“We’re Controversial by Our Mere Existence”: Navigating the U.S. Sociopolitical Context as TQ-Center(ed) Diversity Workers

Abstract

In the face of escalating sociopolitical hostility toward diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) efforts, trans and queer (TQ) center(ed) diversity workers in higher education are navigating increasingly precarious professional landscapes. This study explores the lived experiences of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers through a general qualitative design informed by participatory action research (PAR). Drawing on the concept of “burn through,” critiquing the role of institutions in the exhaustion of practitioners, and the theory of tempered radicalism, describing the fine line diversity workers must navigate to advocate for change within oppressive systems, we examine how these practitioners persist amid institutional neglect, emotional labor, and political antagonism. Findings from interviews with eight participants reveal three central themes: the systemic nature of burn through, the protective power of community, and the multifaceted role of liberation in TQ-center(ed) diversity work. Participants described both the toll and the transformative potential of their roles, highlighting community as a critical site of resistance and renewal. This study contributes to the growing literature on TQ advocacy in higher education and underscores the need for institutional accountability and collective care in sustaining liberatory futures.

1. Introduction

The landscape of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) in higher education has shifted dramatically in recent years, as higher education, diversity workers, and social justice education have become the epicenter for sociopolitical hostility (McGowan et al. 2025). Today, anti-trans, -immigrant, -disabled, and -Black laws, policies, practices, and opinions have shaped statewide and federal political agendas. Educational sociologists have long held that hegemonic inequities are often reproduced and reified through formal schooling and education (Bowles and Gintis 1976). Diversity workers often must address these deeply entrenched inequities and practices despite not being structurally set up for success (Ahmed 2012); this category includes trans and queer center(ed) diversity workers who are frequently working to design programs, resources, and learning opportunities to foster campus communities where trans and queer students, faculty, and staff can thrive.

In discussing the context of our research, we employ the language of ‘TQ-center(ed) diversity work’ as an acknowledgement that not all professionals supporting TQ campus communities—often including students, faculty, and staff—operate within standalone identity centers (Oliveira et al. 2025). With that said, the emergence of TQ centers has profoundly influenced how educational leaders conceptualize TQ support services, both within and without standalone centers (Marine 2011; Sanlo 2000; Sanlo et al. 2002). For example, Sanlo (2000) and Sanlo et al.’s (2002) scholarship and praxis established “LGBT services”—both as practitioner roles and sites of praxis—as a formal functional area within higher education. Marine’s (2011) historical analysis overlaid the proliferation of “BGLT campus resource centers” onto the legacy and continuation of collective student advocacy and activism. Within a sociopolitical climate where TQ centers and diversity workers are being eliminated through legislation and compliance (Lemerand and Duran 2024), framing the labor to sustain and support TQ people as “TQ-center(ed) diversity work” better reflects the diverse way these roles are structured, and the imperative that others will need to take up the mantle in the absence of formalized roles.

In response to the intensifying sociopolitical pressures on DEI work, and TQ-center(ed) diversity workers in particular, this study seeks to explore how these practitioners navigate, survive, and strategize within hostile institutional and political environments. Grounded in a participatory action research (PAR) framework and informed by the concepts of “burn through” (Anderson 2021) and tempered radicalism (Meyerson and Scully 1995), we engaged with the following research questions:

• How do TQ-center(ed) diversity workers experience and respond to the phenomenon of burn through in the current sociopolitical climate?
• What forms of support do TQ-center(ed) diversity workers identify as helpful in persisting through the sociopolitical turbulence?
• How do these practitioners conceptualize and enact liberation in their work?

Through these questions, we aim to contribute to a deeper understanding of the lived realities of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers and provide guidance towards liberatory thinking and praxis within higher education.

2. Framework and Literature Review

The framework we adopted for this study was grounded in Anderson’s (2021) writing about diversity workers’ experiences as being ‘burned through’ and Meyerson and Scully’s (1995) writing about tempered radicalism. This framework was further sensitized by the burgeoning body of literature on TQ-center(ed) diversity workers (Catalano et al. 2025b; Lemerand and Duran 2024). Whereas the notion of being ‘burned out’ situates emotional and physical exhaustion as an individual phenomenon (read: personal failure), Anderson (2021) framed ‘burned through’ as a way to question and critique the larger systems that contribute to the exhaustion of diversity workers. Expanding on Ahmed’s (2012) writing, Anderson highlighted the damaging implications of individual burnout by absolving organizations, such as institutions of higher education, of their responsibility to foster environments where diversity workers are respected and valued. Anderson (2021) argued that the notion of being ‘burned through’ more adequately and appropriately implicates institutions in fostering the conditions under which practitioners feel powerless, while also perpetuating an expectation that they perform constant care work in spite of these conditions. For the purposes of this article, we sought to understand not only the experiences of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers who are burnt through (i.e., have reached their limits) but also those who are burning through (i.e., are actively being burned, but for one reason or another persist).

