Welcome to college: A letter for the journey ahead

• College is more than academics. It’s a formative experience that shapes character, deepens empathy, and builds skills for both career and civic life.
• Engaging across differences is essential. True growth comes from listening with curiosity, disagreeing with respect, and resisting ideological echo chambers.
• Your choices matter. Intentional actions, relationships, and reflection during college prepare you to contribute meaningfully to your community and democracy.

​Editor’s note: This piece is written as an open letter to college students beginning their first year in the fall 2025 semester.

You’re about to begin one of the most transformative experiences of your life: your collegiate journey.

You’ve earned your seat through talent, persistence, discipline, and resilience. Congratulations – not just for getting in, but for choosing to begin this next chapter with open eyes and an open heart.

Now comes the hard part.

College is not just about absorbing facts or passing exams. Skill development – learning how to write clearly and persuasively, how to think analytically and critically, how to speak with confidence and nuance – is certainly a vital part of your education. These are the tools that will serve you throughout your career and civic life.

But college is so much more than academic achievement. It is a place where you’ll forge lifelong friendships that will sustain you through decades of joy and sorrow, encounter new ways of thinking that will fundamentally reshape your worldview, perhaps even fall in love – and yes, experience the heartbreak that teaches you resilience and empathy. You will find yourself in unfamiliar conversations, navigating layers of cultural, intellectual, political, and emotional complexity that you never knew existed.

Because college is not just about what you know, it’s about who you are becoming.

You’re arriving at your new campus at a time of deep and troubling social division. From the shouting matches on cable news to the quiet tension in many classrooms, from heated school board meetings to family dinners that end in argument, we live in a moment of unprecedented polarization and emotional charge.

Collegiate life – once universally celebrated as a symbol of intellectual exploration and personal growth – has become a political flashpoint.

You may have already noticed this: debates about campus culture are now broadcast on national television. Congressional hearings investigate university leadership with the fervor once reserved for national security threats. The same college speaker events that once focused purely on the exchange of ideas are now viewed as litmus tests for tribal allegiance, with protesters and counter-protesters turning academic venues into battlegrounds.

Too often, students are told they must pick a side before they’ve even had time to understand the issues. That identity must precede inquiry. That ideology should dictate friendship. That disagreement is dangerous, and that engaging with different perspectives is somehow a betrayal of your values or your community.

Meanwhile, social media platforms – designed to connect us across vast distances – often end up dividing us instead, creating echo chambers more isolating than any physical boundary. They reward speed and certainty over slowness and doubt, outrage over nuance, performative signaling over genuine sincerity.

These platforms are not neutral tools; they are engineered systems with specific goals.

Their algorithms are built to capture and hold your attention, and they accomplish this by narrowing your information diet until all you see are the things you already agree with, the people who already think like you, and the content that confirms your existing beliefs. They discourage intellectual humility and the admission of uncertainty. They flatten complexity into digestible soundbites. And over time, they create a distorted reality – one where every issue appears black and white, every opponent seems like a villain, and every conversation feels like a battlefield where winning matters more than understanding.

But here’s the truth that no app, feed, or influencer can force you to see: you have a choice.

You have a choice in how you listen – whether with the intent to understand or merely to respond. You have a choice in how you speak – whether to build bridges or burn them. You have a choice in how you show up in every interaction, every classroom discussion, every late-night dorm room conversation. You can choose to meet the world with judgment or curiosity, contempt or compassion, suspicion or good faith. You can choose to reflect before reacting, to pause before posting, to think before speaking. You can choose to ask genuine questions instead of assuming you already know the answers. You can choose to be brave enough to say, “I don’t know,” and strong enough to hear, “I disagree,” without feeling threatened or diminished.

College is one of the rare spaces in modern life where such choices still matter – and where they are still possible.

This is not just about your personal development, though that matters immensely. It’s about your civic life and your role in democracy itself.

