THERE is a moment most teachers and student affairs people know too well, but rarely talk about. It is not during recognition day. Not during graduation. It is that quiet moment when you notice a student slowly fading — attendance slipping, participation shrinking, eyes no longer meeting yours. Nothing dramatic. No formal complaint. Just a slow withdrawal. And you begin to ask yourself, not out loud but somewhere deep: when did we start losing this student?
That question sits at the heart of student affairs, though it is rarely written in job descriptions. In conferences, including the recent PAPSAS gathering of practitioners at Punta Villa in April 4 where I was a plenary speaker, conversations often revolve around programs, policies, and innovations. These matter. But if one strips everything down, the real work begins elsewhere — in the guidance office after hours, in a conversation that runs longer than scheduled, in a student organization meeting where someone is finally allowed to speak without fear. This is where education stops being abstract and starts becoming human.
Anyone who spends time on campus can already feel it. The data just helps explain it. Reports, including EDCOM 2, describe students who are not just studying — they are balancing. Balancing tuition and daily expenses, schoolwork and side jobs, expectations and exhaustion. Around one in three are dealing with mental health concerns, often quietly. Many are working students. Some are the first in their family to reach college, learning everything as they go. When they begin to disengage, it is tempting to call it a lack of drive. But often, it is something else entirely — they are simply overwhelmed.
In the region, one hears this in small, everyday ways. A student misses class because the jeepney fare doubled that week. Another skips a school activity because joining means contributing money at home is delayed. A third stays quiet in group work — not because they have nothing to say, but because English still feels like a barrier they are not ready to cross. These are not exceptional cases. They are ordinary realities. And it is in these ordinary spaces where student affairs quietly steps in, often without recognition.
There is a tendency to think of inclusion as access — getting students through the gate, into the classroom, into the system. But those who have spent time in student services know that inclusion is something else entirely. It is about what happens after entry. It is about whether a student who is already “inside” still feels invisible. The one who cannot afford to join activities. The one who smiles through anxiety. The one who is physically present but emotionally checked out. Inclusion, in practice, is not about numbers. It is about belonging.
During a recent session, practitioners were asked a simple question: who are the students we unintentionally leave behind? The answers were telling. Working students. Irregular students. Those with caregiving responsibilities. Those who cannot speak up. Those who simply do not fit the usual mold of “active.” What stood out was not the diversity of answers, but their familiarity. Across campuses, the same students appear in different forms. The problem is not that we do not care. It is that systems, by design or by habit, often center those who are already doing well. (To be continued)/PN