The conditions of TQ-center(ed) diversity work require not only intense emotional energy, but also marked restraint (e.g., having to perform one’s own experiences of oppression but without displaying anger in the face of those experiences; Mandala and Ortiz 2023). In this way, TQ-center(ed) diversity workers often operate through a lens of tempered radicalism, in which “the values and beliefs associated with a professional or organizational identity violate values and beliefs associated with personal, extra-organizational, and political sources of identity” (Meyerson and Scully 1995, p. 587). In other words, TQ-center(ed) diversity workers walk a narrow path between advocating for radical institutional change and tempering those efforts to be able to survive within their institutional contexts. Importantly, extant research points to the significance of connection to similarly aligned colleagues as a key factor in the sustainability of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers’ efforts (Oliveira et al. 2025). This dynamic within the academy is consistent with dynamics in community organizing outside of higher education, with relationships influencing meaning-making, community ways of being, and the charting of pathways forward through struggle (Kaba and Nopper 2021; Plett 2023; Spade 2020, 2025).

Anderson’s (2021) writing about ‘burn through’ is consistent with extant literature about TQ-center(ed) diversity workers (Oliveira et al. 2025). Although diversity workers are often broadly associated with the production of positive outcomes in the lives of “diverse” students, TQ-center(ed) diversity workers are associated with—and often presumed to be the sole or primary factor in—success outcomes for TQ students (e.g., Hill et al. 2021; Pitcher et al. 2018). All the while, the needs of those serving in these roles are rarely considered (Duran et al. 2023) as they bump up against what Ahmed (2012) describes as the diversity wall. In fact, Oliveira et al. (2025) demonstrated that “institutional environments disenfranchise TQ-center(ed) diversity work, affecting the practitioners who engage in these roles in the process” (p. 115).

As a result, experiences of burn through are made worse by institutional norms (e.g., racial, cultural, etc.) that disproportionately punish professionals of color engaged in TQ-center(ed) diversity work (Ortiz and Mandala 2021). Existing research has explored the role of institutional contexts and microclimates (e.g., Ackelsberg et al. 2009; Rankin 2003; Vaccaro 2012), but has not been attentive to how contexts external to institutions of higher education, such as the sociopolitical terrain, fuel the proverbial fires burning through TQ-center(ed) diversity workers, thus prompting the need for this study.

Since the early literature about TQ-center(ed) diversity work, and certainly in the last ten years, scholars have conducted more empirical, practical, and theoretical research detailing work to improve campus climates for TQ people (Bowling et al. 2020) within the context of traditionally heterogendered institutions (Preston and Hoffman 2015). This scholarship has focused on the proliferation and recent history of TQ-center(ed) diversity work (Duran et al. 2023), core competencies for performing TQ-center(ed) diversity work (Bazarsky et al. 2020), the role and outcomes of TQ-center(ed) diversity work (Sanlo et al. 2002), and a growing body of literature about the experiences of the graduate students and professional administrators who serve as TQ-center(ed) diversity workers (Catalano and Tillapaugh 2020; Catalano et al. 2025a). In response to federally instigated political attacks on higher education, trans and queer people, migrants, and many more, scholars and practitioners are also writing and enacting strategies to affirm and stabilize support for trans and queer students on our campuses (Lemerand and Duran 2024). This project builds on that important body of literature by employing a community-driven theory and method to determine how it is that we—TQ-center(ed) diversity workers—are navigating, surviving, and strategizing within a hostile anti-DEI and anti-TQ sociopolitical landscape. In making sense of our experiences within and beyond burn(ing) through, we aim to document both the warning signs and the protective measures as opportunities to imagine and sustain trans and queer futures on campus.

3. Study Design

This study stemmed from a larger project that employed participatory action research (PAR), leading to the present analysis that used a general qualitative design. PAR as a research tradition encourages researchers to engage in a symbiotic relationship with community members to address problems faced by the community members themselves (Chevalier and Buckles 2019). In developing this project, we sought a design that would uplift the experiences of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers navigating the current sociopolitical landscape and that would also give back to the participants. We utilized a general qualitative design for this study, seeking to solicit participants’ meaning-making of their experiences in TQ-center(ed) diversity work. We chose this approach in large part because of how it can offer an affirming space for researchers and participants alike to challenge the arbitrary binaries that are often imposed when adhering to a methodological tradition. We relied on Catalano and Perez’s (2023) argument that a general qualitative design holds merit as a rigorous approach, an argument that we find useful in ‘queering’ research. We further relied on traditions of community storytelling and meaning-making found throughout the histories of marginalized communities, including but not limited to TQ communities, thus melding community knowledge with methodological design (Kaba and Nopper 2021; Plett 2023; Spade 2020). We found it important to employ not only methods recognized within the academy, but also those that have preserved and passed down TQ community knowledge and history both within and outside of the academy.

