04/10/2025
I heard it again yesterday at my son's baseball game. A well-meaning parent leaned across the bleachers toward my son and asked, "So, where are you going to college next year?" The question hung in the air as my son shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward me.
My son isn't going to college next year. And the assumption that he should be—that this is the only acceptable next step—is something we've been navigating with increasing frustration.
When my daughter graduated five years ago and announced she was taking a gap year to work for a conservation corps in Colorado, people responded as if she'd declared she was joining the circus. "But when will you go to college?" they'd ask, their voices tinged with concern, as if her life was now on some tragic detour.
She's now a certified wilderness first responder with specialized technical training, leading backcountry trips and making more money than several of her college-educated friends.
She loves her life. She wakes up excited about her work. Yet at family gatherings, relatives still ask when she's going "back to school," as if her current path is just a placeholder for the "real thing."
My son and his friends are all seniors planning their next steps. Among them are future electricians, mechanics, entrepreneurs, military recruits, and yes, college students too.
But guess which ones get asked about their plans most enthusiastically at graduation parties? Guess which ones receive the affirming nods and approving smiles?
We've created this strange hierarchy of post-high school plans, with four-year universities sitting untouchably at the top.
Trade schools, apprenticeships, entrepreneurship, gap years, military service—these are often treated as consolation prizes for kids who "couldn't get in" somewhere prestigious.
The reality? These paths aren't lesser alternatives—they're legitimate first choices that deserve our respect and celebration.
My son's friend Tyler spent weekends during high school apprenticing with his uncle, a master plumber. While classmates were touring college campuses, he was learning a specialized trade. He'll graduate from high school on Friday and start his official apprenticeship on Monday, debt-free and already equipped with valuable skills. In four years, when his classmates are collecting diplomas and student loan statements, he'll be earning a solid income with benefits in a profession that can't be outsourced.
Yet at senior night, I watched teachers enthusiastically announce college destinations while Tyler's future received a quick, almost apologetic mention.
I've started interrupting this pattern in my own conversations with teenagers. Instead of the automatic "Where are you going to college?" I ask, "What are your plans after graduation?" It's a small shift, but I've seen the relief wash over faces when young people realize they can share their actual plans without apology or explanation.
I've watched too many teenagers trudge off to universities not because they had a passion or purpose there, but because no one ever presented any other option as equally valuable.
So this is what I want to say to the parents who have spent 18 summers raising these remarkable humans now standing at the threshold of adulthood: College isn't the finish line. It's not even the only race. It's just one of many paths forward, and success looks wildly different for different people.
When we narrow the definition of success to a single path, we rob teenagers of the confidence to find their own way. We teach them that their worth depends on following a specific route rather than discovering what makes them come alive.
So please, the next time you meet a high school senior, resist the automatic college question. Instead, open the conversation to the beautiful diversity of possibilities that await them. Ask what they're excited about. Ask what they're good at. Ask what problems they want to solve.
And then, whatever answer they give you, respond with the same enthusiasm you'd offer if they said "Harvard." Because their path—whatever it is—deserves nothing less than our wholehearted celebration.
