As a university faculty member, I love graduation. Watching students walk across the stage, I fill with pride, thinking of their new skills and accomplishments, their dedication and effort. Then I think of my own daughter, Louise.
Faculty members are often sheltered from the personal struggles, pain, and sacrifice that many students encounter on their path toward a degree. Louise, who struggles with an eating disorder, has had a long and difficult path through college, often without the kind of attention or intervention that might have helped her. With one year of classes remaining, I am hopeful that this year will be different.
Louise graduated from high school with honors six years ago. She had close friends, was an all-state athlete, and spent her weekends volunteering at the local hospital. From outward appearances, she had it all together. As parents, we were confident that she was ready to launch, and off to college she went.
Frequent phone calls home were the first sign of trouble. Fiercely independent, Louise regularly called in tears. We watched as her anxiety grew over assignments, tests, and grades. At her first dive meet of the year, just two months into the semester, we knew things were seriously wrong. When she took off her poolside parka, she was so thin we didn’t recognize her.
This special report examines the challenges that students, academics, and colleges face in dealing with physical disabilities as well as conditions that are less visible.
Louise was officially diagnosed with anorexia by Thanksgiving of that first year. She finished the term with perfect grades, then withdrew for medical reasons. Despite the warning signs (extreme and rapid loss of weight, emotional instability, high anxiety, compulsive exercise), nobody, as far as I can remember, expressed concern to my daughter or me. Visits to the campus counseling center did not prove helpful.
In our attempts to reach college officials, we got two standard responses: Either they hadn’t noticed anything unusual, or they were restricted from talking with us for privacy reasons. By the time we had filed the necessary documents granting us permission to talk with staff members, it was too late. Louise needed immediate medical attention.
Over the past six years, Louise has continued to work toward an undergraduate degree while also fighting her eating disorder. She transferred colleges to be closer to her treatment team, and now studies at Oakland University, in Michigan, where I am on the faculty. She gradually assumed leadership roles in clubs, became an RA, and continued weekly appointments with her treatment team. She was on track to graduate last spring but was again forced to withdraw from classes (and her RA position) when her eating disorder became unmanageable.
Now, as I ready myself for a new academic year, I find myself thinking about Louise and others like her. What personal struggles and challenges will we miss? What conversations will we avoid? What actions will we hesitate to take?
As a professor and parent, I want my university colleagues to understand three things through Louise’s story.
First, eating disorders thrive on secrecy and are often invisible to the untrained eye. We can, however, learn to recognize and respond to signs of emotional distress in our students. Early in my career, I had a graduate student who lingered after class to talk. I could tell something was amiss but assumed that his odd demeanor stemmed from concerns about his grade. Actually, he was suicidal and reaching out for help. After reassurance that he was safe for the evening, I spent the next day following up with trusted colleagues, his academic adviser, the counseling center, and the campus police. I needed to learn what resources were available so that I could guide him toward appropriate help. As difficult and stressful as the next few weeks were (including worries about the time it took away from my march toward tenure), I am grateful that I had the courage to listen and take action that night. It is not intrusive or inappropriate to express care and concern for our students; doing so is as important as our research or other responsibilities.
Second, eating disorders and other mental and emotional illnesses don’t suddenly disappear with therapy and medication. Louise’s story of ups and downs reflects that of many young adults who courageously face the transition into adulthood — trying hard to be “normal” while simultaneously battling an illness that is difficult to treat. Louise may struggle with her eating disorder for a lifetime, and her path toward a degree may be unconventional, but she can learn to manage the symptoms and thrive as an adult. As faculty members, we need to reach out and demonstrate compassion toward all of our students, including those who face illnesses we don’t always see and understand.
We need to seek balance between helping our students and abiding by the law.
Finally, if trends hold, we can expect to see more instances of eating disorders and mental illness on our college campuses. Are we ready? We need campus resources dedicated to awareness and support. We must also revisit strategies for working with students’ families and loved ones. For several years after Louise was diagnosed, I blamed myself for working too much and ignoring her silent struggles. I now understand that families don’t cause eating disorders; rather, families and loved ones are crucial to recovery. I understand the legal importance of confidentiality and privacy. As a parent, however, I wish it were easier to share information, gain access to resources, and advocate on my daughter’s behalf. I especially need to know who on campus can be a point of contact for us as a family. We need to seek balance between helping our students and abiding by the law.
Louise is scheduled to resume classes this fall, and when she does graduate, the diploma she receives will represent so much more than a bachelor’s degree.
The stigma around eating disorders and mental illness remains a stumbling block to meaningful change. For me, as a parent, my hope is that colleges can help lead through education and advocacy. That will require us to engage in difficult conversations about institutional responsibility and the nature of our work as faculty members. I hope we are up to that challenge.
Cynthia L. Carver is an associate professor in the School of Education and Human Services at Oakland University.
