It is an exceedingly popular theme this year – and it’s not surprising. For kids, archaeology is the perfect combination of hands-on, material based exploration combined with a detective story trying to puzzle together a picture of the past from bits of stones, bones, and pottery. It speaks to children’s innate curiosity about the world and their place in it. Add LEGOs to the mix and you clearly have a winning combo.

Turns out it’s not just kids who love archaeology. Documentaries, TV series, and movies on archaeology or archaeological themes are popular. Hardly a week goes by without news of some archaeological discovery making international headlines, like about the giant statues on Rapa Nui or the complex domestication history of cats. Archaeology sells.

People also spend their time and money on exploring archaeology. Archaeotourism – visiting archaeological sites and museums on vacation – is popular. The Great Pyramids of Giza in Egypt attracted more than 15 million visitors last year. In the US, many of the most famous archaeological sites are in or around national parks, such as Mesa Verde National Park, that attract hundreds of thousands of visitors a year despite their more remote locations.

Why does archaeology resonate with so many of us? Perhaps partly because it taps into our inner child – our joy of discovery. But it also provides us with a unique perspective on the world and ourselves. Archaeology amplifies the voices and lives of normal people – not just the victors or rulers. Through the fragmented items people left behind, archaeologists reconstruct real people’s lives. We uncover the food they ate; the houses they built, the art they created; the toys, games, and instruments they played. We see how they cared for their sick and injured; honored their ancestors; prayed to their gods; and laid their loved ones to rest. We recreate their worlds, politics, economies, and rituals from the traces they left us. And with all of this, we see other ways of living; other ways of interacting; and other ways of organizing societies that often feel very strange and distant from our own today.

Despite this distance, they teach us that although their lives are finite, they can still be felt today, even if only through a piece of pottery with a fingerprint, or a portrait of a person from 30,000 years ago carved into mammoth ivory. Ideas that changed the world like the wheel; ancient cities that emerged and eventually abandoned; political institutions that rose and fell; all of these show us that humans are always changing and adapting. Archaeology provides us with so many examples of different ways of living, surviving, and thriving, as well as responses to challenges of political instability, climate change, and warfare.

Many news stories today challenge our humanity – they show us the worst of us, our politicians, our worlds. Archaeology speaks to the breadths and depths of our humanity, our understanding of interconnectedness of the people and the earth we inhabit. We can marvel at the ingenuity and courage of colonizing the Pacific, navigating areas of open sea the size of north America with low tech but complex knowledge of seafaring and astronomy; and we cringe at the brutality of a mass grave from 6200 years ago, where an entire village of women, men, and children were murdered. We bend our brains to imagine worlds very different from our own – while knowing that they are not figments of imagination but that they once existed, as we do now. Sometimes it reminds us to be grateful for living in our current time and place.

This cultural heritage is worth protecting, studying, and supporting. Funding cuts to the National Science Foundation, National Park Service, and other federal agencies have already curtailed archaeological research worldwide and eliminated hundreds of archaeology jobs, leaving U.S. heritage unprotected. Without this stewardship, cultural heritage in the US is at grave risk; so too is our ability to conduct research elsewhere and train new generations of archaeologists.

Archaeology may never cure cancer – although it does provide insight into the evolution of many diseases and the human body that help other researchers understand these pathogens better. It may also not develop new technologies – although it can play a role in creating more humane and ethical AI technologies. It enriches our understanding of the planet, our species, and ourselves, and challenges us to address current environmental issues in novel (or ancient) ways. While funding has always only been a tiny drop in the overall research funding bucket (0.06% of NSF’s overall budget in 2023), private foundations can’t make up the difference – we need to fight to reinstate funding to our federal grant agencies, research institutions, and universities.

Archaeology reminds us that fragile lives can leave enduring legacies. It demands humility, highlights our humanity, and inspires all of us – not just this year’s First League LEGO teams – “to uncover the past to discover the future”. Let’s not let it fade away.

Though it is certainly not life and death, a parallel confusion is evident in discerning what is real and what is fabricated from news and social media to homework that is completed with little or more than a little help from AI. As a parent and university professor, the confrontation of truth vs. fake is nearly constant.

I grew up in Mumbai/Bombay, India where guns were not plentiful except on Bollywood screens. Parents could send their children on play dates without worrying about whether the adults in the house had guns.

Here in the U.S., it is different. Plentiful daily gun violence belied the use of guns for protection.  Guns made mass shootings –where more than four people are shot –entirely possible and probable. In the U.S., there were nearly 340 mass shootings from South Carolina to Minnesota to Mississippi.

