This blog was kindly authored by Paul Ashwin, Professor of Higher Education, Lancaster University.
The Office for Students (OfS) and the Department of Education (DfE) have big plans to make the TEF much more consequential. They want future TEF outcomes to determine whether institutions can increase their intake of students and their undergraduate tuition fees in line with inflation, which could mean the difference between survival or merger/closure for many institutions. These plans require that the OfS to show that the TEF provides a credible measure of institutional educational quality, whilst also fulfilling the OfS’s central remit of acting in the interest of students. The OfS consultation on the future approach to quality regulation provides an opportunity to assess the OfS’s latest attempt at such a justification. To say it looks weak is a huge understatement. Rather, unless there is a radical rethink, these proposals will lead to the collapse of the TEF.
There are three reasons why this collapse would be inevitable.
Firstly, the TEF provides a broad, if flawed, measure of institutional educational quality. This was fine when the main consequence of a TEF award was the presence or absence of a marketing opportunity for institutions. However, if the TEF has existential consequences for institutions, then a whole series of limitations are suddenly cast in a deeply unflattering spotlight. The most obvious of these is that the TEF uses programme level metrics to make judgements about institutional quality. It is both conceptual and methodological nonsense to attempt to scale-up judgements of quality from the programme to the institutional level in this way, as has been routinely stated in every serious review of the National Student Survey. This didn’t matter too much when the TEF was lacking in teeth, but if it has profound consequences, then why wouldn’t institutions consider legal challenges to this obvious misuse of metrics? This situation is only exacerbated by the OfS’s desire to extend the TEF to all institutions regardless of size. The starkest consequence of this foolhardy venture is that a small provider with insufficient student experience and outcomes data could end up being awarded TEF Gold (and the ability to increase student recruitment and tuition fees in line with inflation) on the basis of a positive student focus group and an institutional statement. How might larger institutions awarded a Bronze TEF react to such obvious unfairness? That the OfS has put itself in this position shows how little it understands the consequences of what it is proposing.
Second, in relation to the OfS acting in the student interest, things look even worse. As the TEF attempts to judge quality at an institutional level, it does not give any indication of the quality of the particular programme a student will directly experience. As the quality of degree programmes varies across all institutions, students on, for example, a very high quality psychology degree in an institution with TEF Bronze would pay lower tuition fees than students on a demonstrably much lower quality psychology degree in an institution that is awarded TEF Gold. How can this possibly be in the student interest? Things get even worse when we consider the consequences of TEF awards being based on data that will be between four and ten years out of date by the time students graduate. For example, let’s imagine a student who was charged higher tuition fees based on a TEF Gold award, whose institution gets downgraded to a TEF Bronze in the next TEF. Given this lower award would be based on data from the time the student was actually studying at the institution, how, in the name of the student interest, would students not be eligible for a refund for the inflation-linked element of their tuition fee?
Thirdly, the more consequential that the TEF becomes, the more pressure is put on it as a method of quality assessment. This would have predictable and damaging effects. If TEF panels know that being awarded TEF Bronze could present an existential threat to institutions, then they are likely to be incredibly reluctant to make such an award. It is not clear how the OfS could prevent this without inappropriately and illegitimately intervening in the work of the expert panels. Also, in the current state of financial crisis, institutional leaders are likely to feel forced to game the TEF. This would make the TEF even less of an effective measure of educational quality and much more of a measure of how effectively institutions can play the system. It is totally predictable that institutions with the greatest resources will be in by far the best position to finance the playing of such games.
The OfS and DfE seem determined to push ahead with this madness, a madness which incidentally goes completely against the widely lauded recommendations of the TEF Independent Review. Their response to the kinds of issues discussed here appears to be to deny any responsibility by asking, “What’s the alternative?” But there are much more obvious options than using a broad brush mechanism of institutional quality to determine whether an institution can recruit more students and raise its undergraduate tuition fees in line with inflation. For example, it would make more sense and be more transparent to all stakeholders, if these decisions were based on ‘being in good standing’ with the regulator based on a public set of required standards. This would also allow the OfS to take much swifter action against problematic providers than using a TEF-based assessment process. However things develop from here, one thing is certain: if the OfS and DfE cannot find a different way forward, then the TEF will soon collapse under the weight of expectations it cannot possibly meet.