3.1. Participant Recruitment and Selection

We distributed the call for participants through various channels, including professional association listservs and social media platforms (e.g., Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn). We employed criterion sampling (Patton 2015) to recruit participants for this study. Our sole eligibility criterion was that people identify as a TQ-center(ed) diversity worker, which we broadly defined as those working in TQ centers or in other student-facing roles with the responsibility of serving TQ students. Twenty-seven individuals expressed interest in participating, and we ultimately chose 14 with whom to move forward. We chose these 14 to provide a sample representing arrays of experiences that were diverse in nature (e.g., social identities, roles, institution type and organization structure, geography, etc.). Of those fourteen, eight completed both the interviews and the workshop, and their combined 16 interview transcripts were the data for this study. Because of the sensitive nature of this research, and to reduce the risk of participant identification, we chose not to provide participant profiles and instead offer these broad descriptions: 5 worked at private institutions; 3 were in the Midwest region of the United States, 2 in the south, 1 in the west, and 1 in the east; 2 described themselves as currently able-bodied and 4 as neurodivergent; 7 identified as trans/nonbinary; 3 identified as white; and none identified as heterosexual. At the time of their recruitment, 6 participants were between 21 and 35 years old and 2 were over the age of 35; 3 had been in their current roles for under 1 year, 4 had been in their roles for 1–4 years, and 1 had been in their role for over 10 years. Of the 8 participants, 6 had experience in TQ-center(ed) diversity work prior to their current (at the time of recruitment) roles, ranging from full-time appointments to graduate assistantships. There remains no single national source that might provide clarity on the number of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers at colleges and universities in the United States. As of 2025, the Consortium of Higher Education LGBT Resource Professionals (known also as the Consortium) listed 267 LGBTQ centers and offices in the United States, many of which have been closed or eliminated professional staff in the intervening years (The Consortium of Higher Education LGBT Resource Professionals 2025). All participant names used in this manuscript are pseudonyms, either chosen by the participant or assigned by the research team.

3.2. Data Collection and Analysis

We designed this study to involve multiple points of data collection and to benefit the participants themselves. Participants received information that their involvement in the study would include two 60 to 90 min interviews with a researcher, one before and one after a 2 to 3 h virtual workshop. Interviews took place virtually via video call, and were transcribed and audio recorded with participant consent. The workshop was facilitated by a practitioner who was not on the research team and chosen because they are well-versed in topics of TQ-center(ed) diversity work and navigating political terrains as a TQ-center(ed) diversity worker. The facilitator had worked for over a decade in TQ-center(ed) diversity work in higher education and holds a terminal degree in educational leadership. Their research and ongoing work center the intersections of race, gender, and sexuality. Our intent with the workshop was to build community among participants as well as provide an educational opportunity. During the workshop, the facilitator first invited participants to breathe deeply (literally) and allow themselves permission to rest and lean into restorative practice. From there, the facilitator guided participants through exercises in freedom dreaming (Kelley 2022), including smaller breakout groups to discuss potential steps toward realizing liberation in this work. Participants also spoke about their experiences performing TQ-center(ed) diversity work, including current and ongoing challenges, needs for support, and moments for joy. The goal of the workshop was twofold: first, to offer a reciprocal exchange of knowledge and support to participants as a form of compensation—in addition to their gift cards—for sharing with us their experiences that ultimately inform this study. The second goal of the workshop was to prompt reflection on the current state of TQ-center(ed) diversity work, which was revisited in the second interview. This manuscript reports on data collected from both interviews; we did not collect data during the workshop itself, although questions in the second interview prompted participants to reflect on their experiences during and after the workshop.

The first interview included questions informed by our framework: Anderson’s (2021) writing about diversity workers’ experiences of ‘burn through,’ and Meyerson and Scully’s (1995) lens of tempered radicalism. Through these questions, we sought to elicit descriptions of participants’ experiences as TQ-center(ed) diversity workers in the current sociopolitical moment. Questions in the first interview focused on what it is like to do TQ-center(ed) diversity work in the current context, and how participants believe they could be better supported in that work.

The second interview similarly entailed questions aligning with our framework and research agenda. Additionally, questions sought to prompt reflection on the impact of the workshop on participants’ approaches to TQ-center(ed) diversity work. While we revisited themes and questions from the first interview, the second interview differed in that we also asked questions about the impact of the workshop, changes in their work since the first interview, and strategies to pursue liberation in this work. We also revisited from the first interview questions about how institutional leaders and supervisors could better understand, support, and advocate for TQ-center(ed) diversity work.

The authors analyzed transcripts from both interviews using an inductive coding approach, initially identifying common threads such as entry into the profession, feelings of institutional betrayal, encouragement to “fly under the radar,” and practices of resistance. Following inductive coding, we determined that Meyerson and Scully’s (1995) conceptualization of tempered radicals and Anderson’s (2021) framing of burned through aligned with a number of the themes identified during the coding process. From there, we debriefed the codes and parsed themes to subsequently organize our findings for discussion.

4. Findings

Our findings respond to our research agenda to explore the experiences of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers in the current sociopolitical moment. Specifically, we aimed to identify warning signs of burn through, as well as protective measures for TQ-center(ed) diversity workers. In utilizing a community-driven theory and method, we aimed to document these indicators to inform and cultivate opportunities to imagine and sustain TQ futures on campus, including navigating, surviving, and strategizing in the face of volatile anti-DEI and anti-TQ sociopolitical landscapes.

Upon review, we organized participant experiences into three primary themes. First, across both their first and second interviews, participants’ accounts of their experiences as TQ-center(ed) diversity workers all pointed to experiences of burn through (Anderson 2021), including considerable doubts about their continued engagement in TQ-center(ed) diversity work. Second, participants consistently spoke to two specific needs: community within and across institutions, and support from their institutions. Finally, the third theme, which is perhaps an anti-theme: when asked to describe the role of liberation in their approach to TQ-center(ed) diversity work, our eight participants described eight similar yet distinct understandings of liberation as both concept and practice in their work. We refer to this as an anti-theme because, while participants’ comments were unified around liberation, they differed in their conceptualizations and operationalizations of liberation.