But beyond the encounters between a police officer and an individual out in the streets, a doorbell ring is taken to be a home invasion and one can never be sure who has a gun and who does not. We are suspicious of each other and have to overcome more than shyness to build community.

In the age of AI, one can never be sure what is real and what is fake, what is disinformation and what is truth. To be sure, mortality is not at stake with the ubiquitous AI use, but the future is.

In schools and colleges, the rise of large language models (LLMs) is making essay writing a breeze with just a prompt. I have struggled with assessing how much a student has written is their own work.  Now that the first semester of the year is half completed, it is critical to examine how to deal effectively with AI use before more knowledge learning is lost.

It is necessary to treat LLMs as new ways of accessing the digital world, replacing search engines, much like the calculators replaced the slide rules.  A 2025 study of more than 12,000 high school and college students shows that 97% of the students use AI in their assignments. It should be noted that not all use of AI is cheating.

As in other domains, we are using AI to solve problems created by AI. It is possible to run the term papers through various plagiarism-detection software and decide to set the checking software at the level of a phrase or of a sentence, or at the level of an inarticulately paraphrased but correctly cited scientific paper. Then, assessing if say a plagiarism score of 10% (on some hastily defined scale) is sufficient to initiate punitive actions. There is little guidance from college administrators or the developers of such software packages.

Perhaps developers are waiting for the real-world training instructors inadvertently provide to improve their packages. Perhaps in less than a year, they will post data with confidence intervals based on the behavioral patterns of students and teachers.

To be fair, cheating has always been prevalent in schools and colleges. And, instead of bribing a classmate to write your essay, you need only write a prompt in ChatGPT.  As always, it is up to the instructor to decide how much thought, agony and learning went into a term paper.

But we lose something when we begin each encounter with a stranger or read the first lines of an essay from a place of suspicion. Instructors wonder if the student did really write this, how much came from them and how much was an LLM, and more importantly, do the students understand what they have written.

There are some dire warnings of the use of AI. As recent research shows it can result in, “The erosion of trust, the hollowing-out of the student–teacher relationship, and the further commodification of learning threaten to precipitate a legitimation crisis for the academy itself.”

One solution may be to go old school on this one and use pen and paper in class.  And also to really get to know the students IRL.

The event was created in 1945 and, for me, became intensely personal in 2011.

On a spring morning that year, I hopped on my bike to visit the farmer’s market, setting off to find asparagus and whatever chance might bring. What chance brought that day was a spill off my bike and a blow to my head (a head that wore no helmet), resulting in a coup-contrecoup that caused a seizure and sent blood gushing from my nose and ears. I woke up in the hospital a few days later and slowly processed that I had been comatose.

For a period following an emergency craniectomy, there was no clear indication that I would ever wake up. With assistance, I was able to sit up and begin the first steps of recovery from traumatic brain injury.

During that recovery, I had to resign from the university where I had worked for 12 years, leaving behind professional initiatives I had launched, managed and grown. I re-learned how to climb stairs and drive. I changed the state I lived in, and I profoundly changed my life. The road to recovery is long. I am on it still.

For some time, the disabling effects of my injury were obvious. I moved and spoke slowly. Severed nerves caused hearing loss in my left ear that makes me an annoying dinner table companion if I am seated to your right. Nerve damage also resulted in loss of a piece of my vision in my left eye. I can no longer pluck a baseball out of the air if it is tossed at me from my left side. My sense of balance was severely impacted. I have a limited ability to stand on one leg. I am left-handed, and my right brain injury decreased the strength and coordination of my dominant hand. My already imperfect penmanship became almost illegible.

These long-term impacts of my injury are losses when compared to my abilities before the accident. But they are disabilities that would have been invisible or negligible in my return to work, where, for instance, I am rarely required to stand on one leg. We encounter such disabilities every day without registering that we do.

In my classrooms, on the first day, I tell the students that I may not see a raised hand on my left and that they should help each other out and call my attention to their classmates who are signaling willingness to participate. They do, and often some of them will, in response, point out their own blind spots or difficulties hearing.

Prior to my accident, I pioneered developments in digitization and in the creation of online information resources. I was an important voice in the development of academic library publishing. And, as this month seeks to acknowledge, I have continued to make substantial contributions to the workplace. I helped scholars realize the potential of sharing their scholarship widely and in innovative formats. I have educated hundreds of librarians, and I now direct the No. 1 ranked library and information science master’s degree program in the United States. I have authored several articles and published two books. All of this has been accomplished despite, or perhaps because of, my non-obvious disabilities.