Universities are bound together more tightly than ministers like to admit. They share credit lines, pension schemes, suppliers, and reputations. Contagion, once started, moves faster than policy can catch it.
The question up until recently was the wrong one: could a university fail. The grown-up question is what happens next: to students who haven’t applied yet, to local communities, and to neighbouring universities. We have to begin with the obvious: students come first.
Failure at one institution produces contagion effects, the magnitude of which depends on regional centrality and clustering. Government should focus on keeping that transmission reproduction number (or R number – remember that from Covid?) below one. This piece maps some of those transmission channels – I’ve modelled small changes to the bottom line of an average neighbouring university, based on student spend, pensions, interest rates and group buying.
Our patient zero – that is, the first to fall – is a provider that is OfS-registered and regionally significant, and I have estimated the price shock for its financially average neighbour. Of course, I have to assume no rescue package from government (they have signalled as such).
The calculations below are based on the average university using 2023–24 HESA data, excluding FE colleges with HE provision. Each percentage change is illustrative rather than predictive and actual outcomes will depend on local factors.
Stay at home
Student demand runs on policy signals and vibes as much as price. In 2024 we saw sponsored study visas fall year-on-year and dependants drop sharply, while PGT overseas remained twitchy.
Throw a closure into that salad and you start to see conversion eroding. Bursary spend and fee waivers will rise to keep offers attractive. A percentage point here or there looks insignificant but adds up across multiple providers.
International students will start looking elsewhere: Australia, Canada, Germany. Or they’ll just stay at home. Better to choose a sure thing than risk having your course disrupted halfway through. Home students may be similarly spooked – but have fewer alternatives.
There are a few antidotes: multiple guaranteed transfer corridors, decent student protection plans, and teach-out clarity. And most importantly, comms that make sense to agents and parents.
Illustrative hits to an average university elsewhere:
Additional bursary spend on international: £80m × 0.5% = £400k
Reduced international demand: £80m × 0.5% = £400k
Protect the USS
Multi-employer pension schemes, like USS and LGPS, can go very squiffy when a member exits. In that case, the rules force the member to pay a large exit bill called “Section 75”, and the sums can be eye-watering. It’s a standard expectation of a “last man standing” scheme.
Trinity College, Cambridge wrote a cheque for about £30m to leave USS in 2019. USS has suggested that, for a sample of employers (mainly Oxbridge colleges), a crystallised bill could represent anywhere from 4 to 97 per cent of their cash and long-term investment balances, averaging around 26 per cent.
In practice, an insolvent provider wouldn’t cough up, so other universities would absorb the orphan liability. But there isn’t a mechanical “spread the S75 bill this year” formula; it would show up, if at all, via the valuation and rate-setting process. The scheme is currently in surplus, so additional contribution costs are uncertain. Of course, not all universities are enrolled in USS, but the vast majority are enrolled in multi-employer schemes.
Illustrative hit to a USS-enrolled university elsewhere:
Remove the local provider and the GVA virtuous circle turns vicious. Cafés lose footfall, landlords lose tenants (poor them), and pubs are no longer full of students. The extent depends on how rooted the provider is in its community.
Government will find itself paying anyway. Either pre-emptively with small civic grants to keep key services alive, or retrospectively with bigger cheques after the rot sets in. Maybe it will finally put a stop to town and gown tensions.
Illustrative hit to an average university elsewhere:
No direct cost to other universities
Material GDP and tax impacts for government
Likely need for community grants.
Flatten the yield curve
Lenders rarely treat a closure as an isolated blip; being hawkish, they would probably reprice the entire university category.
Add 50 basis points to a £90m facility and you’ve created a recurring £450k drag until you refinance. All in all, that’s not a huge bite out of your cash flow, but it will certainly make you more cautious.
To fix this, listen to your finance directors: stagger your maturities and fix your rates well in advance. Or, radical thought – stop yanking at your credit lines and make do with what you have.
