For months, I’ve been grappling with the current state of higher education, which seems to be increasingly defined by anxiety, uncertainty and fear. Our budgets are shrinking and our programs are threatened. New federal legislation includes major changes to student aid. The values that have historically undergirded our work are under threat: We operate under a cloud of political interference, limiting academic freedom, diversity initiatives and even the very topics we are permitted to teach. We witness administrators, deans and presidents forced into impossible corners by the choices they have to make that pit their own convictions against their political survival and the financial health of their institutions. I wonder how many leaders have quietly caved to outside pressures because they feel that they have no other choice. And I wonder how many more will.
Our current moment isn’t the first time educators have faced profound moral dilemmas. During the McCarthy era, for instance, faculty and educators were forced to choose between signing loyalty oaths and risking professional ruin. These dilemmas did not simply fade into history; their echoes resonate powerfully in today’s educational climate, where, once again, many educators confront impossible choices, perhaps reflecting broader societal trends toward authoritarianism, censorship and anti-intellectualism. The recent wave of book bans and legislation restricting DEI initiatives highlights how deeply entangled education has become in national culture wars. These forces don’t just target policies; they directly wound the morale, trust and integrity of our campus communities.
This ongoing bending to pressures that run counter to our deeply held educational and ethical beliefs makes me wonder if we’re experiencing a collective moral injury in higher education. Moral injury is the profound emotional and psychological wound that occurs when our core values and integrity are betrayed or compromised, often through external pressures or systemic forces beyond our control. Unlike general burnout, which emerges from chronic exhaustion, moral injury arises specifically from the betrayal or violation of deeply held ethical convictions, creating profound psychological and existential distress. In higher education, moral injury manifests when institutional and political demands clash with our educational and human mission—that is, when leaders, faculty and staff are compelled to enact policies or decisions that violate their beliefs about equity, care, academic freedom and justice. It goes beyond burnout and stress; moral injury cuts deep, affecting trust, agency and our very sense of purpose.
Why should we care? Because moral injury doesn’t simply stay contained within the individual experiencing it. It’s not just private pain; it’s a profoundly social and relational wound. Moral injury has a silent, corrosive effect: When we educators and leaders repeatedly experience a conflict between institutional demands and our ethical convictions, it gradually erodes our trust in ourselves, in others and in the institutions we serve. Left unnamed, it quietly undermines morale, corrodes relationships and weakens the very foundations of our educational communities.
Moreover, when we leave moral injury unaddressed, we risk allowing it to become normalized. That is, we treat it as just another form of stress or burnout rather than a profound betrayal that calls for careful attention, communal support and systemic change. So, by openly naming moral injury, not only do we validate its seriousness, we also create pathways toward collective acknowledgment, courageous dialogue, healing and, ultimately, transformative action.
Consider the recent example of Jim Ryan, the ninth president of the University of Virginia, who announced his resignation in late June in a deeply reflective, heartfelt letter to the university community. Ryan faced a difficult choice: fight the federal government on principle, potentially losing the university’s federal funding, causing hundreds of employees to lose their jobs, cutting off vital research support and jeopardizing the educations and visas of countless students—or step aside. Ryan explained that while he believes deeply in fighting for what he values, he simply could not justify risking real and immediate harm to the UVA community. He called this decision “excruciatingly difficult,” a choice made with “a very heavy heart.” His resignation was not a defeat, but rather a stark acknowledgment of the painful moral dilemmas facing higher education leaders today.
Ryan’s decision underscores precisely what moral injury looks and feels like in our institutions. Higher education leaders are being placed in impossible situations, forced to choose between bad and worse. His decision reveals that moral injury isn’t abstract; it’s profoundly personal and relational, deeply rooted in the values that guided many of our decisions to enter education in the first place. His ordeal, however, is only half the story; the ripples of such decisions roll outward to our classrooms and, most crucially, to our students.
That’s because moral injury does not only affect leadership. I worry about how these conditions shape our students’ experiences. What lessons do students internalize when their institutions and professors appear forced into moral compromises? When we as educators seem powerless to protect our values or our students’ right to honest inquiry, how does our acquiescence impact their ability to trust, engage deeply and imagine hopeful futures? How does this dynamic undermine the very educational outcomes we strive to achieve?
These moral dilemmas and compromises aren’t accidental; they’re often embedded in the institutional structures of higher education itself. Consider how our reliance on politically influenced state funding can leave institutions and their leaders little room to maneuver ethically. National research funding, such as from the National Science Foundation, National Institutes of Health or National Endowment for the Humanities, has now been politicized as well. These pressures become structural conditions that not only invite moral injury but almost inevitably enforce it. They leave educators and administrators feeling trapped between their values and institutional survival.
Yet, for me, Jim Ryan’s resignation provides us an example of moral clarity and moral courage. Ryan’s honest and public acknowledgment of his dilemma defines the harm and injustice of his situation. By openly describing his dilemma, Ryan makes the crucial first step toward us hearing it and allows us to bear witness to his moral wound.
Ryan’s choice thus compels us not only to recognize moral injury but also to grapple with how we might respond, heal and move forward collectively. When we experience moral injury, the clarity and courage we typically rely upon become distorted; in such moments, it is difficult to rise alone. We need that trusted community to recover our sight, to rekindle our nerve and to ask the hard questions that let healing begin. As educators and leaders, we need to consider the following questions:
- How can we create spaces to compassionately name the wounds we carry from these morally injurious conditions?
- What forms of community support might allow us to reclaim our sense of agency and take courageous, authentic action?
- What new futures might we collectively imagine for higher education, futures rooted in justice, compassion and integrity?
These questions are critical precisely because moral injuries do not heal on their own; instead, they require intentional, communal responses. Importantly, asking tough questions and naming the wound are only the threshold; authentic healing demands the collective courage to hold one another accountable, to co‑imagine more beautiful possibilities and to cultivate the shared clarity and resolve needed to pursue them. Imagination can help us sketch the future we long for, clarity lights our path toward it and courage supplies our stride: Each feeds the next in a journey that carries us from injury to transcendence.
Across our campuses, educators at every level (librarians defending banned books, faculty resisting diluted curricula, department chairs shielding vulnerable programs and, yes, the occasional president who chooses conscience over position) are modeling what it means to align clarity, courage and imagination. Each act, whether public or quietly steadfast, reminds us that collective moral injury can become a springboard for systemic renewal. When we discern what truly matters, dare to envision just alternatives and summon the courage to act together, we shift from enduring harm to transcending it. In so doing, we begin to rebuild higher education on the ethical foundations that first called us to teach and learn.