Shortly after my accident, my then-employer’s risk management office looked at the scores of my cognitive tests and deemed that my executive function was too impaired for me to successfully do my job. When the Social Security administration denied my disability claim (as it tends to do for traumatic brain injury sufferers), it suggested that I could be gainfully employed as a newspaper clipper. But I was apparently not able to run an academic library or a university press.

The opportunities for which National Disability Employment Awareness Month advocates were not available to me.

In 2013, I was hired in a faculty position at the University of Illinois Champaign-Urbana. My salary and my record of scholarship and teaching would indicate to many people that I am normally capable now. Colleagues and collaborators who do not know about my medical history are taken by surprise when I describe my injury and the extent of its impact on my abilities.

During recovery, I had a successful cranioplasty, but my excised skull flap had spent so much time in a freezer waiting to be reunited with my skull that it warped and will never sit flush. I have a permanent indentation that my then-elementary-school son cheerfully described as “Like a cheerio bowl in the head.” To convey the gravity of my injury to a new acquaintance, I sometimes put their hand on the dent in my head, now helpfully covered by hair. There are winces and small gasps in response, but mostly people say, “I never would have known.”

I am normal. I am disabled. Aren’t we all?

Several of the medical professionals with whom I worked with throughout my recovery _— a group of people whose intelligence and dedication are an extraordinary gift to those they serve — told me that I was a miracle.

My emergency neurosurgeon told my family that she had never seen a brain so damaged. I am a teaching case for the emergency orthopedic surgeon who patched together my broken clavicle and shattered elbow despite skepticism from his colleagues that I would ever be functional enough to use them. He shows his students a picture of me, playing with one of my children, and tells the students it’s always best to assume recovery.

Another doctor, who questioned whether my treatment was worth the investment, given the extent of damage, called me over for a celebratory photograph when, two years later, she realized I had just beaten her in a neighborhood 5k race.

My story isn’t meant to downplay the damage caused by traumatic brain injury and its lasting impact. I am asking that we not measure our abilities or those of others against some yardstick of normalcy that simply doesn’t exist.

In keeping with the aims of this month, I urge all of us to respect the limitations of those we work with, and, more importantly, recognize their potential. All of them. All of us.

I was, and I am badly broken. A broken miracle. We all are. We need opportunities, in the workplace and in the world, to demonstrate that.

Recall that in New Orleans, in the face of the catastrophic hurricane assigned the name Katrina, it was the levee system that did not hold, that burst sending water gushing back into the Lower Ninth Ward and other impoverished areas. Our project team was exploring what happens to wetland ecosystems when levees systems like the one that broke (i.e., an elevated humanmade barrier or embankment constructed to stop the natural flow of water often to create dry developable land) breach naturally over time. During her presentation, four years before Katrina, the plant biologist said she knew with certainty that if a massive storm hit, the levee systems in New Orleans would not hold. Four years prior to Katrina, she urgently shared this information with government officials, warning them of the imminent threat particularly to poor, elderly, and Black residents if the levee system broke. But instead of taking action to bolster the failing system, she was told: “We have the body bags ready.”

What have we learned in the twenty years since Hurricane Katrina? Twenty years after the dehumanization of the Superdome, the false and racialized narratives conflating looting with survival, the gutting helicopter footage of primarily poor and Black Americans seeking refuge on sinking rooftops, the government, at local, state, and federal levels collectively left the most vulnerable communities to drown and then fight for their lives on their own.

Surely, we’ve made advances since 2005 to increase disaster response. We certainly have. Yet it’s difficult to see that progress as the current federal administration systematically dismantles the upstanding science agencies designed to keep Americans safe. Innovations that include: advances in extreme weather modeling and forecasting, efficient warning systems, effective evacuation mechanisms, comprehensive disaster recovery plans and strategies. For example, the National Ocean and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), an agency foundational to our knowledge and understanding of extreme weather events has been decimated and the experts that created and perfected hurricane modeling and tracking have been fired. Likewise, it is the knowledge of experts at the National Weather Service (also part of NOAA) used to issue timely severe weather watches and warnings. Further, these lifesaving warnings and evacuation orders, that allow people time to plan and escape are being silenced.

Just last month Congress unconscionably voted to cancel funding for the Center for Public Broadcasting which supports the very public radio that broadcasts critical extreme weather information to impacted areas, especially in rural regions that may not have access to other information sources. Finally, the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), designed to help Americans navigate unexpected disasters that leave their lives in disarray was merged with the Department of Homeland Security and lacks leadership and expertise. We saw the consequences of these unconscionable eliminations decisions that allowed incompetence and dysfunction to lead the response in Texas during the floods that took too many lives; urgent calls unanswered, critical funding inaccessible, emergency warning systems failed. The slice of human tragedy we witnessed in Texas is a warning of what is to come on much larger scales as climate change increases the likelihood and severity of extreme weather events. We must act now.

