The Hidden Gatekeeping of Higher Education

Higher education loves to tell emerging professionals to network, find mentors, and “put themselves out there.” But we don't talk enough about what happens when you put yourself out there, and nobody lets you in.

Recently, someone in higher education called me their “big bro.”

I smirked when they said it. Not because I didn't appreciate it, but because I still don't always see myself that way.

I still feel like I'm figuring this profession out.

I didn't come through the traditional pipeline. I didn't have a built-in network. I didn't have someone walking me around conference receptions introducing me to all the people I needed to know. Most of my professional journey has felt like trying to find the room, and then wondering whether I was actually supposed to be there.

So hearing someone describe me as a person helping them navigate higher education felt both humbling and a little funny.

When I think about my own journey, I don't think about gatekeeping as something intentional or malicious.

I think about all the unwritten rules nobody teaches you.

The relationships everyone else seems to already have.

The information that travels through informal conversations.

The opportunities that emerge because someone knows your name.

The introductions that open doors you didn't even know existed.

That's the kind of gatekeeping I'm talking about.

The kind that often isn't meant to exclude anyone, but still leaves people standing outside trying to figure out how to get in.

Like many people entering this profession, I received plenty of advice.

• Network.

• Find a mentor.

• Put yourself out there.

• Go to the conference.

• Introduce yourself.

• Reach out.

And to be fair, none of that was bad advice.

The challenge was that nobody really talked about what happens when you do all those things and they don't immediately work.

I sent the emails.

I introduced myself.

I attended the conferences.

I showed up in the rooms.

Sometimes people responded. Sometimes they didn't.

Sometimes I walked into professional spaces feeling like everyone else had received a roadmap that I somehow missed.

Over time, I found myself becoming exhausted, not because I disliked networking or relationships, but because I started to feel like I was constantly trying to prove I belonged.

Eventually, I stopped chasing circles.

Instead, I focused on doing the work.

I concentrated on learning, contributing, building genuine relationships, and putting things into the world that reflected what I cared about.

And slowly, something changed.

People started finding me.

Not because I cracked a secret code. Not because I suddenly became someone different. But because consistency has a way of creating visibility over time.

Looking back, that experience has shaped how I think about professional growth.

One of the lessons I've learned is that there are far more talented people in our profession than most of us will ever know.

Higher education is full of people doing remarkable work without a large platform, a national reputation, or a long list of connections.

They're supporting students.

Leading teams.

Building programs.

Solving problems.

Developing people.

Creating impact.

Many of them are doing work every bit as meaningful as the people who are most visible.

The difference is often not talent.

Most times the difference is access.

Access to information.

Access to relationships.

Access to sponsorship.

Access to opportunities.

Access to the unwritten rules of the profession.

I've come to believe that much of what we call networking is really access, and access is something not everyone starts with equally.

That realization has stayed with me because I know what it feels like when those things aren't readily available.

And because of that, I've found myself thinking differently about my own responsibility as I've gained more experience.

Not responsibility in some grand sense.

Just a simple question: Who might I be missing?

Who is doing great work that I haven't noticed yet?

Who has something valuable to contribute but isn't naturally the loudest voice in the room?

Who is trying to figure out the profession the same way I once was?

The older I get, the more I realize how easy it is to forget what earlier versions of ourselves experienced.

It's easy to forget what it felt like when nobody knew our name.

It's easy to forget what it felt like to be the person hoping someone would respond.

It's easy to forget the people who made room for us, sponsored us, encouraged us, or simply took a chance on us.

But those moments matter.

In many ways, every opportunity I've had can be traced back to someone who saw something in me before I fully saw it myself.

That's why being called someone's “big bro” stuck with me.

Not because of the title.

Because it reminded me that somewhere along the way, the person trying to find a path became someone who could help point out a path for someone else.

That's a privilege, but it's also a reminder.

A reminder to stay approachable.

A reminder to be generous with what I've learned.

A reminder to notice people who may not yet know how to navigate the spaces I've become comfortable in.

Most importantly, it's a reminder not to forget.

Not to forget what it felt like to be searching for belonging.

Not to forget the people who helped me find it.

Over the years, I've come to realize that some of the most significant gatekeeping in higher education isn't intentional.

It's hidden in assumptions.

It's hidden in networks.

It's hidden in who gets invited into conversations and who doesn't.

It's hidden in the belief that everyone knows how to navigate the profession in the same way.

I don't share that observation as criticism.

I share it because I remember.

I remember what it felt like to be unsure of the path.

And now that I have more access than I once had, I find myself asking a different question: Who might I be missing?

Because if hidden gatekeeping can quietly limit opportunity, then intentional generosity can quietly expand it.

Maybe that generosity looks like making an introduction.

Maybe it looks like recommending someone's work.

Maybe it looks like inviting a new voice into a conversation.

Maybe it looks like responding to the email you almost overlooked.

That's the lesson I'm still learning.

And it's the invitation I'd offer to all of us.

Because sometimes people don't need someone to open every door for them.

Sometimes they just need someone to remind them that they belong in the room.

And sometimes the difference between a hidden gem and a recognized leader is simply that someone decided to notice.