Skipping class is not just an addiction or personal failure. It’s a structural problem.
Why did I learn better by skipping class than I did by forcing myself to show up?

The first time I showed up for one of my classes last semester was on the day of the midterm I aced. It was a humanities class about environmental justice with tons of dense readings, weekly discussion boards, a few essays and creative assignments, an in-person midterm, and a take-home exam that I had 48 hours to complete. And I loved every minute of the “class” despite only attending like three lectures.

Before you read on, you must know that my opinion is not meant to discourage you from showing up to the classes you paid for nor am I trying to cockily boast about how well I learn on my own. The truth is: it was the summer before my fourth year, I had completed my neuroscience specialist program, dropped out of my writing minor because of a few dreadful professors, and was entirely certain I wanted to do a fifth year because, despite completing a whole-ass specialist, I craved something deeper from my education that biology and chemistry classes simply aren’t designed to give me.

Right now, I am working towards a double minor in Women, Gender, and Sexuality studies (WGS), and Philosophy of Science (think bioethics, for example)—two subjects that many of my STEM friends only know about through internet unemployment memes. Making the decision to radically change the focus of my degree from STEM to humanities was not easy: for the longest time, I was taught that I was smarter, more deserving of praise, more economically secure and job-ready, if and when I pursued a STEM-based career. 

On top of that, half the people in my immigrant family are doctors who probably have never uttered the word “sexuality” out loud. And being the eldest daughter who only grows older and becomes more confused about her career? Well, let’s not go there. I couldn’t possibly prepare myself for the emotional labour and exhaustion of convincing my parents that the change I was making was worth it; that they didn’t have to nervously pray for my successful landing as I hurled myself off the clif of my ego; and that I was gonna “make it” regardless. 

And just between you and me, I have yet to rip off the band-aid and tell them I’m doing a fifth year. 

Building your own education: why it’s okay to skip class, sometimes!

I thought that (the emotional labour, societal expectations, people’s perceptions) would be the hardest aspects of my abrupt STEM-to-humanities transition—and to some extent, they were. But after a few months in, the most challenging aspects for me were never the social expectations or the light-hearted side-eyes and unemployment jokes from my friends. The hardest part was changing how I approached my own learning. 

Part of the reason I was dissatisfied with my STEM education was personal: I made the decision to study neuroscience at the end of high school when I didn’t really know what my learning style was or what I had to offer to the world. But, it was also because I was graded based on methods and teaching styles that failed to encourage that organic sense of curiosity and self-motivation that all great scholars have.

This isn’t an original experience, however. Many of my friends have also expressed dissatisfaction with the grading, assessment, and teaching styles of foundational STEM courses—lecture-heavy content delivery, assessments that measure memorization over understanding or reflection, unfairly weighted assessments, strict attendance policies, and a one-size-fits-all pacing that ignores different learning speeds. While upper-year seminar-based courses do offer students the opportunity to learn in small class sizes and discuss content rather than just memorize it, the necessary skills to build our own education are robbed from us by the time we enter our senior year. 

In many of my humanities courses, I am given the chance to create my own learning rather than passively being handed it through 40% weighted midterms. One of the core elements of learning that I believe many pedagogical designs fail to accommodate is the importance of self-directed study. Many of my WGS courses prioritize personalization and engagement by giving students the freedom to choose how they are being assessed—do you want to submit a final essay or a final class presentation? A recorded podcast episode, a video essay, or maybe even a zine? 

In my tutorials, we often sit in a circle, share our thoughts on weekly readings, make connections to our own lives, and are encouraged to use our own lived experiences as a source of knowledge in our essays. This aspect was particularly hard for me since I had never before in my STEM education been asked to implicate myself in the readings. It also exposes a larger issue within academic writing where knowledge is only valid when it comes from “scholarly” sources, as opposed to more subjective or community-based experiences. 

Furthermore, the content delivery method in my humanities courses, broadly speaking, engages my intellect, personal curiosity, and how I am able to connect course material to the actual world buzzing outside my window without making me feel heavy or stressed. For instance, I’ve noticed that both my grades and enjoyment of the course is significantly higher when the content delivery style encourages self-directed, autonomous, and connection-driven understanding: this can look like providing students flexible content through recorded lectures, modular readings, or diverse media to supplement the week’s learning. 

Self-directed learning can also mean setting personal goals, choosing your own sources and essay questions (rather than being handed a narrow list), or collaborating with peers outside of the course through study groups. In fact, one of my courses had a 10% participation grade just for meeting with friends outside of regular class hours to go over readings. 

Cutting class is a symptom, not the problem

For me, sitting in a lecture room in uncomfortable seating, harsh lighting, and just listening to a professor speak—no matter how passionate they are about their course—is not enough for me to retain the material, much less feel inspired by it. I would much rather prefer visiting the content at a time and environment that suits my emotional and intellectual state of mind which does not follow strict schedules. 

A 2024 paper in the prominent psychology journal Frontiers of Psychology ran a study exploring how a hybrid learning model impacted learning outcomes and satisfaction among Chinese post-secondary students. The researchers found that “there were significant correlations between the self-directed learning experience […] and learning satisfaction,” and that “learning approaches mediated the association between the self-directed learning experience and learning satisfaction.” While there may be other factors shaping the experience of these Chinese students overall, studies like this, as well as my anecdotal experience, support the idea that giving students more freedom over their learning through small changes can substantially increase enjoyment, academic outcomes, and how they’ll be taking that course into the future as they pursue greater things.

For higher academia, it may be hard to admit that students (like me) sometimes learn better on their own because self-directed learning—which correlates to self-motivation and leadership—shapes the impact and relevance of a subject more than other traditional indicators. When I’m given the confidence to choose when to watch lectures, go deeper on what actually confuses me, skip the parts I already get, and connect ideas based on my own interests, it boosts autonomy, motivation, and memory way more than absorbing a 2-hour lecture in a classroom. 

In the end, I am not encouraging students to cut class. I am suggesting that the fact that so many of our peers do reveals a larger crack within the pedagogical logic that runs through universities. It reveals how we must have bigger, more critical conversations about how we fit into the education given to us. Instead of moralizing the issue of individual students skipping class or pathologizing their so-called laziness or lack of academic ambition, we should be problematizing mainstream pedagogical philosophies that leave students—especially those in STEM—with mixed emotions, dissatisfaction, regret, and feelings of failure as we’re thrust into an increasingly uncertain world. 

As students, we might feel powerless here—it’s not like I can force my tenured chemistry professor to hybridize their content delivery or even to read this op-ed. But undergrad is also a time of exploration and—if you’re anything like me—spontaneous experimentation! I urge you to take courses and subjects that challenge the ways you’ve been taught to think about and experience your education. Whether it’s dipping into a WGS course or building a community on campus for self-directed studying, we all deserve to be in love with our education.