What can we do? How do we maintain hope and possibility as publicly available climate data and tools are erased from federal websites, limiting the ability to make evidence-based decisions? As agencies like the National Science Foundation terminate grants that engage in climate science research because they “no longer effectuate agency priorities;” an experience I know too well, having lost my NSF Faculty Early Career Development Program (CAREER) award that supports science teachers and students as community-based climate action researchers.

What we do is we reimagine, we resist, we collectively stand up. For inspiration, I look to sources of bravery and determination in and outside of science including: Data scientists saving and archiving tools that the government has tried to erase, scientists at the National Institute of Health and on, issuing powerful statements of ethics and solidarity; persistent Americans, especially in red states, who attend town halls demanding that politicians answer to them, their constituents; residents of Los Angeles peacefully marching in solidarity with their immigrant neighbors and in defiance of a president who they will not allow to mischaracterize them; artists who reject the attempted erasure of their creativity because U.S. history and politics, in its truth telling, isn’t supposed to be comfortable.

As a professor I see the young people across this nation fighting to be heard, demanding the future they desire and envisioning it into being. We must stand up for science because science can be used to keep us all safe, especially the most vulnerable among us. On the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, we stand together as those who not just refuse to be silenced but who demand and reimagine anew.

I am a subject matter expert and consultant on sexual exploitation and when I teach parents about the risks of online sexual exploitation, including grooming, sextortion, and sex trafficking, they ask, “what parental controls do you recommend?” After all, 55% of parents of children under five years old allow their children to interact with a smartphone. Unfortunately, there are no parental controls that guarantee protection from online predators.

Technologies for blocking inappropriate content are not well tuned so it can be difficult to find the right level of control. A very high level of security will increase blocking of appropriate sites, frustrating your child, and encouraging them to seek ways around the controls. A lower level of security will allow more illicit content through. Maintaining the right level of control for a child’s developmental age and social sophistication is a relentless and evolving challenge.

Predators are more sophisticated than parental controls. They know how to pose as children on Roblox, Discord, Snapchat, Instagram, and more. They use a grooming process to gain the attention and trust of children. Thus, once children are able to control their own contacts, they can be targeted by exploiters who pose as peers and slowly fish for relationships, targeting children who are going through a hard time, such as bullying, a fight with a parent, or a break-up. Children who are swayed by the attention can be convinced to share increasingly personal information, including pictures. If a child can be convinced to send pictures of their body, they can be used by the predator for money, power, or sextortion.

The grooming process can also result in the predator identifying the child’s location and seeking contact with the child. Thus, it is important for children to avoid sharing social media posts with locations where they live, go to school, play, or work. Parents should avoid “sharenting” because posting private information about children not only violates their privacy but can also lead to identity theft, bullying, and exploitation.

Parents risk losing any battle of wills related to social media as their children become teenagers and start focusing on peer relationships and connectivity. This fight can cause damage to the parent-child relationship and ultimately make the child even more vulnerable to predators, who are sophisticated at psychologically exploiting children. For example, predators know how to increase distance between a teenager and their parents. They empathize with a teenager’s desire for autonomy and use predictable parental reactions against them. “Don’t tell your parents about our relationship or they will take your phone away,” is a common ploy. If the child does tell their parents, and their parents do take away their phone, the predator is proven correct and can now provide the child with a phone they control.

Given all this, parents are critical in nurturing their children’s safe use of social media and internet connectivity. This includes setting time limits and monitoring use while teaching social media literacy. In addition, parents can engage their children in consistent, ongoing discussions about the benefits and harms of social media.

Nurturing a parent-child relationship that adapts to a child’s development and encourages open communication takes the power away from predators who seek to exploit the need for love, belonging, and self-esteem. Talking to children about their bodies, healthy relationships, and consent versus coercion from an early age – before they enter early adolescence – helps equip them with knowledge before they gather information online or from their middle school friends.

When parents create consistent, ongoing opportunities to talk about sensitive topics before children seek relationships outside the family, parents become a safe place for teenagers and young adults to seek guidance, even when they are old enough to have full access to social media and are focused entirely on their peers.

A parents’ relationship with their child is their best weapon against predators.

Beyond these natalist policies, the GOP is also looking to encourage the strengthening of the family unit, which, in their opinion, means having parents stay at home with the children (we know they mean the mother). 

How are they going to achieve this? By restricting who has access to child care tax credits, of course.