Burned Through in the Present Sociopolitical Context

One theme that emerged during the first interviews and became even more salient during participants’ second interviews was the harsh reality of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers’ burn through; the systematic way that organizations foster physically and emotionally tolling climates which institutions shirk responsibility for perpetuating the harmful myth of individual burn out (Anderson 2021) when TQ-center(ed) diversity workers leave their roles.

Over the course of their interviews, two participants named explicitly their intentions to leave TQ-center(ed) diversity work in search of opportunities that they felt would better honor their needs for balance and emotional rest. Toni (she/any) had given serious thought to her departure from the field even prior to her participation in this study, but the rapid decline in institutional support for her work in the face of increasing political hostility prompted her to reconsider her timeline. Since the beginning of the global COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, Toni’s workload had continued to increase as staff left and positions were eliminated within her institution, both reducing staffing in her office and also merging another role into hers.

Toni described working through cyclical burnout, which we interpret as indicative of the broader institutional complicity in burning through her as a professional (Anderson 2021). Toni’s descriptions of her work also pointed to an understanding that her growing administrative workload pulled her away from engaging in what she considered to be meaningful TQ-center(ed) work. By the time of her second interview, she had set a departure date and given notice to her employer of her intention to leave. During the second interview, she shared that her plans for departure had been pushed forward as a direct result of (in)action by her institution to affirm the value of and need for TQ-center(ed) work: “I don’t want to collude with my own oppression, so I figure I’m old enough. It’s time for me to go.”

While Toni made plans to leave the field of higher education altogether, Wanda (they/them) spoke in their second interview about a desire for a less emotionally demanding role. Since completing their graduate degree three years prior, they half-joked about wanting to pursue a different role, and specifically about “[w]anting a job where I’m less emotionally invested and personally invested.” They went on to describe how the workshop they participated in as part of this study “was a helpful space to process the positive side of having that much investment and that much of myself and what that has allowed me to do. But also it causes a lot of harm.” Wanda’s comments highlight the reality of the deep personal and emotional connections to the work that many participants named, and the inherent tension of engaging in work that relies on that connection and places substantial burdens of emotional labor on those same practitioners. In this way, TQ-center(ed) diversity workers found that their institutions were ‘burning through’ their emotional labor and personal investment in their roles, and therefore their deep-seated sense of self, values, and purpose, to sustain the guise of TQ inclusion while institutions and public actors simultaneously worked to discredit, underfund, and dismantle TQ-center(ed) diversity work.

Even as some participants considered departures from higher education broadly and TQ-center(ed) diversity work specifically, others recognized that while they were burning through or out of TQ-center(ed) work, their experiences and reflections over the course of our study and the workshop in particular had helped them clarify their professional pathways. As Micah (they/she) put it, “I’ve gone from feeling like I’m just an isolated individual just trying to understand myself to now feeling like it is more my position or role to advocate for queer and trans issues.” Here, Micah’s reflections offer a glimpse into the role that collective dialogue, coalition building, and community connection can play among TQ-center(ed) diversity workers: it helped them to reaffirm—despite the hostile sociopolitical climate—the central role of advocacy in TQ-center(ed) diversity work. Many participants, including Micah, spoke about their mental, emotional, and often physical exhaustion as part and parcel of TQ-center(ed) diversity work, but even still felt called and committed to persist in the work. As we will further explore in the next theme, community building—and in this case, a structured professional networking experience—offered temporary protections from institutional burn through as practitioners were able to reaffirm their commitments to advocacy.

Community Needs Within and Beyond Campus

The intent for the virtual workshop—which took place chronologically between the first and second interviews—was to offer participants a respite; a space in which to release some of the stresses of TQ-center(ed) diversity work, to connect with one another, and to imagine what liberation might look like in this work. When we asked about what they took away from the workshop, participants spoke in a variety of ways about the value of finding community in virtual space. We found that community served, for many of the participants, as a protective factor and a salve for feelings of burn through and isolation. Building on Wanda and Toni’s thoughts above, Quinn (they/them) stated that the workshop “definitely revealed to me that I’m not alone.” George (they/them) similarly reflected on the value of the workshop, noting that while the content was useful, it was the sense of community and support that most impacted them. They described wishing and waiting for:

a moment in my job where someone explains things to me or tells me how to do things […] And I think it was really grounding for me to be reminded that we are all learning and we are all navigating things that we haven’t navigated before.

Not only did participants name this sense of validation in finding shared experiences with fellow participants, but they also identified ways in which TQ student support seems uniquely emotionally fraught, even compared to other identity-based student support.