Illustrative hit to an average university elsewhere:
Additional interest costs: £90m × 0.50% = £450k
Herd immunity
Group buying is one of the few places with cash on the table. In 2023–24, the UK Universities Procurement Consortia (UKUPC) members put about £2.4bn through frameworks and reported roughly £116.1m (4.84%) in cashable savings. The Southern Universities Procurement Consortium (SUPC) talks about £575m of member spend and average levy rebates of around £30,000 per full member.
If fewer universities use those routes, frameworks lose clout, and with that, discounts and rebates. The more volume that stays in the collective pot, the better the prices – but for critical services, it’s still wise to have a backup supplier in case one fails.
Another group issue is shared services. Up until recently, they were seen as a poisoned chalice, but are now growing out of necessity. The usual worries are well-rehearsed: loss of control, infighting and VAT jitters. Still, some experiments, like Janet and UCAS, have been tremendously successful, although pricing relies on throughput.
Shared IT, payroll, procurement or estates often come with joint and several obligations. If one partner hits trouble, you start to see real governance friction.
The practical fixes are contractual. Ringfence any arrears so they do not spill onto everyone else, and rebalance charges on a published, defensible formula.
Illustrative hit to an average university elsewhere:
Frameworked spend: £131m (total non-staff) × 60% (frameworked, say) x 4.84% (cashable savings) x 10% (diminution) = £380k.
Shared services: impossible to quantify.
What ministers can do without a podium
I’ve modelled small changes to the bottom line (again, illustratively) – in this example one university going under could cost others £2.5m, or 50 per cent of the average university’s 2023–24 surplus. This number isn’t rigorous or comprehensive, but serves as an interesting thought experiment.
The rational response is a resolution regime that protects students and research, temporary liquidity for solvent neighbours, clear transfer routes when the worst happens, and deployment of short, targeted grants for civic programmes.
A single collapse could probably be absorbed; a string of them could set off an irreversible domino effect with far-reaching consequences. Ministers need to plan for this now – or else risk a very hefty civic bailout.
For years, higher education leaders have avoided one of the most uncomfortable questions in the field: What is the minimum threshold of authentic learning required to keep the system operational? That threshold exists — and recent data suggest we may have already crossed it. The warning signs are visible in eroding public trust, declining employer confidence, and a growing inability to authenticate credentials. What we are watching now is not a temporary disruption, but the managed decline of mass higher education as we have known it.
A truly viable education system has to deliver four essential functions. It must transmit knowledge — not only basic literacy, numeracy, and critical thinking, but also the domain-specific skills employers recognize, along with the ability to evaluate information in a democratic society. It must authenticate credentials by verifying learner identity, ensuring assessments are legitimate, maintaining tamper-proof records, and clearly differentiating between levels of competence. It must serve as a pathway for social mobility, providing economic opportunities that justify the investment, generating real wage premiums, and fostering professional networks and cultural capital. And it must have reliable quality assurance, with competent faculty, relevant curriculum, trustworthy measurement of learning outcomes, and external accountability strong enough to maintain standards.
Research into institutional collapse and critical mass theory shows that each of these functions has a minimum operational threshold. The authentic learning rate must exceed 70 percent for degrees to retain their signaling value. Below that point, employers begin to see the credential itself as unreliable. Estimates today range from 30 to 70 percent, depending on the institution and delivery method. Employer confidence must stay above 80 percent for degrees to remain the default hiring credential. When fewer than eight in ten employers trust the degree signal, alternative credentialing accelerates — something already underway as skills-based hiring spreads across industries. Public trust must also remain high, but Gallup’s 2023 data put confidence in higher education at just 36 percent, far below the survival threshold. On the financial side, stability is eroding, with roughly 15 percent of U.S. institutions at risk of closure and more failing each year.
Despite these trends, parts of the system still function effectively. Elite institutions with rigorous admissions, strong alumni networks, and powerful employer relationships continue to maintain credibility. Professional programs such as medicine, engineering, and law retain integrity through external licensing and oversight. Technical programs tied closely to industry needs still provide authenticated learning with direct employment pathways. Research universities at the graduate level preserve rigor through peer review, publication requirements, and close faculty mentorship. These pockets of quality create the illusion that the overall system remains sound, even as large portions hollow out.