As society swings from the “girl boss” feminism of the 2010s to a more conservative outlook for the future, there has been a surge in social media content idealizing so-called “traditional” gender roles — as in, the submissive woman, in her “feminine energy” at home with the children while her husband (or boyfriend) is hard at work, channeling his “masculine energy.” 

TikTok peddles “Stay At Home Girlfriend” content, where women like influencer Kendel Kay (@kendelkay) make millions of dollars per year creating content that glamorizes the “soft life,” one where their man “pays for everything” so they don’t have to work. (I guess making millions off of content creation simply makes it a great hobby?)

In 2021, YouGov reported that over one third of partnered women are somewhat financially dependent on their partners. I can see how some women might think this would never happen to them. I thought so too.

 It wasn’t until he said, “I think I want to separate,” that I realized how much of my own power and autonomy I had given away, how enmeshed my dreams and projects were in that relationship, and how unstable I would be without it. My mom would later tell me I thought I was building on rock when really my foundation was built on sand. 

Thirty percent of women in the U.S. can’t afford some of their bills. Could I even afford living on my own? I had just recently gotten a full-time job after being unemployed, and frankly, financially irresponsible, for months. Fortunately, I was able to recoup, pick myself up, and put a roof over my head, but that doesn’t mean I’m not currently in debt. 

Call me jaded, but I, for one, will never let a man have that much power over my well-being again.

To be sure, choice feminism tells us that as long as we are choosing to do or not do certain things, we are being good feminists. But I do think decisions can be influenced by society. We don’t live in a vacuum. The media you consume, the political context you live in — we can’t ignore these things. And the more we are aware of these influences, and what is at stake, the better decisions we make.

Do whatever you want. Choose to be a SAHG. But recognize the risks you expose yourself to when giving away that much of your autonomy. Financial abuse occurs in 99% of domestic violence cases and can be a significant reason why victims stay in or return to abusive relationships.

They will continue to glamorize this lifestyle. You will continue to be pushed toward it. And maybe it is something you want. But make sure you look after yourself and your well-being. Have a strong safety net. Build a strong community around you. Just in case things don’t pan out the way you want them to.

When I became pregnant, I became obsessed with learning everything about a healthy pregnancy, labor and delivery. As a Black multiracial woman, I was aware of the harrowing birth stories of Black women who had negative birthing experiences. Serena Williams famously discussed how she fought for her own life as medical professionals dismissed her concerns after birthing her daughter. In California, infant mortality rates of Black women are three times higher than white infants, and though Black women account for 5% of the state’s pregnancy, they make up for 21% of pregnancy related deaths. 

My concerns led me to an experienced midwife as my primary care opting for a homebirth. Yet, my labor did not go as planned. My water broke and after 16 hours of labor, I failed to progress. Exhausted and defeated, I ended up at the hospital. Despite knowing that Black women and other women of color are treated poorly by healthcare professionals, I was not prepared for how my own story would unfold. 

Upon arrival, I was sent to triage. I explained to the white female nurse that my water broke about 24 hours ago and I had been laboring all night, but my contractions slowed. “How do you know your water broke? Are you sure you aren’t just dehydrated?” She questioned me. I informed her that my midwife had just had an IV in me. Offering me water, she informed me that the birthing rooms were “crowded” and they might not have “room for me.”  From the ultrasound she said it looked like the baby was fine. She then proceeded to do two cervical checks. Given that my water ruptured, the multiple checks only increased my chance of infection. 

She then asked what my ethnicity was. I weakly answered, “I’m Black and Chinese.” At that moment, my (Black) husband walked in. Glancing at us, she stated, “Well don’t be surprised if your baby comes out looking white. My friend just had a baby with a Black man and the baby looks Native American.” My husband and I locked eyes, both of us taken aback by her comments.

Finally, they tested for my waters and it came back positive. Relieved, they transferred me to a birthing room where my midwife and doula joined me and my husband. While I was getting situated the nurse continued to double down that my water had not broken. “It’s not certain your water broke, and this is kind of a mercy admit.” I was exhausted and visibly contracting. A single hot angry tear rolled down my cheek. I could not answer her or even look at her. “Do you want to switch your nurse? I feel like you are upset with me,” she said directly to me. It was unbelievable how she managed to center herself in this moment. 

After receiving the epidural I was in and out of sleep for hours. Finally, it was time to push. Our baby arrived and we enjoyed our “golden hour” before we were transferred to a postpartum room.Unfortunately, our joyous moment was short lived. 

To our surprise, our daughter was sent to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). The doctor explained that our baby was having trouble breathing, likely due to fluid in her lungs. Upon looking at my chart and discovering my water ruptured before arriving at the hospital and that I broke out into a fever right before the delivery, it was likely the baby was fighting an infection. He also said she was at risk of jaundice. They put her on antibiotics for the course of seven days. 

