This week, I gave a talk on well-being, motivation, and resilience. But as I drove home afterwards, I realised that there can be something uncomfortable about how we speak about student well-being today, with the focus on “resilience,” “grit,” or “coping,” As if the most important question becomes how students learn to deal better with pressure. We ask the reverse question less often: how much of that pressure is produced by the context in which students study? Perhaps because there is little we can do to change that?

A recent systematic review in Review of Education offers an interesting reason for this. The study by Malamati and Vasiou brought together 37 studies on the relationship between negative life events and the well-being of university students. The conclusion itself will probably surprise few people: on average, more negative events are associated with more stress, anxiety, depressive symptoms, and lower life satisfaction. It would be strange if this were otherwise. But perhaps more interesting is what lies beneath that finding.

The negative experiences in question are much broader than severe traumas alone. They also involve financial insecurity, relationship problems, social isolation, academic pressure, a lack of support, unclear expectations, or an unsafe environment. Moreover, several studies point to the cumulative effect of such experiences. Often, it is not one major incident but the accumulation of smaller stressors that appears decisive.

That immediately makes the discussion less individual than it sometimes sounds. Of course, personal factors play a role. The review also confirms that social support, optimism, coping strategies, and self-efficacy can be protective factors. But that is not the same as saying that well-being is primarily an individual responsibility. Those who focus solely on “resilience” implicitly suggest that problems arise mainly because students lack sufficient resilience.

That is a subtle but important shift. Many of the problems students experience are not merely accidental personal shortcomings. They also arise within systems. Consider financial strain, constant performance pressure, unclear expectations, fragmented guidance, or educational contexts in which students mainly feel anonymous. Even factors such as housing insecurity, social media, or constant availability may contribute.

That does not mean that resilience is nonsense. On the contrary. People differ in how they handle difficult situations, and support for coping or mental health can be extremely valuable. However, it is striking how easily “resilience” sometimes turns into a policy buzzword that primarily places the responsibility back on the individual.

As if the solution to structural pressure consists primarily of learning to breathe better. Perhaps that also explains why some well-being interventions can feel both meaningful and frustrating at the same time. A mindfulness session can help in certain situations. Social support often genuinely helps, too. But when the context itself continues to produce stress unchanged, the feeling sometimes arises that students are mainly learning to function within a system that itself changes little.

Incidentally, this tension is not limited to higher education. In discussions about burnout, work stress, or well-being at school, the same reflex resurfaces time and again: how do we make people stronger? A logical question. But perhaps equally important is: why do we constantly expect people to adapt to circumstances that remain structurally burdensome?

The review concludes remarkably cautiously. The authors emphasise that student well-being is strongly linked to context, support networks, and coping mechanisms. Not that resilience is unimportant. Rather, well-being is never entirely separate from the context in which people must function.