But the cracks are widening. Public trust is at 36 percent. Fraud rates are climbing beyond detection capacity, with California’s rate estimated at 31 percent. Grade inflation is erasing distinctions between levels of achievement. Authentic learning appears to be hovering somewhere between 30 and 70 percent, putting the system in a yellow warning zone. Financially, the sector remains unstable, with 15 percent of institutions on the brink.
Higher education is also becoming sharply stratified. At one end are the high-integrity institutions that still maintain meaningful standards, a group that may represent just 20 to 30 percent of the market. In the middle are the credential mills — low-integrity schools operating on volume with minimal quality control, perhaps 40 to 50 percent of the market. On the other end, alternative providers such as bootcamps, apprenticeships, and corporate academies are rapidly filling the skills gap. This stratification allows the system to stagger forward while its core mission erodes.
Collapse becomes irreversible when several failure points converge. Employer confidence dropping below 50 percent would trigger mass abandonment of degree requirements. Public funding cuts, fueled by political backlash, would intensify. Alternative credentials would reach critical mass, making traditional degrees redundant in many sectors. A faculty exodus would leave too few qualified instructors to maintain quality. Rising student debt defaults could force the federal government to restrict lending.
The available evidence suggests the tipping point likely occurred sometime between 2020 and 2024. That was when public trust cratered, employer skepticism intensified, financial fragility spread, and the post-pandemic environment made fraud and grade inflation harder to contain. We may already be living in a post-viable higher education system, one where authentic learning and meaningful credentialing are concentrated in a shrinking group of elite institutions, while the majority of the sector operates as a credentialing fiction.
The question now is whether the surviving components can reorganize into something sustainable before the entire system’s legitimacy evaporates. Without deliberate restructuring, higher education’s role as a public good will vanish, replaced by a marketplace of unreliable credentials and narrowing opportunities. The longer we avoid defining the collapse threshold, the harder it will be to stop the slide.
Sources: Gallup, Inside Higher Ed, BestColleges, Cato Institute, PMC (National Center for Biotechnology Information), Council on Foreign Relations
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“We pretend to work and they pretend to pay us.” That’s what everyday Soviets said in the 1970s and 1980s, as the Soviet Union teetered toward collapse.
American higher education today is facing a similar crisis of confidence.
Most people within academia seem content to ignore the signs of impending collapse and continue on as if the status quo is inevitable. Sustained increases in tuition, expansion of the administrative bureaucracy, relentless fundraising drives and a preoccupation with buzzwords such as “efficiency” dominate the academic ecosystem. Efficiency in today’s academic parlance seems aligned with how to teach the most students (i.e., maximize revenue) with the least overhead (i.e., by employing the fewest number or lowest-paid faculty). This endless drive for efficiency is the biggest crisis in higher education today.
For at least the last two academic cycles, people have recognized that artificial intelligence (AI) is poised to play a serious role in American higher education. At first, the challenge was how to detect whether students are using AI to complete assignments. Once ChatGPT was released for public consumption, it became clear that the software could do a fair bit of work on behalf of the enterprising student. Simply insert your prompt and input a few parameters, and the chatbot would return a rather cogent piece of writing. The only questions became, 1) how much did students need to alter the chatbot’s output before submission and 2) how could faculty spot such artificial intervention. Faculty debates centered on how to identify AI-generated work and what the appropriate response would be. Do we make the charge of plagiarism? Using a chatbot seems to be a form of academic dishonesty, but from whom is the student copying? Like many faculty, I saw some clear examples of AI in student essay submissions. Thankfully, since I employed a specific rubric in my classes, I was able to disregard whether the student acted alone or not and simply grade the essay based on how well it met each of the expectations. The fact that AI-generated content tended to include a lot of fluff, that it frequently lacked precision and direct quotes, and that it often reflected a hesitancy to take strong positions made it all the easier to detect, and made its use less attractive to my students given the severe grade implications.
