This blog post might touch on sensitive topics, but I believe it’s still worth discussing. Words only have a chance of being heard if they are spoken out loud.

This week’s talks stayed with me in a way that went far beyond the classroom. In particular, the session delivered by the team at UVic’s Centre for Accessible Learning (CAL) offered a clear, structured, and deeply empathetic look at academic accommodations and the legal and human rights frameworks that support them. Their message was one of inclusion, care, and commitment. I appreciated that deeply.

At the same time, I couldn’t stop thinking about two Redit posts I had read earlier this year, “Uvic prefers kids kill themselves off campus instead of helping” and “An Urgent Appeal to President Hall for Help” written by UVic students who described traumatic experiences involving mental health crises and institutional responses that left them feeling unsafe, unsupported, and even punished. These posts were not written in rage, but in exhaustion. They weren’t trying to start a fight—they were simply trying to be heard.

After listening to CAL’s talk, I couldn’t help but notice the gap between what the system says it wants to be and how it sometimes acts in practice.

Good Intentions, Poor Execution

One of the most powerful things said in the CAL session was that academic accommodation is a human right, not a privilege. Students are not asking for special treatment; they are asking for equitable access to the same education others receive. The team also emphasized that instructors are not told a student’s diagnosis—only the accommodations needed.

But in the Reddit stories, we hear something different:

• A student who attempted suicide was evicted from campus housing with one day’s notice and labeled a danger to others, despite having no history of violence.
• Another was barred from accessing campus and classes after expressing mental health distress in emails—despite being under medical care and supported by documentation.
• Several students described breakdowns in communication between CAL, instructors, and departments, where accommodations were delayed or ignored, leading to missed exams, failed courses, and worsening mental health.
• One was told by security staff, “You’re allowed to choose whether you want to live or die, but we just have to make sure you don’t do it on UVic property.”

These stories are devastating. Not just because of what happened, but because the students involved did what we’re told to do—they reached out. They wrote emails, saw doctors, followed procedures. And yet they were met with silence, confusion, or punitive measures.

When Mental Health Is Seen as a Risk, Not a Call for Support

Simon from CAL made a point I really appreciated: that a student’s first interaction with the assessment team should not be the day of an exam—it should be earlier, in a space of trust and support. I agree wholeheartedly.

But how do we reconcile that vision with the fact that students in distress are being evicted, isolated, and surveilled? What does it mean when a university system claims to support students but, in practice, pushes them out as soon as they show signs of needing help?

This isn’t about attacking a specific department or blaming individual staff. In fact, the Reddit posts made clear that some professors and CAL advisors were incredibly kind and helpful. The issue isn’t the people—it’s the system. One that seems to treat mental health not as a reality to accommodate, but as a liability to manage.

We Can—and Must—Do Better

One line from the CAL presentation that stayed with me is this: “Accessibility isn’t an add-on. It’s something that should be built into systems from the start.”

But right now, it often still feels like a patchwork—something offered when convenient, withheld when complicated, and inconsistently applied depending on who you talk to.

We owe it to each other to make support more than a promise. We need:

• Clearer policies across departments, with consistency in how accommodations are implemented.
• Better training for sessional and new instructors so they understand their responsibilities under CAL.
• Transparency in decision-making, especially when students are denied support.
• Compassionate processes when students express mental health concerns—not restrictions and punishment.

This isn’t about lowering standards. It’s about recognizing that the ability to learn is shaped by more than just intellect—it’s shaped by health, support, safety, and dignity.

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Final Thoughts

I didn’t write this to blame the university or discredit anyone’s work. I wrote this because if we want to build a better system, we have to be willing to look at where it breaks. Students deserve more than promises. They deserve follow-through. They deserve to feel safe.

Digital literacy, as we’ve discussed in class, is not just about knowing how to use technology. It’s about knowing how systems work, who they work for, and who gets left out. We need to keep asking these questions. And we need to keep listening to the answers—even when they’re hard.