Hugh (he/him) spoke about supporting TQ students through mental health crises and noted that it felt like his colleagues, even those working at other identity centers within the same institution, seemed to be navigating markedly different student needs. He shared:

I asked one of my other directors, who leads another identity center, that’s not LGBTQ, “Do you have to deal with this [referring to acute student mental health needs] at the frequency that we do?” And they were like, “No.” And it’s been really hard because there’s not the support there, even from folks who I would hope would or should be providing support or getting it. I don’t get the sense they really get what it’s like for us to have a student so close to us just not be okay…

These comments point to both the significance of community as a source of support and professional development, and also highlight the reality that many TQ-center(ed) diversity workers find themselves in: working alongside colleagues whose work may be similarly emotionally fraught, but who may not (or are perceived not to) carry the added layers of social and political scrutiny and hostility. Hugh’s reflection illustrates a desire for local community and understanding while naming the stark and disparate realities of diversity workers across diversity units or roles within an institution. Hugh’s comment is also indicative of a sense of loneliness despite not being truly alone, which was eased by sharing space with the other participants in the study workshop. This sense of community tended to mitigate some of the personal consequences for Hugh of being burned through.

Importantly, participants also identified the workshop and the ensuing interpersonal connections as a practice that humanized TQ-center(ed) diversity work—for themselves and, perhaps, to others. For example, Jacob (he/him) recalled that the workshop elicited a sense of relief and validation, noting that

just being able to talk about being a person of color in an LGBTQ center, and what that work can look like, and how different issues can come up there, too […] It made me feel like other people are having the same, or at least somewhat similar experiences to what I am, too.

Jacob’s experience of intersectional and institutional burn through was met with shared understanding and validation during the workshop, which, as he described it, mitigated feelings of interpersonal and professional isolation. Jacob’s reflections on the workshop also highlight the unique and intersectional (Crenshaw 1991) challenges faced by TQ-center(ed) diversity workers who have multiple marginalized identities—in his case, being a TQ person of color—that can create compounded experiences of oppression and burn through that may not be fully understood by white TQ-center(ed) diversity workers or non-TQ colleagues of color. Jacob framed the value of “community within community” (Goode 1957) for Black and Brown TQ-center(ed) diversity workers in our study, similarly, in finding relief, validation, and a sense of shared experiences within the context of a higher education functional area that is overrepresented by white TQ-center(ed) diversity workers (Lange et al. 2022; Self and Hudson 2015).

Several participants offered similar commentary on the value of community through the workshop as a space to (re)connect with their humanity and the emotional nature of the work. Toni shared:

I also feel like participating in the research and interacting with other people going through similar things […] was also an opportunity to share some things with other people, but also to know that our work environments… they don’t really like people to be emotional, even if they recognize that emotions are part of people. They really like us to navigate the world as if we aren’t emotional beings. And so I think being able to recognize the impact and have people share their own emotional responses is another helpful thing. I think that it helps affirm or confirm what we’re dealing with. It’s not just me having this response.

While Toni’s comments reflect her appreciation for the workshop because it gave her the opportunity to tap into shared emotional responses and humanity (“as emotional beings”), her comments dually reflect her and others’ perception of the climate and reception to TQ-center(ed) diversity work on campuses in this sociopolitical climate. She understood the workshop as a space where her emotional response to direct attacks on TQ people and work was normalized as she was met with validation and intimately shared understanding. Toni’s comments also highlight two noteworthy ideas. First, she draws on the important and necessary role that intentional community spaces, like this workshop, can have for sustaining collective emotional well-being and persistence. Second, she clearly illustrates a higher education landscape which is perceptibly averse to emotional responses even in the face of discriminatory policies, laws, and practices. When taken together, it suggests that community gatherings and discourse can continue to serve as a protective factor against burn through in an increasingly hostile sociopolitical climate for this work.

Other participants described the value in feeling understood and respected by others in the workshop. These feelings seem to extend beyond professional connection, with participants also validating each other’s emotional needs, particularly related to physical manifestations of stress, burnout, and burn through. Wanda recalled:

I’m a little bit in my head all the time about everything, and so having that reminder of the connection and that a brain does not exist in a floating vial of fluid. We are a whole person. I am a whole person. And I am not going to think my way out of any of the complexities and that at some point, relying on the information I’m receiving from my body and using that to inform my decisions is a valid way of making decisions or of practicing and of being.

Wanda and Toni’s comments harken back to the ways in which institutions of higher education burn through diversity workers, in part by prioritizing the work over the worker. Notably, community connection continues to be one possible recourse for burn through that is accessible to TQ-center(ed) diversity workers even when formal systems (e.g., governments, institutions of higher education, etc.) fail to be viable avenues for support.

As participants considered sustainable opportunities to be in community with one another, they acknowledged that some formal professional organizations ceased to be accessible sources of professional support as the costs of conference attendance rise and professional development funds dwindle. For example, Hugh offered insight into their valuation of collaboration and coalition building through national organizations and conferences, they shared:

The space was really meaningful… because we all had a chance to be brought together to have these conversations with one another across institutions. I know that there are spaces for this type of encounter, right? We have our drive-in in [Southern State]. We have the Consortium, and they have calls. And so it’s not that those spaces don’t exist. But… the workshop was just different than I think how those calls or how some of the in-person gatherings sometimes feel. I don’t know about for most folks, but since the Consortium decided to move towards ACPA [American College Personnel Association] and NASPA [Student Affairs Administrators in Higher Education], it’s going to be less accessible.…there’s not unlimited professional development funds, so I can’t just be like, ‘Oh, I’m going to go to Creating Change, and I’m going to go to ACPA or NASPA. And I’m going to try to go NCORE [National Conference on Race and Ethnicity in Higher Education].’ If I was doing this work, it’s just not the conferences I would choose ACPA or NASPA over—this year, I went to NCORE and Creating Change.

