Anita Aboni is a graduate student in human development, learning and culture at UBC, where she explores the intersections of resilience, social-emotional learning and educational psychology. She has a background in teaching and educational research.
Have you ever felt like the only way to succeed was to push through everything alone? Like you had to grind harder, sleep less and never ask for help?
Many university students know this pressure intimately — to appear strong and self-sufficient, no matter the cost. But real resilience isn’t about isolation or endurance. It’s about adaptation, relationships and systems that support us when we stumble.
Too often, resilience is portrayed as a badge of honour earned through suffering. The dominant “grit” narrative in education reinforces this, glorifying those who persevere no matter what. But grit, in isolation, is a narrow and misleading concept. Resilience is not just about willpower or endurance; it's about how people adapt and recover with the support of their environment.
And yet, students are still taught, explicitly or not, that to be resilient is to be invulnerable.
I know this from experience. I grew up in a small village in Ghana where girls’ education was undervalued. I walked long distances to school, studied by candlelight during frequent power cuts and struggled with the constant uncertainty of financial hardship. When I moved to the city after high school, I worked menial jobs and lived without stable housing for six months. There were days I went hungry, unsure if I’d ever set foot in a university classroom.
But it wasn’t perseverance alone that got me through. At my lowest point, my Grade 5 teacher contacted me out of the blue. He reminded me that strength isn’t about staying silent — it’s about knowing when to reach out. With his encouragement, I began to hope again. That single moment of care planted the seeds for future support. Later, peers offered me meals and notes. Professors connected me to financial aid and wellness resources. These gestures were simple, yet they were lifelines.
Today, I am pursuing a master's of education in human development, learning, and culture here at UBC — a testament not to solitary grit, but to the power of connection.
In education policy and popular culture generally, resilience is still often equated with individual toughness. Studies show that resilience isn’t built in isolation; it grows through connection and care. One long-standing study found that even a single strong relationship can significantly buffer the effects of chronic stress. School environments that integrate social-emotional learning and provide accessible mental health resources have been shown to improve both emotional wellbeing and academic performance. Resilience isn’t just a personal attribute — it’s also the product of an ecosystem that includes mentors, safe spaces and second chances.
When I first arrived in Vancouver, I experienced a new kind of isolation — one that came from being in a foreign country, navigating a new academic culture and missing the family networks that had always grounded me. I felt like I had to prove myself repeatedly. But in those early days, I also discovered that UBC had resources I could lean on. I visited the Wellness Centre, spoke with academic advisors and found professors who were kind enough to listen.
I also joined a writing group organized by the Graduate Student Society. At first, I attended just for the quiet space, but soon I found a sense of belonging, accountability and the encouragement to keep going even when I doubted myself.
These moments reminded me that the strongest people are often those who know how to ask for help and how to create space for others to feel safe doing the same. And it is in these moments where resilience lives, when someone listens, shares or simply believes in you.
It grows when we stop treating failure as a flaw and start treating it as a step. Educators have shown that students benefit most when failure is framed as an opportunity for learning, not as a mark of inadequacy.
Asking questions, revisiting material and seeking support aren’t signs of weakness — they’re the foundation of growth.
None of this diminishes the value of effort or determination. But when resilience is framed purely as grit, we risk shaming those who can’t push through alone. We discourage help-seeking. We reinforce harmful myths of meritocracy that obscure systemic inequities. In one podcast interview, an education journalist spoke about how the myth of unrelenting perseverance often isolates students and perpetuates cycles of burnout and self-doubt. And the danger of this myth is real. I have met students who internalize failure as personal deficiency when, in fact, they were never given the tools or support they needed to succeed.
We need to broaden our understanding of resilience. It is not something you earn by suffering in silence. It is something that grows in connection. Universities must take this seriously. When institutions invest in culturally-responsive counselling, create accessible mentorship programs and embed wellness into curricula, they aren’t offering “extras.” They are cultivating resilience. Universities like UBC must take this seriously. This means going beyond surface-level support and embedding wellness into the very structure of campus life.
At UBC, resources like the Wellness Centre, the Peer Support Program, the UBC Student Assistance Program (through Aspiria) and Here2Talk offer students a chance to seek support without stigma. For example, UBC Peer Support volunteers provide confidential, peer-to-peer support, creating a safe space for students to share their struggles without judgment. During UBC Thrive, students can attend workshops, participate in wellness activities and learn practical strategies for mental health.
But access alone is not enough. These services must be visible, easily accessible and consistently promoted, so that students see them as a natural part of their educational journey. UBC could further strengthen this by training “Mental Health Champions” in each faculty — students who are equipped to direct peers to appropriate support. Instructors could also integrate “wellness checks” into their courses, providing a space for students to share concerns without fear of judgment.
Faculty, too, have a powerful role to play. Instructors who normalize setbacks, openly discuss their own academic struggles and offer flexible deadlines or check-in opportunities send a powerful message: learning is not linear. Supportive pedagogy is resilience-building pedagogy. When students feel seen and supported by their instructors, they are more likely to stay engaged, ask for support and persist through difficulty.
This also means challenging our assumptions about who needs support. Students from historically marginalized backgrounds — first-generation, racialized, disabled or low-income — may carry heavier burdens and encounter more barriers. For them, the story of grit alone is not only insufficient, but also harmful. Real equity in education requires that we build structures that acknowledge those burdens and actively work to alleviate them.
Resilience is not something we reserve for motivational posters and commencement speeches. It should be woven into the fabric of campus life. Let’s build spaces where students can speak openly about challenges without fear of judgment. Let’s celebrate the courage it takes to keep going — and the courage it takes to pause and ask for support.
We all play a part. Support your peers. Check in on friends. Small acts, like sharing notes, offering a listening ear or pointing someone toward resources, can change a person’s path. I still think of the friends who gave me food when I had none. Or the librarian who stayed open five minutes longer so I could finish a paper. These moments matter more than we know.
And to the students who are struggling: you don’t have to be a hero. You don’t need to be perfect. You need to know that your worth isn’t measured by how much you can endure alone. You need to know that asking for support is courageous. That failure is not final. That support is not conditional.
Let’s stop valorizing the myth of unbreakable independence. Let’s create a culture of care, where vulnerability is met with compassion, where setbacks are reframed as growth and where support is both given and received freely. Let’s teach students that resilience is a web, not a wall.
Wherever you are in your journey, remember you don’t need to be unbreakable to be strong. Resilience is not about how much you can endure — it’s about how you recover, who you lean on and how you keep learning. None of us are alone — and all of us are enough.
This is an opinion article. It reflects the contributor's views and does not reflect the views of The Ubyssey as a whole. Contribute to the conversation by visiting ubyssey.ca/pages/submit-an-opinion.
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