If complications around grading AI-enhanced or AI-sourced work represented a challenge to the integrity of the education system, we could rest easy knowing that we would be able to persevere indefinitely and overcome. But alas we cannot. The most severe issue that threatens to upend the system is not the challenge of detecting AI in students’ work, but the fact that universities are now encouraging a wholesale embrace of AI.
Universities across the United States—especially the self-proclaimed cutting-edge or innovative ones—are declaring that AI is the future and that we must teach students how to master AI in order to prepare for their careers. We faculty are urged to leverage AI in the classroom accordingly. What does this look like, you might ask? In part, it means asking faculty to think about how AI can be used to create assignments and lesson-plans, how it can aid in research, and how it might help grade student work.
Using AI as a teaching tool seems innocuous enough—after all, if an instructor uses AI to create questions for a test, prompts for an essay, or a slideshow for student consumption, it would presumably all be based on the material delivered in the course, with the AI using as its source the same corpus of information. Or so it should be.
Using AI to aid in research also seems innocent enough. Before, I had to use keywords to search through databases and catalogues and then read through an enormous amount of material. Taking notes, organizing my thoughts, and developing an argument was an inherently time-consuming and inefficient process. I might read hundreds of pages of material and then realize that the direction I’d taken was in vain, therefore requiring me to start fresh. AI promises to expand my search and deliver summaries that I can more efficiently process as I seek to find a direction for my scholarship. I can now use my time more wisely thanks to AI, so the story goes. All of this efficiency means that I can conduct even more research, or that I can free up my time to teach students more effectively.
And so, we get to the crux of the issue: using AI to grade student work.
Grading represents a significant time allotment for most faculty in higher education. Essays probably take the longest to grade, but multiple-choice tests and discussion posts can similarly require significant outlays of effort to evaluate them fairly. Feedback on assignments represents a pillar of education, an opportunity to guide students and challenge them to think critically. Grading for my discussion seminars, which are based on a participation portion and an argumentative essay portion, is manageable with my courses capped at 21. I can devote the time needed to help students and award them a score for the course commensurate with their displayed abilities (ideally as demonstrated through progress over the course of the semester). But, once the class size grows beyond 21, my ability to grade and use feedback as a learning tool diminishes.
Here we return to the drive for efficiency. Universities have already embraced more part-time faculty, a reliance on grading assistants (usually drawn from the ranks of other students, who work for much less money), and large class sizes to maximize profitability. All institutions need to remain solvent, so this in and of itself is not a sin. Yet, the continued pushing of the boundaries has meant that the actual student experience has been in decline for decades. AI promises to make it worse. One can scale up the number of students in a course and scale down paid facilitators of said class by using AI. The machine can take a rubric and grade thousands of student submissions—no matter how complex—in a miniscule amount of time. It doesn’t take a big imagination to envision the college administrator thinking about how much more profitable a course would be in such a scenario.
Herein lies the trap. If students learn how to use AI to complete assignments and faculty use AI to design courses, assignments, and grade student work, then what is the value of higher education? How long until people dismiss the degree as an absurdly overpriced piece of paper? How long until that trickles down and influences our economic and cultural output? Simply put, can we afford a scenario where students pretend to learn and we pretend to teach them?
Robert Niebuhr is a teaching professor and honors faculty fellow at Arizona State University.
ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. — Maggi’s home in a suburban neighborhood here is a haven for local families. It’s a place where after just a few weeks in Maggi’s family-run child care program this spring, one preschooler started calling Maggi “mama” and Maggi’s husband “papa.” Children who have graduated from Maggi’s program still beg their parents to take them to her home instead of school.
Over the past few months, fewer families are showing up for care: Immigration enforcement has ramped up and immigration policies have rapidly changed. Both Maggi and the families who rely on her — some of whom are immigrants — no longer feel safe.
“There’s a lot of fear going on within the Latino community, and all of these are good people — good, hard-working people,” Maggi, 47, said in Spanish through an interpreter on a recent morning as she watched a newborn sleep in what used to be her living room. Since she started her own child care business two years ago, she has dedicated nearly every inch of her common space to creating a colorful, toy-filled oasis for children. Maggi doesn’t understand why so many immigrants are now at risk of deportation. “We’ve been here a long time,” she said. “We’ve been doing honest work.”