Three days after delivery, a new doctor took the place of the doctor who admitted our daughter. He was a white doctor of German descent that I will refer to as Dr. B. He changed the plan of the last doctor. He directed our daughter to be under phototherapy to prevent jaundice, despite our other doctor saying she was under the threshold for that treatment. He drew her blood daily and ran multiple tests. He repeatedly asked me to use formula and expressed disapproval when I said I was breastfeeding.

One morning, Dr. B walked over to me and hurriedly gave me a report. I attempted to ask him follow up questions but he walked away while I was speaking to him. Eventually he returned, not to speak to me, but to direct the nurse to put the baby back in the phototherapy light. I let the nurse know I’d like to speak to the doctor before continuing treatment. Dr. B returned and sternly said to me, “What is up with you not putting the baby back in the light?” He became agitated and walked away shouting for everyone to hear, “CALL SOCIAL SERVICES!” In that moment, I shattered, sobbing loudly as I fumbled for my phone to call my husband, shocked and terrified at this interaction. A sympathetic nurse placed her hand on my shoulder. 

Before this exchange, I had been poised and articulate to not be dismissed as a nonsensical, emotional, hormonal new mother. Despite my distress, I don’t remember crying until this point. Even given the postpartum bleeding, cramping, and sleep deprivation, something in me, maybe a motherly instinct, kicked in. When I spoke to doctors and nurses I was calm. My husband also spoke in a measured tone in the NICU. We did not want to look too “angry or irrational.” And certainly, we did not want to give them any reason to take our daughter away from us. I don’t mean to sound hyperbolic, but our time in the NICU felt very carceral. 

My husband returned and immediately contacted the charge nurse to find out who Dr. B reported to. This resulted in the “Patient Experience Coordinator,” Ana, to come speak to us. While we reported to her what I just experienced, Dr. B returned. Ana invited him to sit down with us for a conversation. Dr. B replied that he did not have time for a conversation but could answer questions. My husband then asked him about our daughter’s test scores. Dr. B quickly replied that he did not have the scores and told us to “forget about the numbers.” Then he added, “You are professors, right? I am a professor too. You wouldn’t want your students asking you questions.” We replied that we do want our students to ask questions as inquiry promotes learning. Dr. B responded with another example, stating that when he goes to the mechanic he trusts the mechanic’s expertise. We found these analogies offensive and inappropriate.

Dr. B directed the nurses not to update us. Every morning, we had to request our daughter’s results from the medical records office because Dr. B withheld information. Dr. B severed any trust between us and created a hostile environment for me, as I no longer felt safe interacting with him. Though it was an internal hospital social worker who later came to meet me, his decision to threaten me with social services without context resulted in one of the single worst moments of my life.

After the series of negative interactions that took place that morning, I left back to the room, crying and upset, releasing the angst I have felt since going into labor. I wanted to be alone but my mom insisted on seeing me. Once I saw her face I broke down in tears immediately. She pulled me close to her and I sobbed into her shoulder. “You’re still my baby,” she said, rubbing my back. I felt so much comfort in that moment. My mother’s love was transcendent. 

One might say that my experience was an anomaly, that most people in the healthcare industry care about their patients. Though this might be true, this “bad apple” argument dismisses the pervasive systemic racism and sexism that affects all facets of our society. As a former teacher and now education researcher, I know that Black girls are treated disproportionately to their peers, and unfairly characterized as aggressive or defiant, which many experts, including Monique Morris and Kimberle Crenshaw have discussed at length.  Yet presently we face the demonization of “diversity, equity and inclusion,” which is set to ameliorate some of these disparities. Sadly, this “baby bonus” does not ensure proper healthcare and systems set up to grow healthy families.

I am blessed that today I have a healthy toddler. I’m grateful for my mother’s love, my husband, my support team and friends who held me up during this challenging time. It is their source of love and strength that inspires me to continue to hold up others and advocate for better systems toward equity to help us thrive as a collective.

We may assume that spirituality and mindfulness has a place only in the wellness industry, but there are tools and principles that all business leaders can use to navigate turbulence. And as the markets get more volatile, they’re needed more than ever. 

Many companies and leaders have successfully integrated a practice of reflection and mission into their day to day. For example, Devoted Health, a leading healthcare company valued at over $13 billion, integrates the spiritual principle of love: before a nurse or clinician enters a room to see a patient, they are encouraged to ask themselves the question: how would I treat this person if they were a family member?  The company attributes this simple practice as one of the drivers of their success. 

