As political winds shift and antiDEI legislation spreads across the country, LGBTQIA+ leaders in higher education are finding new ways to foster belonging, advocate for their communities, and protect safe spaces on campus—even when institutional support feels uncertain or absent.
Dr. Darin Stewart, chair of the Department of Higher Education at the University of Denver’s Morgridge College of Education, says the current moment calls for a careful balance of academic rigor, lived experience, and strategic resistance.

“I bring 35 years of experience to this work—from student to scholar to professional—and I approach advocacy with specificity,” Stewart says. “When executive orders targeted trans individuals, I spent hours crafting a letter to university leadership detailing the exact implications for our students, faculty, and staff. Silence from the top leaves people unsure if they’re being protected. We need clarity.”

The email outlined not only what the federal orders said, but exactly how they could impact trans members of 20 the campus community. “It was part academic, part personal,” says Stewart, who is Black and trans. “The approach was: here’s the language, and here’s how it affects real people on this campus.”

For LGBTQIA+ faculty, these dual identities—professional and personal— can be especially fraught in conservative states or institutions rolling back diversity programs. Stewart notes that for many, “it’s not just about campus safety; it’s also about safety in the grocery store, the restaurant, your own neighborhood. This is personal.”

In Tennessee, Dr. Natalie Blanton, an environmental sociology professor at the University of Tennessee in Chattanooga, echoes that tension. “I live in a straight-passing relationship, and I still feel pressure to shrink myself. Even my email signature with ‘they/she’ pronouns causes confusion,” Blanton says. “If my colleagues struggle with this, how are students being treated?”

Blanton, who teaches courses on gender and sexuality, environmental justice, and globalization, says her students—many of whom are first-generation, rural, or religiously Natalie Blanton, a professor of environmental sociology at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. estranged from their families—rely on LGBTQIA+ spaces like the campus Prism Center for a sense of safety and identity.

“These centers are literally lifesaving,” Blanton says. “They provide a third space—a place where you’re not alone, where people get what you’re going through. That sense of community improves mental health and life outcomes. And now we’re worried those spaces will disappear.”

When Blanton arrived on campus, she quickly aligned with groups supporting reproductive justice, gender equity, and queer rights. But in recent years, she’s watched fear spread among colleagues in those very offices. “There’s a real sense of bracing for impact,” she says. “What happens if these centers get shut down? What do we build in their place? We’re trying to organize now, before the wheels fall off.”

Back in Colorado, Stewart sees a similar dynamic unfolding across the nation. “Institutions have been willing to include queer students in extracurriculars, but the deeper institutional structures often resist real change—especially for trans and nonbinary folks.”

Stewart points to gender-inclusive housing policies and name-change paperwork as ongoing battlegrounds. “Some schools embrace it. Others make it almost impossible. This isn’t about public versus private or religious versus secular—this resistance cuts across all types of institutions.”

Both Stewart and Blanton note that communication breakdowns from leadership are a major obstacle. “The number one issue I hear is that people don’t know what’s being done,” Stewart says. “Even if leadership is taking steps behind the scenes, they’re not sharing it. And that lack of transparency breeds distrust.”

Blanton agrees. “It’s not just about policies—it’s about visibility. When messages of support get erased, when flags come down, or student affirmations are destroyed by other student groups and nothing is done, it sends a message: we’re not a priority.” To push back, Stewart advocates for a dual-pronged approach he calls “tempered radicalism.” He explains, “You need people inside the institution pushing change and people outside applying pressure. It’s not either or—it’s both.”

That means building coalitions across identities and causes. “I’m in a community with Black, Indigenous, and disability justice advocates on campus,” Stewart says. “Institutions want us to f ight for crumbs, but we have to fight for the whole pie.”

Blanton says students play a key role in maintaining momentum. “Their resilience inspires me. These students are still holding space for each other, planning events, [and] finding joy, despite everything. They remind me that care and resistance go hand in hand.”

Creating safe spaces in restrictive environments also demands creativity. Blanton organizes craft nights, coordinates reproductive health access, and maintains mentorship networks that provide institutional support.

“Students need adults who just care,” she says. “Not as therapists, not as disciplinarians—just people who show up and hold space.”

Stewart encourages campuses to deepen ties to LGBTQIA+ organizations beyond the university. “There are centers and communities outside campus walls already doing this work. If we can’t do it inside, we must connect students to those spaces.”

And for LGBTQIA+ professionals navigating burnout, Stewart urges a reframing. “You’re not burning out— you’re being burned through by the institution,” he says, citing the work of scholar Dr. Jesse A. Kirkland. “The solution lies in building spaces of care where your value isn’t tied to your productivity.”

What gives these scholars hope?

For Stewart, it’s the defiance he sees across campuses: “Students and staff are saying, ‘We’re not going anywhere. You may silence us officially, but we’ll find ways to keep doing the work.’” Blanton agrees. “It’s hard. Morale is low. But we’re still here. The pressure to be small is real, but I refuse to disappear.”
Asked what they want from leadership, both cite authenticity, action, and vulnerability.

“Speak from the heart,” Stewart says. “Don’t let fear of public records stop you from showing compassion. Hold a town hall. Send a message. Be specific. Name the groups being harmed—trans students, trans faculty—and say what you’re doing to support them.”

“And stop relying on sanitized statements vetted by lawyers and PR,” Blanton adds. “Take a stand. Say the words. Support the people doing the work.”

Despite the challenges, both scholars remain committed to envisioning a more just academy.

“We need to imagine a better system before this one crumbles,” Blanton says. “Accessible, affirming, community-rooted education. It’s not too late to build it.”