U.S. Colleges Cut 113 Programs in 10 Days: How to Help Your Student Talk Through College Plans
The kitchen timer had gone off twice, and Maya still hadn’t moved the laundry from the washer. Her laptop was open to three tabs: the Common App, a film-production department page, and a news article with the kind of headline that makes a parent pause.
“Mom,” she said, without looking up, “three colleges cut 113 programs in ten days. This October. Is that even allowed?”
I leaned against the counter. Like most people, I still pictured program cuts as slow, isolated events: one major, a faculty vote, maybe a small protest, years in the making. This was different. Three schools, 113 majors, minors, certificates, and graduate tracks, gone or suspended while students were mid-semester.
Maya turned the screen toward me. “I thought if I picked a real program, it would still be there when I got there.”
I almost said the usual parent words: It’ll be fine. Don’t jump to conclusions. You’ll get in somewhere. But I’ve taught high school long enough to know that reassurance without information just sounds like noise.
“Bring the article to the table after dinner,” I said. “We’ll look at it together.”
By Monday morning, I was hearing the same questions in the hallway before first period.
“Does this mean I should pick nursing instead of game design?”
“Can a college just delete your major after you enroll?”
“Are art schools even safe?”
I don’t teach higher-education finance. I teach English. But I work with 17- and 18-year-olds every day, and I know how they think about college plans. A major isn’t only a list of classes. It’s a room they imagine walking into, a group of people with the same interests, a professor who might notice their work. When a program disappears, it can feel like the version of themselves they were trying on has been rejected.
I started using one simple line in homeroom: “Don’t ask whether a program is safe. Ask what happens to first-year students if the program changes.”
That question moves the conversation away from panic and toward facts. Students can send it to admissions officers. Parents can ask it at open houses. Teachers can put it on a slide next to the counseling office sign-up link.
That Tuesday, I received an email from Nadia, a former student who is now a college sophomore. Her school was one of the three, and her stage-management program was on the list.
“I feel stupid for choosing here,” she wrote. “Everyone keeps saying it’s a teach-out, but nobody can tell me what classes I’ll actually get.”
I asked if she wanted to talk by phone. She called from the library stairwell, whispering because her roommate was asleep. She could stay and finish under a teach-out, but some advanced courses might be combined, canceled, or taught by temporary instructors. Transferring might mean losing credits and scholarship money. She was caught between a program that was shrinking and a path that might cost more.
“The choice you made with the information you had isn’t a verdict on you,” I told her.
Then we opened a blank email and wrote to her department chair and academic advisor. The message was short and specific:
Subject: Current stage-management major — program closure and academic plan
I am a sophomore in the stage-management program. Please confirm in writing: the teach-out timeline for my catalog year; which required courses will be offered, and by whom, through my expected graduation; and what support is available for credit transfer and financial aid if I choose to transfer.
If the field involved licensure or accreditation, I would have told her to ask about that too. A verbal “we’ll take care of you” can be kind, but it does not replace a registrar’s degree audit or a written course plan.
Nadia sent the email while we were still on the phone. Then she sat with it for a minute. “I thought they’d think I was being difficult,” she said.
“You’re asking for the information you need to make a decision,” I said. “That’s different.”
At home that week, Maya and I cleared the table after dinner and used a legal pad. On one side, she wrote what she actually needed from a college program: access to cameras and editing equipment, classes in screenwriting, an internship office, a manageable net price, and room to take electives outside her major. On the other side, she wrote what she could live with: a different program title, a minor, a larger university, or a transfer pathway after two years.
She didn’t need a guarantee. She needed a backup that didn’t feel like surrender.
When students bring headlines like this to the adults in their lives, they often need help naming the fear underneath. A useful question is: “What part bothers you most—the money, the time, or the feeling that your plan just disappeared?” Then wait. Count to ten if you have to. Many young people will keep talking if the silence isn’t filled with quick reassurance.
We also set a small routine around college work. Maya could spend 45 minutes after dinner on applications or program research, and then the laptop closed. Her phone went in a basket by the door while she wrote. She could check college news once on weekend mornings. That didn’t fix enrollment declines, tuition pressure, or department budgets, but it kept 11 p.m. scrolling from turning ordinary uncertainty into catastrophe.
The forces behind these cuts are not mysterious. Colleges are dealing with uneven enrollment, price sensitivity, staffing costs, and pressure to concentrate resources in larger departments. But those broad explanations don’t make a student’s class schedule less real. A sophomore who planned around certain professors doesn’t experience a budget decision as a trend. They experience it as an email, a canceled course, or a suddenly unclear path to graduation.
For current college students, the practical steps are fairly plain: get the teach-out plan in writing, confirm required courses and graduation dates, ask which credits transfer, and ask whether scholarships or admissions agreements exist for students affected by closure. They don’t need to handle all of it in one afternoon. One email, one advisor appointment, or one transcript request is enough for a day.
For high school students applying now, the shift is subtler. They can still choose a major they care about, but they should look at the department around it. How many full-time faculty teach in it? Are there multiple ways to complete the degree? Does the college make four-year course plans public? What happens to scholarships if a student changes majors? Those are reasonable questions, not signs of doubt.
In my classroom, I didn’t turn the October news into a long lesson. I put a half-sheet near the door with the counseling appointment QR code and two questions: Is this program under review? What is the plan if it changes? I also told students they could draft an email during study hall and I would read it, but I wouldn’t write it for them. The act of composing the question itself helps them feel less like spectators.
Last week, Nadia got a response. Her required courses are guaranteed through her expected graduation date, but two advanced production classes may be combined or staffed by adjuncts. She is staying for the semester and has asked two other schools for transfer credit audits. Nothing is settled.
Maya has submitted one application and has two more due. She still checks college Reddit sometimes, but she hands me her phone when the timer goes off.
Last night, she said, “I just want a school that won’t disappear on me.”
I said, “Then we look for a school with clear answers, not perfect promises.”
She nodded, then asked if she could get a snack. That felt like enough for an October evening.
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