Bringing a core mission and purpose to corporate culture is not new. Soon after starting Calvert Investments in the late 1970s, Wayne Silby attended a Buddhist Right Livelihood program. One of the exercises was to reflect on what one’s tombstone might say, and he had a nightmarish vision of his reading: “The person that made 2% more than the next person.” 

This was not the legacy that he wanted to leave. Upon return to the office, he led the entire management team to reflect on their overall purpose in building an organization. He wanted to make a positive impact as well as driving financial success, so the company laid out its mission to meet the needs of return-seeking investors today while focusing on the long-term needs of our planet and society. Calvert became a pioneer in the area of socially responsible investing. His namesake company has approximately $45 billion in assets under management and has played a significant role in shaping the trillion dollar impact investing industry. 

Today, as Baby Boomers are retiring, $100 trillion is shifting to the millennial generation. Many are looking for tools to align their purpose with the largest wealth transfer in history. An example of this is Bank of America Institute and Bank of America Private Bank issued research in 2024 which found that 82% of people between the ages of 24 and 43 considered a company’s ESG track record when making investment decisions. 

One company leading the way is Esusu, which works with underserved communities to build credit. The Unicorn, valued at $1 billion, has made its values explicit in the ‘Esusu Credo’, which commits to “compassionate inquiry.” This requires associates to look beneath the surface in any situation or with clients to understand root causes and approach challenges with compassion. For example, instead of making assumptions about why renters–their primary customer base–might not use a product or service, Esusu employees take the time to understand their lived experiences and challenges. 

On average, Esusu increases the credit scores of their customers by 45 points. Ultimately, CEOs and business leaders face the decision to keep the transformative forces of capital and spiritual values separate or to actively align them to create a harmonious future. 

By leading with purpose, reflecting deeply on what truly matters, and daring to invest with heart, we all have the opportunity to galvanize change, uplift others, care for our planet, and leave a legacy of impact and tools for future generations. Next time you have a staff meeting, ask yourselves, what does it mean to lead with integrity? What 

legacy do you want to leave? And, what would it look like if you were to imagine your customers as part of your family?

This paradox presents a challenge for educators like myself. On the one hand, children with disabilities face diminished access to equitable education due to cuts to Medicaid and the Department of Education. On the other hand, ADA regulations offer a vital and long-overdue step toward digital accessibility in our public schools and universities.

ADA Title II regulations, updated in April 2024, require public entities to meet digital accessibility standards. At the public university level, many professors, staff, and administrators are beginning to grapple with what it means to ensure that digital content in classrooms is accessible — by 2026 for entities serving a population of 50,000 or more, and by 2027 for those serving fewer. This effort is guided by the Web Content Accessibility Guidelines (WCAG) 2.1 Level AA, a widely recognized set of standards designed to make digital content usable for all.

To be sure, this mandate places significant demands on staff, administrators and faculty. I have heard colleagues at various universities voice their frustrations. Many feel overwhelmed by the workload of updating course materials, uncertain where to begin, and even questioning the necessity of the effort, wondering, for example, whether it is needed if there are no blind or deaf students currently enrolled in their classes. This is why ensuring that instructors and staff understand both how to make materials accessible and, more importantly, why it matters is not just helpful—it’s essential.

Over one billion people worldwide have a disability, according to the World Health Organization. In our classrooms, many students live with disabilities, some visible, others less apparent, including those related to neurodiversity, chronic illness or mental health.

Individuals with dyslexia may rely on screen readers or audio versions of course materials. Students with ADHD may benefit from simplified layouts to maintain focus. Captions can support students who are learning in a second language or studying in noisy, shared spaces. Likewise, students with color blindness may struggle to interpret color-coded charts or slides, and benefit from designs that use text labels or patterns in addition to colors.

Accessibility is not just for a few; it’s for everyone. When we design with inclusion in mind, we create learning environments that support the diversity of our students.

Accessible syllabi, lecture slides and course websites are more than just boxes to check—they create equitable opportunities for learning and ensure that everyone can fully participate in education.

During an accessible design workshop my students and I conducted with middle school students and their parents, a parent who works at a university shared how the session reshaped her perspective on accessibility and Title II. What had once felt like a burdensome workplace requirement became a meaningful practice. By learning about the challenges people with disabilities face when software is inaccessible, and engaging with videos and hands-on activities, she gained a deeper appreciation for the importance of making content accessible.

As universities rush to update digital materials to meet accessibility standards and create workshops for faculty, staff, and teaching assistants, it is crucial to focus not only on meeting legal requirements but also on remembering why accessibility is essential. It’s not just about mandates; it’s about promoting equal access to education.