Immigrants like Maggi play a crucial role in home-based child care, as well as America’s broader child care system of more than 2 million predominantly female workers. (The Hechinger Report is not using Maggi’s last name out of concern for her safety and that of the families using her care.) Caregivers are notoriously difficult to find and keep, not only because the work is difficult, but because of poverty-level wages and limited benefits. Nationwide, immigrants make up nearly 20 percent of the child care workforce. In New York City, immigrants make up more than 40 percent of the child care workforce. In Los Angeles, it’s nearly 50 percent.
The Trump administration’s far-reaching war on immigration, which includes daily quotas for immigrant arrests, new restrictions on work permits and detainment of legal residents, threatens America’s already-fragile child care system. Immigrant providers, especially those who serve immigrant families, have been hit especially hard. Just like at Maggi’s, child care providers nationwide are watching families disappear from their care, threatening the viability of those businesses. In America, 1 in 4 children under the age of 6 has at least one foreign-born parent. Some kids who could benefit from experienced caregivers are now instead at home with older siblings or elderly relatives, losing out on socialization and kindergarten preparation. Some immigrant workers, regardless of status, are too scared to come to work, exacerbating staffing shortages. And in recent days, the administration announced that it would bar undocumented children from Head Start, the federally funded child care program for children from low-income families.
Related: Young children have unique needs and providing the right care can be a challenge. Our free early childhood education newsletter tracks the issues.
“Anti-immigrant policy can and will weaken our entire caregiving infrastructure,” said Karla Coleman-Castillo, senior policy analyst at the National Women’s Law Center. Home-based programs in particular will feel the squeeze, she said, since they tend to serve more immigrant families. “Anything that threatens the stability of families’ ability and comfort accessing early childhood education — and educators’ comfort entering or remaining in the workforce — is going to impact an already precarious sector.”
For Maggi, the fallout has been swift. In February, just a few weeks after the first changes were announced, her enrollment dropped from as many as 15 children each day to seven. Some families returned to Mexico. Others became too nervous to stray from their work routes for even a quick drop off. Some no longer wanted to give their information to the state to get help paying for care.
Maggi plays with a child in the back yard of her child care program. Maggi runs one of a few child care programs that provides 24/7 care in her town. Credit: Jackie Mader/The Hechinger Report
By May, only two children, an infant and a 4-year-old, were enrolled full time, along with six kids who came for before- or after-school care. She accepts children who pay privately and those who pay with child care subsidies through the state program for low-income children. She brings in about $2,000 a month for the infant and preschooler, and a couple hundred more each week for after-school care — down significantly from the $9,000 to $10,000 of late 2024. For parents who don’t receive a state subsidy, she keeps her rates low: less than $7 an hour. “They tell me that I’m cheap,” Maggi said with a slight smile. But she isn’t willing to raise her rates. “I was a single mom,” she said. “I remember struggling to find someone to care for my children when I had to work.”
Like many child care providers who emigrated to the United States as adults, Maggi started her career in an entirely different field. As a young mother, Maggi earned a law degree from a college in Mexico and worked in the prosecutor’s office in the northern Mexico state of Coahuila. Her job required working many weekends and late evenings, which took a toll on her parenting as a single mother. “I really feel bad that I was not able to spend more time with my daughters,” she added. “I missed a lot of their childhood.”
For a year when her girls were in elementary school, Maggi enrolled them in a boarding school, dropping them off Sunday nights and picking them up Friday afternoons. On some weekends, she took the girls to her office, even though she knew it wasn’t a place for children. Maggi longed for a different job where she could spend more time with them.
She started thinking seriously of emigrating about 15 years ago, as violence escalated. Her cousin was kidnapped and police officers she worked with were killed. Maggi received death threats from criminals she helped prosecute. Then one day, she was stopped by men who told her they knew where she lived and that she had daughters. “That’s when I said, this is not safe for me.”