While the literature has not well documented the role and function of leading professional organizations for diversity workers, Hugh’s notes that these organizations can (and perhaps should) meet some of the same needs by establishing more robust community spaces. Hugh also described the impact that limited financial resources and professional development funds have on a professional’s ability to be connected, physically or virtually, to these organizations.

Need for More Institutional Support

In addition to identifying community (internal and external) as a source of support, participants also repeatedly named a need for greater support within their institutions. Quinn asked, “How much more powerful could our movements be if we could be more in solidarity with other groups on campus?” Quinn’s inquiry calls out a challenge that was salient for many participants: their sense of isolation impacted them as practitioners and also severely limited the scope of the work they were able to do. Participants described feelings of isolation in a variety of ways, including vis-à-vis lack of knowledge or understanding on the part of colleagues, well intentioned though they may be. Gray (ze/zir or they/them) named a lack of ongoing education as a significant factor in zir experiences of isolation and the need for colleagues within and across departments to “lean in and be willing to educate yourself and prioritize the care of your employees […] those things apply across so many identity lines and are transferable across TQ workers of color, TQ workers of color that are neurodiverse.” Participants consistently spoke to a desire for interdepartmental collaboration and solidarity, a recognition that challenges facing TQ students intersect with those faced by students of color, disabled students, and student veterans, to name a few. This challenge is further complicated when we consider Gray’s comments alongside Hugh’s earlier concern about on-campus colleagues who expressed a lack of understanding of the quality and volume of TQ student support that is uniquely asked of TQ diversity workers.

In addition to their desire for support through solidarity, participants described wanting to be recognized—at least internally within their institutions, if not externally to local communities or professional organizations—for their labor and the value of their efforts. Wanda expressed their longing for “the temerity of the institution to say anything or do anything […] Our students and our faculty and staff, we all see it [the lack of support]. We all feel it, and it’s like we’re protected but we’re also not. Nobody’s cheering for us.” It wasn’t simply that they (Wanda individually as well as in conjunction with the other staff in their unit) felt unsupported, but that the silence of institutional leaders was so loud as to be undeniable to the broader campus community: TQ-center(ed) spaces and roles may exist on the campus, but are not things institutional leadership would outwardly uplift or defend.

Beyond the lack of vocalized support, multiple participants described steps that institutional leaders (presidents, deans, vice presidents, etc.) had taken under the guise of protecting TQ-center(ed) diversity work. In more than one case, this looked like separating budgets for TQ-center(ed) diversity work, shifting to auxiliary or fee funding and away from state and tuition funds. Participants were united in their belief that these attempted protective measures would be—and in some cases ultimately were—ineffective in providing protection, but very effective in isolating and patronizing TQ-center(ed) diversity workers. More often than not, these ‘protective’ decisions were made without consulting TQ-center(ed) diversity workers. Participants conveyed feelings of frustration with the apparent disconnect between rhetoric (‘We’re doing this to protect you’) and actions (‘We made this decision without you and will be moving forward regardless’). As Toni shared, “They do express how much they value what we do and that the reason they’re making some of these decisions is because they want to protect us. I get that, but I would much rather have support than protection.” That is, instead of having decisions made for them under the guise of protection and being left standing alone when the attempts at protection fail, participants would rather face the turmoil head-on in partnership with institutional leaders.

Liberation as Multitudes

As part of the second interview (following the workshop), participants were asked what they consider the role of liberation to be in their work, as well as how they might engage liberation and coalition building into their work. Participants described liberation in a number of ways, often circling back to the value of possibility for TQ communities. Micah described their approach to TQ-center(ed) diversity work as being grounded in and motivated by “the hope and the imagination that [liberation] is possible and that every day we are taking steps towards our greater liberation for ourselves and others.” Quinn similarly offered:

I think it’s liberatory for me to show up my queer ass self to work and to be that person that I did not see or experience […] and to provide a space on campus where someone can exist when there’s so many places and spaces that people cannot exist or are being told that they cannot exist or that they do not exist. That feels liberatory.

Quinn’s musings point to the deeper value of TQ-center(ed) diversity work in offering possibility models for TQ students. While students might not necessarily encounter Quinn and aspire toward similar career or educational goals, Quinn’s showing up as their “queer ass self” modeled to students that queer and trans futures are possible.

Wanda described the tension in feeling deeply connected to the goal of TQ liberation for their students, with the realization that they themself likely would not get to experience the fruits of their labor. They described the work of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers as:

I think that the work of us, the folks doing TQ work on campuses, is to facilitate liberation for others, or attempt to work toward campuses, spaces, et cetera, where folks can access liberation or explore what that could even mean or feel like or look like. Even if it’s not something that they can embody, that they can at least taste it and engage with it […] And I definitely am feeling that to be doing this work is perhaps facilitating liberation or a path towards it, but not necessarily having the opportunity to engage with it oneself.