America has long relied on the ideal of civic republicanism: a vision of citizens not as atomized individuals pursuing only their private interests, but as responsible participants in a shared democratic project. In this tradition, college serves as a crucial training ground not only for careers and professional success, but for engaged citizenship.

The Founders believed deeply in institutions of higher learning as spaces where future leaders could develop sound judgment, moral character, and civic virtue. Benjamin Franklin’s vision for American education emphasized practical wisdom alongside technical knowledge. Thomas Jefferson saw universities as essential to the health of the republic, places where citizens could develop the intellectual habits necessary for self-governance.

In early American colleges, students were taught to engage with the classics not merely for knowledge acquisition, but for moral and civic formation. They studied rhetoric not just to communicate effectively, but to participate meaningfully in public deliberation. A well-educated citizen was understood to be someone who could engage in democratic discourse with reason, humility, and genuine care for the common good – someone who understood that their individual flourishing was inextricably linked to the health of the whole community.

You are called to become someone who contributes meaningfully to the common good – someone who engages seriously with the responsibilities that come with liberty and democratic citizenship. That transformation starts with cultivating both your voice and your capacity for deep listening.

You’re also part of a much deeper human tradition – one that stretches far beyond America or the modern university system. Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Confucian, and countless indigenous wisdom traditions have long taught that genuine community and human flourishing begin not with domination, competition, or performative display, but with humility, self-restraint, and active love of neighbor. Civic life cannot flourish without character, and character is formed not merely through information transfer, but through discipline, meaningful ritual, reverence for wisdom, and sustained habits of mutual care and service.

In the Jewish tradition, for example, intellectual debate is considered sacred work. The Talmud – arguably Judaism’s most central text after the Torah – is not a simple rulebook but a vast compilation of disagreements, debates, and moral arguments spanning centuries. Students at traditional yeshivas learn through chavruta, or paired learning, where study partners argue, question, challenge, and push each other not to achieve victory in debate, but to deepen mutual understanding and arrive at greater truth.

This practice embodies the principle of machloket l’shem shamayim – disagreement for the sake of heaven, conflict in service of something higher than ego or tribal loyalty. Jewish intellectual life on campus often draws from this ancient ethos, transforming dorm room debates and student fellowship discussions into spaces where minds and souls are equally nourished.

That transformative approach to disagreement is not exclusive to Jewish tradition. Frederick Douglass, in describing his earliest experiences with education, emphasized how learning to read helped him not just acquire information, but “think more justly and act more generously toward others.”

Jane Addams founded Hull House in Chicago not merely as a social service center, but as an intentional community where intellectual growth and ethical formation were understood as inseparable processes. Education, at its best, has always been about character development – not conformity to predetermined conclusions; truth-seeking – not ideological purity or tribal loyalty.

You will not agree with everyone you meet during these crucial years.

Nor should you – intellectual conformity would be a betrayal of your education’s deepest purpose. But you must genuinely try to understand the people around you. The student whose upbringing differs dramatically from your own, whose economic background or family structure challenges your assumptions about how the world works. The professor who questions beliefs you’ve held since childhood, not out of malice, but from a genuine desire to help you think more clearly. The roommate who prays differently than you do, or doesn’t pray at all, but approaches life with equal seriousness and moral commitment.

These encounters are not threats to be avoided or enemies to be defeated. They are invaluable opportunities for growth, understanding, and the expansion of your moral imagination.

Because understanding another person’s perspective is not the same as agreeing with their conclusions. And disagreement – even passionate disagreement – is not the same as personal harm or attack.

A genuinely healthy college experience will inevitably push you to question, stretch, examine, and refine what you believe about yourself, about others, and about the world.

This process of intellectual and moral development can feel profoundly lonely at times.

Many students experience moments of intellectual or social isolation, especially when they refuse to collapse their complex views into one of the prevailing campus tribes or ideological camps. But those lonely moments are not signs of failure or evidence that you’re doing something wrong. They are often the clearest signs of authentic growth, of a mind that’s expanding beyond the comfortable boundaries of its previous limitations. And they can become the foundation of genuine community – not just among those who think exactly like you, but among those who are genuinely willing to think alongside you, to grapple with hard questions together, to pursue truth and wisdom in partnership.