In 2011, Maggi and the girls emigrated to America, bringing whatever they could fit into four suitcases. They ended up in El Paso, Texas, where Maggi sold Jell-O and tamales to make ends meet. Three years later, they moved here to Albuquerque. Maggi met her husband and they married, welcoming a son, her fourth child, shortly after.
In Albuquerque, Maggi settled into a life of professional caregiving, which came naturally and allowed her to spend more time with her family than she had in Mexico. She and her husband went through an intensive screening process and became foster parents. (New Mexico does not require individuals to have lawful immigration status to foster.) Maggi enrolled her youngest in a Head Start center, where administrators encouraged her to start volunteering. She loved being in the classroom with children, but without a work permit could not become a Head Start teacher. Instead, after her son started elementary school, she started offering child care informally to families she knew. Maggi became licensed by the state two years ago after a lengthy process involving several inspections, a background check and mandatory training in CPR and tenets of early childhood care.
It didn’t take long for Maggi to build up a well-respected business serving an acute need in Albuquerque. Hers is one of few child care programs in the area that offers 24/7 care, a rarity in the industry despite the desperate need. The parents who rely on her are teachers, caregivers for the elderly and people answering 911 calls.
In Maggi’s living room, carefully curated areas allow children to move freely between overflowing shelves of colorful toys, art supplies parked on a miniature table and rows of books. Educational posters on her walls reinforce colors, numbers and shapes. She delights in exposing the children to new experiences, frequently taking them on trips to grocery stores or restaurants. She is warm, but has high expectations for the children, insisting they clean up after themselves, follow directions and say “please” and “thank you.”
“I want them to have values,” Maggi said. “We teach them respect toward animals, people and each other.”
By the end of 2024, Maggi’s business was flourishing, and she looked forward to continued growth.
Data has yet to be released about the extent to which the current administration’s immigration policies have affected the availability of child care. But interviews with child care providers and research hint at what may lie ahead — and is already happening.
After a 2008 policy allowed Immigration and Customs Enforcement to check the immigration status of people taken into custody by local police, there was a marked decline in enrollment in child care among both immigrant and non-immigrant children. There was also a decrease in the supply of child care workers. Even though women were the minority of those deported, researchers found the policy sparked fear in immigrant communities, and many pulled back from their normal routines.
In the child care sector, that’s problematic, experts say. Immigrants in the industry tend to be highly educated and skilled at interacting with children positively, more so even than native workers. If a skilled portion of the workforce is essentially “purged” because they’re too afraid to go to work, that will lower the quality of child care, said Chris Herbst, an associate professor at Arizona State University who has studied immigration policy’s effect on child care. “Kids will be ill-served as a result.”
On a recent morning, Maggi stood in her living room, wearing white scrubs adorned with colorful cartoon ladybugs. Last year, the room would have been buzzing with children. Now, it’s quiet, save for chatter from Kay, the sole preschooler in her care each day. (The Hechinger Report is not using Kay’s full name to protect her privacy.) While Kay sat at a table working on a craft, Maggi cradled the infant, who had just woken up from a nap. The baby’s eyes were latched onto Maggi’s face as she fawned over him.
“Hello little one!” she cooed in Spanish. He cracked a smile and Maggi’s face lit up.
As one of her daughters took over to feed the newborn, Maggi followed Kay outside. The preschooler bounced around from the sandbox to the swings to a playhouse, with Maggi diligently following and playing alongside her.
Advocates and experts say upticks in immigration enforcement can cause stress and trauma for young children. In America, 1 in 4 children under the age of 6 has at least one foreign-born parent. Credit: Jackie Mader/The Hechinger Report
Finally Kay came to a standstill, resting her head against Maggi’s hip. Maggi gently patted her head and asked if she was ready to show off her pre-kindergarten skills. The pair sat down at a small table in the shade and Kay watched eagerly as Maggi poured out small plastic trinkets. Kay pulled three plastic toy turtles into a pile. “Mama, look! They’re friends!” Kay said, giggling.