Here, Wanda illustrates the tension of engaging in TQ-center(ed) work, where they serve as a conduit of change for students, but are also stifled by institutional structures that limit the possibility of liberation for themselves as a TQ-center(ed) diversity worker.

In addition to reflecting on what liberation is or could be, participants also offered musings on current applications of liberatory practices in their work. George, for example, spoke about liberation as a mirror for self-reflection and accountability:

How am I checking the cop inside of me when [student staff] were supposed to be here ten minutes ago and they’re not here, but they’re going to put that they were here on their timesheet. How am I working through that so that I am liberated from that?

By engaging in this self-critique, George reminds us that liberation is not only a future to be envisioned, but practices in the here and now. While Wanda’s approach to their work centers liberation as something they work towards for future generations, George’s practice roots the work towards liberatory futures into individual and community accountability in the present. Not only is the work towards liberatory futures rooted in the here-and-now, it is often more than just adding and doing the ‘big things’ (e.g., events, policy change, etc.). That is, participants named that scaling back and working with more thought and intention could in itself be a liberatory practice. As Toni aptly put it, “We’re controversial by our mere existence.” That is, to exist as TQ people and to do TQ-center(ed) work is necessarily controversial because of the ways TQ experiences and ways of knowing disrupt systems of power.

5. Discussion and Implications

Our findings from this study highlight the variety of challenges facing TQ-center(ed) diversity workers, many of which are heightened by the ongoing sociopolitical tumult. Employing Anderson’s (2021) lens of burned through, it becomes clear that TQ-center(ed) diversity workers are not simply experiencing burnout on an individual level, but rather are being burned through by systemic issues including, but not limited to, institutional, social, and political challenges. Utilizing Meyerson and Scully’s (1995) framework of tempered radicalism as a lens for analysis further highlights the tension inherent in the work of TQ-center(ed) diversity workers–and higher education diversity workers generally–in the current sociopolitical context (Lucas et al. 2025). Taken together, these two frameworks guided our analysis of participant interviews and subsequent discussion of warning signs of burn through and protective measures for TQ-center(ed) diversity workers. We recognize that practitioners have engaged in TQ-centered work prior to the establishment of stand-alone TQ centers and roles and continue to do so even as roles are reorganized and centers are closed.

Our approach to considering and unpacking the implications of the findings of this study are rooted in PAR as both tradition and method (Chevalier and Buckles 2019). By employing PAR and general qualitative design, we sought to ‘queer’ research by not only utilizing ‘formal’ methods (i.e., those considered academically rigorous), but also recognizing and leaning on other forms of community-based praxis (e.g., Montelongo et al. 2025). Although not a part of the initial study design, many of the participants’ descriptions of coalition-building, community resource sharing, and relationship cultivation aligned with contemporary writings on mutual aid and community. For example, Spade (2020, 2025) reiterated that community aid has been and continues to be a way forward when structures (e.g., institutions of higher education, government systems, etc.) fall apart or otherwise fail to meet community needs. Furthermore, Plett (2023) emphasized “that community is not a thing but a motion. Sometimes it’s natural and boring, and sometimes it takes effort and work, but: it only assumes shape via activity” (p. 36). This activity, in the case of our participants, took the form of carving out spaces for students to exist fully as themselves; distributing resources to alleviate students’ stress (e.g., navigating housing, accessing gender-affirming clothing, etc.); and, particularly following the workshop as part of this study, taking the time to connect with each other as colleagues and collaborators working towards TQ liberation via TQ-center(ed) diversity work within institutions of higher education, both in and alongside TQ centers as well as through intentional work outside of (or in absence of) stand-alone centers.

As activist and community organizer Mariame Kaba pointed out, “Everything that is worthwhile is done with other people” (Kaba and Nopper 2021, p. 104). Community, as both concept and experience, was a central theme across all eight participants’ interviews. Whether it was sharing space with folks who understand the often complex nuances of TQ-center(ed) diversity work, as Micah and Hugh described, or finding solidarity and intimate understanding, like Toni and Jacob, one thing became clear: community served as a protective factor for TQ-center(ed) diversity workers facing both burnout and burn through. Additionally, burnout—and, we would argue, burn through—“is prevented or lessened when we feel connected to others, when there is transparency in how we work together, when we can rest as needed, when we feel appreciated by the group, and when we have skills for giving and receiving feedback” (Spade 2020, p. 109). That is, cultivating and tending to meaningful relationships with folks engaged in this work can insulate us from the flames of burn through. Wanda’s comment about being a whole person reflects some of the broader impacts of burn through and the need to reimagine the relationship between institutions of higher education—including institutional leaders—and those doing the work of supporting students (McClure 2025). Given that many TQ-center(ed) diversity workers today operate as offices of one (Duran et al. 2023; Sanlo 2000), it should come as no surprise that TQ-center(ed) diversity workers experience a heightened need for connection and understanding, particularly given the often emotional nature of this work. Importantly, formal and informal communities continue to be valuable sites of support and protective measures for TQ-center(ed) diversity workers experiencing or approaching burn through, irrespective of the viability of conferences, professional organizations, government services, or other formalized avenues for support, ultimately at the whims of institutional and political influence.

