage with and transform the broader societal structures that shape their lives?
In a May 2020 New York Times op-ed, Michigan State University professor Dr. Mona Hanna-Attisha, known for her work on the Flint water crisis, beckons us to consider the unfair burdens placed on children, especially those from disadvantaged backgrounds, to be “resilient” in the face of systemic failures that negatively affect their health and well-being. In that essay, titled “I’m Sick of Asking Children to Be Resilient,” she argues that “rather than hoping a child is tough enough to endure the insurmountable, we must build resilient places where all children can thrive.” In other words, society should focus less on expecting children to withstand these hardships and more on addressing the root causes of these challenges. When Hanna-Attisha refers to “resilient places,” she means environments—social, economic, educational, physical—that support and nurture all children, regardless of their backgrounds or circumstances. These resilient places don’t simply allow children to bounce back from adversity. Rather, these places actively work to reduce adversities and blunt their impact. These are environments that are designed both to do no harm and to empower people to thrive.
One challenge: the literature on psychological or emotional resilience, or an individual’s ability to rebound from stress, adversity, failure, or even trauma, often fails to capture the nuanced experiences of racialized and gender-marginalized individuals. Echoing Hanna-Attisha’s sentiments, this and other definitions of resilience often place the burden of overcoming systemic barriers on those most impacted by them. Such definitions can obscure the structural inequities that disproportionately affect these groups.
Working with my students this summer, I saw firsthand the radical possibilities that can emerge in the classroom. I’m reminded of an experience I had during the last day of the course I cotaught at Stellenbosch University: Violent Histories and Repair. I asked the students what they were grateful for after having gone through the course. One student mentioned that she was grateful for her heart. She went on to describe how much and how deeply she felt throughout the course and how the stories we read and the people we encountered taught her so much and helped her have “clarity” about what she wants to do in the world. I was deeply touched by her words, and I shared with her and her peers something my grandmother used to say to encourage me not to be embarrassed when I cried: “Tears carry knowledge and are a gift.”
In fact, my grandmother was that sanctuary where I learned to be grateful that my heart is still able to break despite all the breaks it has endured. It means it is still alive, still capable of caring, feeling, and empathizing—and that capacity drives me to act. I suppose this encapsulates the essence of resilience that I hope to cultivate in my students: a resilience that is not about suppressing emotions or merely surviving difficulties but about embracing those moments of vulnerability as a source of strength, wisdom, and action.
In part two of this essay, I will explore how we might, in our classrooms and on our campuses, create spaces that enable resilience. For resilience doesn’t operate in isolation; it is deeply interconnected with the systems and environments we inhabit.
Mays Imad, PhD, is an associate professor of biology and equity pedagogy at Connecticut College. Previously, she taught for 14 years at Pima Community College, where she also founded the teaching and learning center. She is a Gardner Institute Fellow for Undergraduate Education, an AAC&U Senior STEM Fellow, a Mind and Life Institute Fellow, and a research fellow with the Centre for the Study of the Afterlife of Violence and the Reparative Quest (AVReQ) at the University of Stellenbosch.