Kay came to Maggi’s program after her mother pulled her out of another program where she felt the girl wasn’t treated well. Here, Kay is so happy, she hides when her mom comes back to get her. Still, a key aspect of the child care experience is missing for Kay. Normally, the girl would have several friends her own age to play with. Now when she is asked who her friends are, she names Maggi’s adult daughters.
Maggi worries even more about the children she doesn’t see anymore. Most are cared for by grandparents now, but those relatives are unlikely to know how to support child development and education, Maggi said. Many are unable to run around with the children like she does, and are more likely to turn to tablets or televisions for them.
She has seen the effects in children who leave her program and come back later having regressed. “Some of them are doing things well with me, and then when they come back, they have fallen behind,” she said. One child Maggi used to care for, for example, had just started to walk when the mother pulled them out of full-time care earlier this year, at the start of the immigration crackdown. In the care of a relative, Maggi found out they now spend much of the day sitting at home.
Before the second Trump administration began, the child care landscape looked bright in New Mexico, a state with a chronically high child poverty rate. In 2022, New Mexico started rolling out a host of child care policy changes. Voters approved a constitutional amendment guaranteeing a right to early childhood education, with sustained funding to support it. The state now allows families earning up to 400 percent of the federal poverty level, or nearly $125,000 a year, to qualify for free child care. That includes the majority of households in the state. Among the other changes: Providers are now paid more for children they enroll via the state’s assistance program.
The increase has been helpful for many providers, including Maggi. Before the pandemic, she received about $490 a month from the state for each preschooler enrolled in her program, compared to $870 a month now. If she enrolls infants who qualify for child care assistance, she gets paid $1,100 a month, nearly $400 more than pre-pandemic. She needs children enrolled to get the payments, however. Running her program 24 hours a day, seven days a week helps. She earns extra money from the state when caring for children evenings and weekends, and she is paid monthly to cover the cost of housing foster children.
Child care advocates in New Mexico are concerned that immigration policy will affect the industry’s progress. “I am worried because we could be losing early childhood centers that could help working families,” said Maty Miranda, an organizer for OLÉ New Mexico, a nonprofit advocacy organization. “We could lose valuable teachers and children will lose those strong connections.” Immigration crackdowns have had “a huge impact emotionally” on providers in the state, she added.
State officials did not respond to a request for data on how many child care providers are immigrants. Across the state, immigrants account for about 13 percent of the entire workforce.
Many local early educators are scared due to more extreme immigration enforcement, as are the children in their care, Miranda said. They are trying to work regardless. “Even with the fear, the teachers are telling me that when they go into their classrooms, they try to forget what’s going on outside,” she added. “They are professionals who are trying to continue with their work.”
Maggi said she’s so busy with the children who remain in her care that there is no extra time to work an additional job and bring in more income. She won’t speculate on how long her family can survive, instead choosing to focus on the hope that things will improve.
Maggi’s biggest fear at the moment is the well-being of the children of immigrants she and so many other home-based providers serve. She knows some of her kids and families are at risk of being detained by ICE, and that interactions like that, for kids, can lead to post-traumatic stress disorder, disrupted brain development and behavior changes. Some of Maggi’s parents have left her with emergency numbers in case they are detained by immigration officials.
Many of the children Maggi cares for after school are old enough to understand that deportation is a threat. “They show fear, because their parents are scared,” Maggi said. “Children are starting to live with that.”
Amid the dizzying policy changes, Maggi is trying to keep looking forward. She is working on improving her English skills. Her husband is pursuing a credential to be able to help more in her program. All three of her daughters are studying to become early childhood educators, with the goal to join the family business. Eventually, she wants to serve pre-K children enrolled in the state’s program, which will provide a steady stream of income.
In spite of all the uncertainty, Maggi said she is sustained by a bigger purpose. “I want them to enjoy their childhood,” she said on a sunny afternoon, looking fondly at Kay as the girl flung her tiny pink shoes aside and hopped into a sandbox. It’s the type of childhood Maggi remembers from her earliest days in Mexico. Kay giggled with delight as Maggi crouched down and poured cool sand over the little girl’s feet. “Once you grow up, there’s no going back.”
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