Heartbreaking Times to an Underappreciated Field: Gender Studies

It breaks my heart to see what is happening with Gender Studies programs across Canada (and other countries around the world). To witness departments being attacked, cut, or paused in times when their knowledge is so desperately needed in our world feels like a profound betrayal, both intellectually and emotionally. I remember the first time I stepped into a Gender Studies classroom, not knowing how transformative that space would be. I signed up out of curiosity, thinking it might be interesting, maybe even eye-opening. Little did I know it would turn my life inside out. That space offered me a language and a framework to articulate what I had long felt but never knew how to express. It gave me words like intersectionality and feminism, concepts that opened my eyes to the complexities of social inequalities. It helped me see that identity is layered, shifting, and deeply influenced by power dynamics all around us.

I am so grateful for Gender Studies and for my mentors and colleagues from this field, who pushed me to grow with critical thinking and kindness. These brilliant scholars and educators showed me that studying the world isn’t just about memorizing facts or accepting the status quo; it’s about asking who wrote the narrative, who benefited from it, and whose voices were missing. They reminded me that knowledge needs to be put into practice, and that real learning happens when we apply new perspectives to our everyday interactions, policy decisions, and social structures. I learned that theory isn’t something abstract and untouchable; it’s a tool.

Gender Studies also gave me the vocabulary to better understand myself. It was, quite literally, a field that pushed me to re-evaluate who I am—my gender and sexual identities, my relationship to the world around me, and what it means to move through life with a sense of integrity and solidarity. Before finding the language of Gender Studies, I felt like I was constantly bumping into invisible walls, unable to articulate why certain experiences felt so alienating or why I struggled with conventional norms. It was as if I was trying to navigate the world with a map that wasn’t made for me. But within the pages of bell hooks, Audre Lorde, Kimberlé Crenshaw, Judith Butler, Chandra Mohanty, and so many others, I found echoes of my own questioning. I discovered that I wasn’t alone in feeling like the world was weighed down by unspoken hierarchies and assumptions about who we should be.

I am who I am today because of Gender Studies and its amazing scholars and activists. My queerness is grateful to it, my entire being is grateful to it. Through rigorous discussions, late-night reading sessions, and immersive community events, I learned to understand the interlocking systems of oppression that shape our lived realities—systems that strike differently depending on race, class, ability, geography, and a host of other factors. That concept, intersectionality, became one of the most powerful tools in my personal and academic toolkit. It helped me see that oppression isn’t one-dimensional; it operates along multiple axes that intersect and compound, creating lived experiences that can’t be parsed out neatly. To study gender, then, is to study how all these axes come together and manifest in everything from our laws to our pop culture. It’s an ever-evolving, ever-necessary field.

But now, as I read headline after headline announcing program cuts, departmental “pauses,” or outright eliminations, I feel overwhelmed by sorrow and frustration. There is something unspeakably tragic about losing institutional support for a field that empowers so many of us—especially those of us who have felt marginalized, overlooked, or misunderstood. It’s not just about losing classes or degrees; it’s about losing spaces that give voice to experiences rarely validated in mainstream narratives. It’s about losing research that would illuminate the hidden biases in our policies, workplaces, healthcare, and educational systems. And it’s about losing mentors who take the time to guide students through the jagged terrain of self-discovery and social transformation.

I cannot help but think of the countless lives that may never be saved, or at least improved, by the critical lens that Gender Studies provides. For me, it literally saved my life. Yes, that sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth. As a queer person who often felt that I existed on the edges of societal norms, the affirmations and insights I gained from Gender Studies were like oxygen. It gave me a community that saw my questions and anxieties not as weaknesses, but as strengths. It taught me that questioning the systems that be is the first step toward a more equitable world. In those classrooms, I encountered people who believed so strongly in justice, compassion, and the pursuit of knowledge that it spilled over into every fiber of their work. Their energy was contagious. I can only imagine how many others out there need that same lifeline, that same intellectual sanctuary.

In times like these—when misinformation spreads like wildfire, when hate speech finds fertile ground on social media, and when political polarization feels insurmountable—Gender Studies is more crucial than ever. It offers not only a language but also a framework for understanding how power operates in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. It helps us question the stories we tell ourselves about masculinity, femininity, sexuality, and identity. It reminds us that behind statistics and policies are real human beings, each carrying intersecting aspects of identity, each deserving dignity and respect. If ever there was a time to invest in knowledge that fosters critical thinking, empathy, and activism, it is now.

But instead, we are witnessing what feels like a coordinated effort to delegitimize and defund these programs. It’s as if the very subject matter—gender, sexuality, intersectionality, power—threatens those who prefer simpler narratives or who fear the transformative potential of these conversations. And perhaps that is exactly what is happening: critical, disruptive knowledge is being sidelined because it dares to question the status quo. It dares to imagine a world in which binaries are not the default, in which a multiplicity of identities can coexist without fear of violence or erasure.

Some argue that cutting Gender Studies is purely a financial decision. But we know better. Universities and colleges are meant to be places where new knowledge is created and nurtured, where society’s moral compass is honed, and where the next generation learns to navigate an ever-changing world. If these institutions cannot sustain programs that teach us to be inclusive, self-reflective, and socially conscious, then they fail at a fundamental level. Their decisions signal to us—and to future generations—that the pursuit of critical knowledge is dispensable, that the empathy and awareness needed to challenge injustice are not priorities.

I wish I could say I had a quick fix. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly optimistic, I believe that these cuts will spark a wave of activism that will ultimately reinvigorate Gender Studies in Canada. Maybe they will force us to fight harder, to be louder, to demonstrate in full force why these programs matter. But right now, there is heartbreak and exhaustion. There is a sense of loss, not just for the students who won’t get to take these classes, but for all the communities who benefit, often unknowingly, from the scholarship and advocacy that come out of Gender Studies departments. When we lose Gender Studies programs, we lose potential solutions to social problems, potential healing for those who have been silenced, and potential progress for a country that prides itself on diversity and inclusion.

In acknowledging all of this, I come back to my core feeling: gratitude. As devastating as it is to see these programs under attack, I remain overwhelmingly grateful for what Gender Studies has given me. It gave me the vocabulary to articulate my queerness, the tools to navigate institutions that were never designed for my identity, and the community that supported me every step of the way. It reminded me that knowledge is not something to be locked away in books or academic journals—it needs to be brought into the streets, into our relationships, into our activism. I watched my mentors and colleagues turn theory into praxis, pushing boundaries both in and out of the classroom. They showed me that fighting for equity is a constant process of learning, unlearning, collaborating, and caring.

So, yes, it breaks my heart to see what is happening to Gender Studies programs across Canada. It breaks my heart because this field literally saved my life. It breaks my heart because my own story is but one of thousands—one thread in a vast network of people who have found affirmation, empowerment, and purpose through these programs.

Nevertheless, I take solace in the knowledge that the spirit of Gender Studies won’t vanish simply because a department closes its doors. The seeds planted in those classrooms will continue to grow in the minds and hearts of students, activists, teachers, and community members. The scholarship will live on in libraries, conferences, and digital platforms, ready to be discovered by those who need it next. The conversations sparked around dining tables, in coffee shops, on social media, and at protests will continue to challenge and change the world, whether or not “Gender Studies” remains an official department in certain institutions.

In the meantime, we fight. We share our stories, we advocate, we rally, and we demand recognition for the field that taught us to see each other’s full humanity. We hold on tightly to the belief that a more just world is possible. And we keep showing up for one another—in the same way that Gender Studies once showed up for me, saving my life when I felt most lost and alone. This knowledge has power. This knowledge is needed. And this knowledge must endure.