Dr. Nicole Pulliam
A remix of the unforgettable question from one of my favorite movies, Brown Sugar — a story about identity, belonging, and the complicated beauty of loving something even as it changes.
This is a love letter for those of us who once fell hard for higher ed and now carry the complicated beauty, heartbreak, and hope that love leaves behind.
We remember the beginning.
Higher ed wasn’t just about learning. It was about access and opportunity — about stepping into rooms our families had never been invited into, about opening doors that could change the trajectory of our lives and those who came after us. It was about believing that education could be the bridge to something better, not just for ourselves, but for our communities.
Higher ed was purpose, possibility, and a portal to a future we had only dared imagine. It was our first professional love story.
In hindsight, perhaps it was never love. Maybe it was infatuation with what we hoped higher education could be. We fell hard, believing the system could provide the belonging, recognition, and transformation that we — and generations before us — had long been denied.
But real love requires a strong foundation. It requires truth, not just hope. Maybe we had fallen in love with potential more than reality. And somewhere along the way, we realized that a system built without us at its core would always struggle to hold us fully.
For a long time, the love story was captivating.
We built spaces of hope and possibility — sometimes from nothing at all.
We sat across from students who said, "I didn’t think someone like me could do this." We crossed stages not just for ourselves, but for the generations behind us. We believed we were part of something bigger, beautiful, and transformational.
But true love stories are never simple.
Over time, the cracks in the system became more difficult to ignore. The celebration of equity and access didn’t always come with a true sense of belonging. Our labor was celebrated publicly, even though our voices were sometimes absent from the rooms where real decisions were made. We watched as the promises of transformation quietly yielded to the comfort of maintaining the status quo.
It wasn’t a single grand betrayal. It was a series of small, steady breaks: a policy that excluded, an opportunity passed over, resources cut, a silent room when we needed solidarity the most.
And so, somewhere along the way, the beat changed.
We stayed because that’s what you do when you love something deeply. We poured into students, communities, and dreams—even when the system struggled to pour into us fully.
We showed up—not just for students but also for our teams, our colleagues, and the futures we were trying to build. We led programs, mentored, and fought for systemic change, all while carrying the weight of leadership in spaces that were not always ready to change. We kept building, believing, and trying to move the mission forward, even when the foundations we stood on felt shaky.
Because sometimes love isn’t just about staying for the system. Sometimes it’s about remaining for the people, the possibilities, and the futures that still deserve better.
And sometimes, we stayed because higher ed did show us love: In the breakthroughs. In the lives changed. In the decisions that aligned with the mission, when leadership chose courage over comfort. In the glimpses of what was possible when the system lived up to its promise.
Those glimpses of real love kept us believing, hoping, and pouring ourselves into it. But if we're honest, the love often felt one-sided.
We worked hard to see the good, sometimes squinting to catch a glimpse of what we once loved. Squinting and side-eyeing at the same time. Hoping and questioning. Loving and knowing better all at once.
We sometimes stayed longer than we should have, believing that love could fix what was broken.
But one-sided love takes a toll. Emotional and mental burnout crept in—not just from the work itself but also from the realization of how easily our loyalty could be taken for granted.
Higher ed raised many of us. We grew up with it. We grew through it. It shaped our dreams, sense of purpose, and belief in what was possible.
And maybe that’s why we stayed, even when the beat changed. The love was too deep, too formative, too much a part of who we had become.
We are still here. We are still in this story. We are still writing new verses.
The beat changed, and so did we.
We move differently now. We love differently now.
Because real love isn’t blind. It’s seeing the beauty, the brokenness, the flaws — and choosing how we show up anyway.
Sometimes love means adjusting our expectations. Sometimes it means finding new sources of purpose, protecting our peace, and staying true to the heart that brought us here.
Like Brown Sugar reminds us, real love isn't about perfection. It’s about returning to the source, rediscovering our passions, and choosing to love more honestly and fully, even when the rhythm shifts.
Complicated. Beautiful. Complex.
Through it all, our love story continues.
Dr. Nicole Pulliam is an associate professor of Educational Counseling & Leadership at Monmouth University.