Multiple participants described how they felt better equipped to advocate for student needs as their tenure in their roles progressed. With that said, most participants had been in their roles for fewer than two years, suggesting that the potential benefits of persisting in a particular role or institutional context were outweighed by experiences of burn through and the need for reprieve. Even among participants with shorter tenures in their current roles, all but one participant also had previous TQ-center(ed) diversity work experience that informed their approach to current roles. In Toni’s case, she had been in the same institutional context for much of her career, and she felt empowered to criticize ineffective practices, call in colleagues’ harmful behavior, and advocate for student needs. However, she was careful to note that much of her emboldened behavior felt possible only after she had a clearly defined plan for leaving her role and institution. This reifies the feelings of precarity described by several participants, which have been heightened in the face of increased scrutiny on TQ-center(ed) and other DEI-related work (Lemerand and Duran 2024). TQ-center(ed) diversity workers are thus faced with a forced binary choice: persist through often toxic institutional dynamics in order to be more effective in their roles, or do what they can for as long as they can before burning through and starting over in a new role.

Taken as a whole, participants’ recollections clarify and broaden our understanding of what burn through can look like. Expanding on Anderson’s (2021) description of emotional and physical exhaustion, we witnessed in both Toni and Wanda a burning through of their calling to this work. They were not only physically and emotionally exhausted, but felt the dissolution of a desire to engage in work that for much of their careers had been a vocational calling. We recognize these feelings of disconnection as an indicator that TQ-center(ed) diversity workers may be approaching or actively experiencing burn through.

In addition to their descriptions of burning through, participants’ diverse musings on liberation as both concept and reality require further exploration. Participants reflected on the value of TQ possibility models, self- and community-accountability practices, and coalition-building. Their comments framed community as a central tenet of liberation, highlighting the value in cultivating meaningful relationships of mutual care and support, prompting the question: Is it better (i.e., less emotionally draining, more effective in the work) to be a TQ-center(ed) diversity worker in a context that is rich in physical resources such as dedicated space, staff, and funds, but where every decision requires hours of justification and haggling with campus partners and institutional leaders; or to be a TQ-center(ed) diversity worker in a context where physical resources are scarce, but campus partners and institutional leaders share in and support the vision for TQ liberation on campus?

We are reminded that both liberation generally and TQ-center(ed) diversity work specifically can be realized in so many ways, and at different levels. As participants described, the goals of their work were often constrained to the campus community and focused on the absence of harm and oppression (e.g., not misgendering students, reducing barriers to TQ student success, not forcing students into arbitrary binary gendered housing, etc.), which fails to recognize the depth and breadth of what liberation is or could be. Wanda’s description of liberation as something they work toward for others but will likely not experience themself prompts pause and reflection. Is it or could it be possible for those of us working toward TQ liberation to experience the fruits of our labor? Perhaps an inherent tension in TQ-center(ed) diversity work is the cruel irony that the tempering of these radicals is that in order to persist in the work, they themselves cannot partake in the realization of liberation. Conversely, this may be a false flag planted or implied by oppressive leaders to temper these radicals, peddling the story that liberation can only ever be aspirational.

With the institutionalization of higher education diversity work, TQ-center(ed) and otherwise, we argue that the focus of the work has shifted to align with institutional goals and measurable outcomes, regardless of the impact on lived experiences of those within the institution (Ahmed 2012; Kannan and Catalano 2025). There are clear benefits to formal TQ centers and TQ-center(ed) roles, including dedicated resources, spaces, and staffing (Hill et al. 2021; Pitcher et al. 2018). However, the work toward TQ liberation existed before the institutionalization of TQ-center(ed) diversity work, has continued to exist in parallel to institutionalized TQ-center(ed) diversity work, and will continue to exist with or without institutional support. This inspires us to ask the question: Has this institutionalization of the work and prioritization of measurable outcomes overshadowed the lived realities of TQ students and practitioners? The forms of mutual aid and community care described by our participants are not simply ways to work around increasingly fraught institutional and political circumstances. They are the historical roots and ongoing legacy of TQ liberation, and are practices that have been relied on by community organizers since time immemorial. Forged in the fires of social and political oppression, these community-based practices are not easily dismantled by political agendas because their power comes from human connection. These practices have been employed by community organizers, (un)tempered radicals, and freedom dreamers for generations, and will continue to advance the work of TQ liberation.

6. Conclusions

We must urgently reimagine how higher education institutions support TQ-center(ed) diversity workers as they engage in necessary change work on campus. Our findings revealed that burn through is not merely a personal or professional challenge, but rather a systemic condition exacerbated by institutional neglect, sociopolitical hostility, and the emotional toll of engaging in work that is both deeply personal and institutionally undervalued and under-supported. Yet, within this landscape of precarity, participants in our study also demonstrated profound resilience and commitment to liberation. Their reflection on liberation, as both a future possibility and present praxis, reminds us that TQ-center(ed) diversity work is about cultivating spaces where TQ people can exist fully and authentically. Although institutions may attempt to temper the radical potential of TQ-center(ed) diversity work, the roots of liberation work lie in community and resistance. As long as TQ people continue to imagine and enact liberatory futures, the work will persist, within and outside of formal TQ-center(ed) spaces.