As the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once wrote with characteristic insight: “We are as great as our ideals.” His point was not that we must achieve perfection or never fall short of our highest aspirations, but that we are ultimately defined by what we aim toward – by the hopes, values, and commitments we struggle to live out even when we inevitably fail, stumble, and need to begin again. 

So what does this philosophical framework mean in practical, daily terms?

It means showing up to your college experience with genuine presence and clear intention. Make the effort to talk with the person sitting next to you in that large lecture course – they might become a lifelong friend or introduce you to ideas that reshape your thinking.

Go to your professors’ office hours, not just when you’re confused about an assignment, but when you’re genuinely curious about the deeper implications of what you’re studying. Share meals with people you’ve just met, especially those whose backgrounds differ from your own. Spend time sitting quietly in the library, wrestling with big ideas that have no easy answers. Join a club or organization you don’t fully understand yet – intellectual growth often happens at the edges of our comfort zones.

If faith matters to you, worship with intentionality. If justice matters to you, protest with both passion and strategic thinking. If service matters to you, volunteer with organizations that put you in contact with different communities. Create regular time for reflection, for processing what you’re learning and experiencing. Read books you wouldn’t otherwise encounter, especially those that challenge your existing assumptions. Ask real questions in class and in conversation – and then listen with genuine attention, not just to formulate your response, but to truly understand what others are saying.

Don’t just passively consume your college education as if it were entertainment or a product you’ve purchased. Actively contribute to the intellectual and social life of your campus community.

And when you inevitably fail – and you absolutely will fail, repeatedly and sometimes spectacularly – don’t retreat into isolation. Don’t disappear from the communities that matter to you. Don’t let shame and embarrassment win the day. Failure is not the end of your story or evidence of your inadequacy; it’s an essential part of your becoming, your growth into the person you’re meant to be.

Learn to forgive yourself with the same generosity you’d show a good friend. Seek help from counselors, mentors, and trusted peers. Extract the deeper lessons that failure has to teach you about resilience, humility, and perseverance. And then keep going, keep engaging, keep growing.

Remember that your professors and mentors are not simply there to grade your papers, enforce arbitrary rules, or make your life difficult.

The vast majority of them chose this demanding, often underappreciated profession because they believe deeply in human growth and potential – specifically, yours. They want to see you succeed, not just academically, but as a whole person. Reach out to them when you’re struggling, when you’re curious, when you need guidance. Their willingness to invest in your development will often surprise and inspire you.

College won’t be perfect – no human institution ever is. You may encounter bureaucratic frustration, unconscious bias, systemic unfairness, or even genuine harm. These experiences are real and shouldn’t be minimized. But don’t let individual negative experiences sour your entire college journey. And more importantly, don’t let cynicism become your default worldview or your primary lens for interpreting the world.

The people around you – your fellow students, your professors, the staff members who keep your campus running – are often far more open, more genuinely human, and more eager to connect meaningfully than our polarized moment might lead you to expect.

Years from now, you will likely forget the specific details of most lectures, the precise arguments of most assigned readings, and the exact questions on most exams. But you will vividly remember the people who made you feel truly seen and valued, the friendships that helped you heal from old wounds and navigate new challenges, the moments when you chose integrity over convenience, moral courage over social applause, and authentic engagement over performative conformity.

College is simultaneously a tremendous gift and a weighty responsibility. Make the most of it – not merely for your résumé or your future earning potential, but for your character, your voice, your capacity for wisdom and service.

Our democracy and our civic life desperately need more people who know how to listen deeply to others, who can disagree with grace and good faith, who lead with both rigorous intellect and genuine compassion for the full range of human experience.

We need you – not a diminished version of yourself that fits neatly into someone else’s expectations, but the fullest, most thoughtful, most generous version of who you can become.

Welcome to college. The journey begins now; make it count.