Too Anxious to Finish Their Assignments on Time
How colleges use “accommodation letters” to coddle students
As I began contemplating how to structure this essay, I revisited a recent TED Talk by NYU Professor Scott Galloway. The talk, grimly titled Do We Love Our Children?, is both sobering and provocative.
In it, Galloway presents graph after graph, detailing the dismal state of our youth’s mental, physical, and financial well-being. He then proposes a series of solutions—I agree with some and disagree with others.
Nonetheless, the premise of the talk is deeply poignant.
If we truly love our children, Galloway asks, why are we constructing systems and practices that actively undermine their chances of success? This question stayed with me as I reflected on my own experiences, particularly about my tenure as an instructor at OCAD University in Toronto.
Between 2005 and 2015, I witnessed a phenomenon that encapsulates the cultural shift Galloway critiques: the rise of Student Accommodation Letters. These letters, issued by what was then the Centre for Student Disabilities (now Student Accessibility Services), are intended to notify instructors that a student may require academic accommodations due to emotional, psychological, or physical challenges.
The Rise of Student Accommodation Letters
When I began teaching in 2005, these letters were rare. Perhaps one or two would surface in the course of a year.
But as the years went on, their presence became ubiquitous. By the time I left in 2015, I was receiving several accommodation letters per class, often on the very first day of the semester. What was striking wasn’t merely the volume but the nature of the accommodations being requested. Increasingly, the letters cited vague conditions such as “anxiety” or “attention deficits” with no meaningful explanation or boundaries.
Even more revealing was the behavior of the students themselves, which fell broadly into two distinct groups. The first group presented their letters immediately, wielding them like preemptive shields. For many of these students, the letters became a carte blanche to hand in assignments late, miss classes, and avoid engagement altogether without consequence.
The second group was strikingly different.
These students rarely, if ever, mentioned their accommodations until the final weeks of the semester—or until they were overwhelmed by a particularly challenging workload. When I asked why they had delayed disclosing their letters, their responses were nearly always the same: “I didn’t want to use it unless I really needed it.”
And it showed. These students were, by and large, more disciplined, more driven, and more accountable than their peers who had used their accommodations as an excuse for mediocrity.
The contrast between these two groups was stark and instructive. It pointed to a broader cultural shift in how personal challenges are framed and, more troublingly, exploited. What began as a compassionate system designed to level the playing field for those in genuine need had, by the time I left, devolved into something far more insidious: a mechanism for shirking responsibility and lowering standards.
Also by Hector Herrera
A colleague of mine, who remained at OCAD for several years after I departed, confirmed that the trend continued to worsen. By his account, the number of accommodation letters had grown to an average of two to four per 20-student class—a staggering percentage. Even more troubling was the creeping sense of entitlement among students.
One student, armed with an accommodation letter, not only requested extra time for assignments but also demanded a personal tutor to assist her throughout the semester. The tutor, it seems, ended up completing most of her assignments on her behalf. That was never formally proven, but was strongly supported by the uncanny improvement in her work. What’s more, the assignments bore a striking resemblance to the tutor’s usual style and quality, further raising doubts about the student’s own contributions.
When my colleague challenged her submissions and attempted to fail her for lack of independent effort, the administration intervened. They sided with the student, informing him that unless he changed her grade, they would override him and do it themselves. The message was unmistakable: institutional loyalty lay not with the principles of education, but with the avoidance of conflict and the appeasement of student demands.
Coddling Hurts Students
This troubling dynamic reminds me of Jonathan Haidt’s work on The Anxious Generation, which explores how older generations, in the name of safety and protection, have inadvertently robbed younger ones of the freedoms and resilience we once took for granted. By bubble-wrapping their environments—whether through overregulation, surveillance, or systems like the one described above—we have denied young people the opportunity to develop autonomy and face challenges head-on. Haidt’s research shows how these well-meaning but ultimately misguided efforts have contributed to skyrocketing rates of anxiety and depression, as we’ve stripped away the very mechanisms by which previous generations learned to navigate adversity and grow stronger.
Universities are supposed to be where young men and women come to be educated and prepared for the challenges of the world. It is where critical thinking, discipline, and perseverance are meant to be cultivated—tools they will carry into their personal and professional lives. Yet by indulging these counterproductive practices, institutions are failing their fundamental purpose.
Worse still, they are defrauding students, promising them preparation for the future while shielding them from the very experiences that would provide it. Instead of equipping them to face the world with confidence, these practices leave students ill-prepared, fragile, and dependent, betraying both their potential and the trust they place in these institutions.
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Who’s to Blame?
We can criticize these students all we want and invoke personal responsibility—they are adults, after all. But we cannot ignore our own responsibility in this. If we want young people to possess the same (or greater) strengths than we have, then we must stop robbing them of the wisdom we were gifted by the generations that came before us. The courage, resilience, and grit that enabled us to navigate the challenges of life must not be withheld but passed down, not as an indulgence but as a birthright.
captured this failure succinctly in The Coddling of the American Mind movie by saying “We’re taking these amazing kids, and we’re teaching them that they’re capable of much less than they really are.” The tragedy is that by infantilizing the next generation, we are depriving them of the very tools they need to succeed in life—and in doing so, we fail not only them but society as a whole.If we truly love our children, as Galloway so pointedly asked, then we must change course. We must stop weakening them with systems of indulgence and low expectations. Instead, we must teach them to grow stronger from adversity, to embrace challenges, and to find strength in difficulty.
Anything less is not love but negligence masquerading as care.
School is supposed to help us to prepare for life in the real world. The real world is not your mommy. Nor is it your counselor. The real world has a right to expect as much effort from each of us as reward, if not more. It's the only way the world can function. Our schools are largely a gross failure.
Describes what I'm seeing with my generation perfectly.
Many aren't trying to be manipulative, but are convinced any stressor is undiagnosed neurodivergence, purely oppressive, and the cause of student mental illness or even student suicide.
Many, legitimate or not, see society as needing to bend for their diagnosis to stop being so oppressive, rather than accepting limitations or taking responsibility.
Here are some naughty words I nonetheless need to say: If someone cannot pass the class, they cannot pass the class. If someone isn't qualified for the job, they aren't qualified for the job. Skill, talent, different levels of ability, and being good and bad at things EXIST. Even neurotypicals aren't qualified for some things, it's not ableist to tell a neurodivergent student who cannot count that no, they did not pass Calculus, and they will most likely never become an accountant. Neither will I, and I'm just (non-diagnosably) bad at math, and I accept that.