Institutions can take this moment to invest in accessibility training that goes beyond compliance and fosters understanding. Using videos, case studies, and hands-on activities can help illustrate why accessibility is important. This mandate presents an opportunity for universities to reimagine their approach to education, ensuring access for all learners.

In addition to considering software accessibility, it’s also important to reflect on accessibility within our teaching practices. These changes benefit not only neurodiverse students but all learners. Simple adjustments, such as offering additional formats for lectures, like recorded videos or written summaries can make content more accessible. Providing flexible assessment options, such as project-based assignments, can support students who struggle with traditional testing formats.

As federal budget cuts jeopardize the education, research and services for people with disabilities, the future feels more uncertain than ever.

ADA and its Title II provisions are more vital than ever. Public universities and institutions must remain committed to creating inclusive learning environments for all students.

In Episode 7, we meet Silas Dunn after he fell from a ladder while renovating his home. An intern, Dr. Santos, notes his enlarged breasts as she places a chest tube. She explains the possible etiologies to his wife, Susan. Susan then confesses to slipping progesterone into Silas’ coffee every morning. She had been hoping to suppress his libido because she suspects he has been molesting their teenage daughter, Alana.

Dr. Santos presents Silas’ case to her supervising attending physician, Dr. Robby, and the ED social worker, Kiara. They tell her there is nothing they can do about the suspected abuse without proof, unless Alana confirms it. This is false. Mandated reporters like physicians, social workers, and nurses are obligated to report if there is a reasonable suspicion of abuse. Proof is not required.

To our further astonishment, Dr. Robby and Kiara ultimately do decide to report this case to the police—but fail to mention the sexual abuse. Instead, they report Susan for drugging Silas because the progesterone may have caused dizziness and contributed to his fall. While Susan’s actions were misguided and failed to stop the abuse, Silas should have been reported too. At the very least, his abuse could have been disclosed as part of the report.

Frustrated by the lack of resolution in protecting Alana from further abuse, Dr. Santos takes matters into her own hands. The episode concludes with Dr. Santos threatening to let Silas die unless he agrees not to molest his daughter anymore. Silas agrees. The fictionalized scene makes for great television, but it does a huge injustice to actual victims of sexual abuse. In real life, someone like Silas would almost certainly ignore Dr. Santos’ threat. He is partially sedated, so who knows whether he will even remember their conversation once the medications wear off. Most likely, the abuse will continue, albeit with a renewed sense of secrecy. Perpetrators of abuse often punish their victims if they try to seek help, so Dr. Santos’ confrontation might backfire and further endanger Alana. Given that Susan might be arrested and taken into custody for drugging Silas, she may not be home to intervene anymore.

In Pennsylvania, where The Pitt takes place, if a mandated reporter like Dr. Robby, Kiara, or Dr. Santos chooses not to make a report, they could be charged with a misdemeanor or felony and lose their license to practice. They all ought to know better. As clinicians, not investigators, it is their job to identify any possible abuse, provide the necessary medical care, and report their concern. Once the report has been made, it is up to the police to investigate so that justice can be served.

When I first saw the episode, I had hoped that Alana’s case would be revisited in a later episode, but the first season is over now. One possible solution to right this wrong is to revisit Alana in the next season. Maybe she returns to the ED months later, after the abuse escalates. The staff could then reflect on whether the abuse should have been reported.

Alternatively, since there has been so much enthusiasm for this show, I would love to see a teaser scene released before Season Two in which Dr. Santos reports the abuse herself. Choosing to report the abuse the next day would be well-aligned with her archetype as a character—Dr. Santos can be arrogant (likely a coping mechanism), but she tries to do the right thing, especially for people who have been preyed upon. Since Silas is going to be spending at least a few days in the intensive care unit, Alana is not in imminent danger. So, it would make sense for Dr. Santos to wait until the following day to file a report. When there is not a risk of imminent danger, we often wait until after our shift ends to make these reports anyway; they are time consuming and pull us away from direct patient care. If a teaser scene is not possible, the show’s writers could publish a statement to provide some additional context about the shortcomings of the episode along with resources for families struggling with how to get help. April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month, so it would be a great opportunity for the show to bring proper awareness to this topic.

In the meantime, I hope that the depiction of Alana’s case on The Pitt does not discourage anyone experiencing or aware of sexual abuse from seeking our help—especially when children or adolescents are involved. While two wrongs do not make a right, Alana’s mother should not have been reported while her abusive father is allowed to walk free. If the media continues to suggest that women will be punished while male perpetrators escape justice, women who witness or experience abuse might fear the consequences of seeking help. Just like Alana, teens facing abuse will never get the help they need if their loved ones cannot trust us to help because of inaccurate depictions in the media.