When the Workplace Fell Silent, My Clothes Spoke

A personal reflection on leaving higher education—and how, in a time of censorship and institutional silence, getting dressed became a quiet act of rebellion.

This will be my last semester in traditional higher education. After 15 years in the field, I’ve made the painful decision not to return after Spring 2025. This choice didn’t come easily. It’s one made for the well-being of my family—who have endured far too much as a result of my advocacy and activism within educational institutions.

Throughout my career, I’ve led institutional climate research, championed systemic change, and engaged in countless initiatives—far too many to list here. In Fall 2024, I presented findings that revealed troubling patterns of executive-level bullying and offered thoughtful, research-based recommendations. Rather than being met with accountability or support, I was met with hostility. I was labeled a threat. Instead of addressing the issues, leadership turned its focus on me—attempting to force me out. I refused to resign.

At the same time, global crises were unfolding—genocides, widespread human suffering, and collective trauma. On campus, the emotional weight of these events was undeniable. Palestinian students, in particular, were experiencing deep grief, fear, and isolation. Many sought acknowledgment, solidarity, and institutional support. I worked to develop thoughtful, student-centered interventions—spaces for reflection, healing, and open dialogue.

But those in power chose neutrality over truth.

Rather than support inclusive responses, leadership aligned with demands—often quietly made—by certain Jewish faculty and administrators who advocated for the suppression of Palestinian narratives under the guise of safety or institutional risk. The result was strategic censorship. Students were silenced, their pain politicized, and their right to grieve made conditional.

Despite following directives to remain neutral, my role as an advocate made me a continued target. My attempts to support students—without bias, and grounded in dignity—were framed as disruptive. The retaliation intensified. My silence, even when practiced, did not protect me.

Eventually, I was scapegoated to protect my direct supervisor’s position. In a deeply troubling twist, I was falsely accused of doxing a Jewish faculty member—despite the fact that I was the one who had responsibly reported the incident after it was brought to my attention by concerned colleagues. The accusation was not only unfounded, it was weaponized to justify punitive action against me. I was placed on administrative leave without warning, stripped of all responsibilities, and subjected to complete professional isolation. What followed was a pattern of targeted retaliation from multiple levels of leadership, designed to discredit and erase me.

The toll was profound. I developed health issues, experienced anxiety and panic attacks, and watched my well-being slowly unravel. My family bore the emotional and physical weight of my fight for justice—missing me even when I was right there beside them. Through it all, I clung to my values, believing that integrity still had a place in education.

At the time, I held onto one last hope: that the classroom remained a protected space. A place where students and educators could speak freely, explore complex ideas, and engage in truth-telling without fear of retaliation. But even that, I’ve come to see, is no longer guaranteed.

Today, classrooms—once symbols of learning and liberation—are becoming spaces of surveillance, censorship, and silence. Students are being punished for their grief, their solidarity, their speech. Educators are being cast out for naming injustices. And the truth, when it challenges power, is increasingly labeled as a threat.

In being bullied and censored, I learned how to protest differently. My silence became my resistance.And my clothes began to speak for me.

It started with a tote bag that read: “No Pride in Genocide.” Then came shirts that promoted peace, statements of solidarity, and affirmations of shared humanity. I intentionally stopped dressing for the workplace—at least in the ways traditionally defined as “professional.” I became a walking, silent billboard. A quiet disruption. A refusal.

I protest in what I wear.

On days I couldn’t speak freely, I turned to clothes.Thrifted statement tees. Resistance jewelry. Muted earth tones when I was mourning. Bold colors when I needed to be seen.Clothing became my silent rebellion—an archive of truth stitched together one outfit at a time. Now, through this thrift platform, I honor that form of protest. Every piece tells a story.Some shout. Some whisper.

But none are silent.

If institutions of higher education can jail students, detain and deport PhD candidates, fire professors, and label dissenting faculty as “dangerous,” then what hope is left for truth in these spaces?

If traditional institutions won’t protect the people doing the work—or the students demanding a better world—then we must protect each other. We will tell our stories.We will wear our truths.We will create safe spaces where freedom of expression lives.And we will move—not just upward and onward—but together, with care, with courage, and in community.