Yes, I Know I Am Being Exploited. But I Cannot Resist My Sense of “Duty.”

Despite well-intentioned advice from colleagues who caution me against taking on additional labor, I find myself unable to step away from these vital roles. It’s not just a matter of choice; it’s a profound sense of responsibility that compels me to continue investing in mentoring students who occupy marginalized social locations and actively participate in equity-focused committees. I am acutely aware of the toll this commitment can take—physically, emotionally, and mentally—but I cannot turn my back on the transformative potential these roles carry.

In this journey, I am far from alone. Many scholars who share my background and passions face similar dilemmas, torn between the desire to protect themselves from exploitation and their deep-seated commitment to nurturing the next generation of academics, especially those from marginalized backgrounds. As a first-generation queer scholar of color with invisible disabilities, my own path through academia has been an ongoing balancing act, negotiating my responsibilities and survival in a system not designed with us in mind.

The additional labor we are expected to perform—whether in the form of emotional labor, mentorship, or diversity and inclusion efforts—often goes unrecognized. This type of work, often referred to as “invisible labor,” disproportionately falls on scholars from marginalized backgrounds. It is draining, and yet, for many of us, it feels non-negotiable. How can I not step up when I see students who are struggling in the same ways I once did? How can I turn away when I know that my presence and guidance might make a difference in their journey through an academic system that often alienates and silences them?

Mentorship, for me, is more than a duty—it’s an opportunity to effect positive change. When I see students from marginalized backgrounds facing systemic challenges, I feel compelled to step in, not just because I want to help them succeed academically, but because I understand the importance of feeling seen and supported. Mentorship, when done right, has the power to disrupt cycles of exclusion, to validate students’ identities and experiences, and to create pathways where there were previously roadblocks.

And yet, while the urge to support these students is strong, I am constantly reminded of the cost. This work comes at a price, often leading to burnout, exhaustion, and a sense of being perpetually overextended. The mental, emotional, and physical tolls are real, and they are compounded by the lack of institutional recognition or reward for these efforts. Mentorship and equity work are rarely seen as essential to academic success or productivity. Instead, they are often treated as add-ons or optional extras, despite the profound impact they have on students and the academic community as a whole.

Even so, the drive to mentor and advocate remains. In part, this is because mentorship is a reciprocal relationship—it’s not just about what I can offer students, but also what I learn from them. Their resilience and perspectives inspire me, and together, we build a sense of community and belonging that is often missing in higher education. This mutual learning and growth reminds me of why I entered academia in the first place—to challenge the status quo and to create spaces where marginalized voices are not only heard but valued.

There have been moments when I’ve questioned my commitment. There have been times when I’ve wondered if I am doing too much, stretching myself too thin in ways that are unsustainable. But I persist, because the real impact mentorship has on students’ lives is undeniable. The messages of gratitude, the stories of growth, and the knowledge that I’ve contributed to their success keep me invested.

Yet, the tension is ever-present. How does one strike a balance between the desire to advocate for change and the need to protect oneself from burnout? How do we continue to invest in mentorship and equity work without compromising our own health? These are questions I grapple with daily, and I know I am not alone in this struggle.

What’s clear is that institutions must do more. They need to recognize and reward the labor of scholars who are doing the essential work of mentorship and diversity and inclusion. Without systemic support, scholars from marginalized backgrounds will continue to be exploited for their labor, and the burden of this work will remain unsustainable. Policies and practices need to be reformed to ensure that scholars are not penalized for engaging in work that benefits the entire academic community. This includes rethinking how we evaluate academic contributions, shifting away from narrow definitions of productivity, and acknowledging the value of mentorship and advocacy in shaping the future of academia.

Despite the complexities, the risks, and the exhaustion, I remain steadfast in my commitment to these roles. I cannot, and will not, turn my back on the students who need support, guidance, and the assurance that they belong in this space.

So yes, I know I am being exploited. But my sense of “duty,” my belief in the transformative power of mentorship and advocacy, keeps me invested. I believe that the labor we put into these roles is part of a larger movement toward creating a more equitable, inclusive academic world. Our stories may be marked by struggle, but they are also marked by progress, resilience, and a hope for a better future.

Ultimately, this reflection is a testament to the resilience of scholars like me—those who continue to invest in their communities, even when advised to step back. Our commitment stems not from a desire for recognition or reward, but from the belief that change is possible, that mentorship matters, and that our presence in these spaces is a vital act of resistance.