Morgan grew up in a town where the nearest grocery store was a 20-minute drive, the graduating class had 47 students, and everyone knew everyone’s business. When they packed their belongings into the back of a Honda Civic in August 2025 and drove six hours to a Big Ten university, they had never met another openly non-binary person.
The First Week
“The first thing I noticed was the noise,” Morgan told us. “Back home, you could hear corn growing. Here, there’s a siren every ten minutes and someone’s always playing music in the quad.”
But the noise wasn’t the hardest adjustment. It was the sheer number of people who didn’t know their name — and didn’t know them as the kid who’d been Morgan Smith since kindergarten. At home, changing their name and pronouns had been a conversation with every teacher, every neighbor, every relative. On campus, they could introduce themself fresh.
“I walked into my first English 101 class, and the professor handed out index cards for preferred names and pronouns. I almost cried. At my high school, I had to fight the administration for two months just to get my name on the attendance sheet.”
That moment of institutional welcome mattered enormously. But it wasn’t universal. Their chemistry lab TA never looked at the cards. Their academic advisor misgendered them three times in a 20-minute meeting. The contrast between one classroom and another became exhausting.
Finding Footing
Rural-to-campus transitions are well-documented in higher education research, but the added layer of queer identity creates a particular kind of whiplash. Many rural LGBTQ+ young people grow up as the “only one” — the only out kid in their grade, the only person using they/them pronouns in the county. Arriving at a large university where LGBTQ+ identity is visible and, in some circles, unremarkable, can be disorienting.
“It felt like I should be relieved, and I was, but I also felt guilty,” Morgan said. “I kept thinking about my friends back home who couldn’t leave. One of them messages me at 2 a.m. sometimes, and I’m sitting in my dorm with a rainbow flag on my wall, and I don’t know what to say.”
Morgan joined the campus LGBTQ+ center’s first-year group within the first two weeks. “I walked in and there were 15 people, and half of them used they/them pronouns. I had never been in a room like that. I didn’t talk for the first three meetings — I just sat there and soaked it in.”
By November, they were co-leading a discussion on rural queer experiences. The center’s staff connected them with a mentor, a senior who had also grown up in a town of fewer than 1,000 people. “They told me something I still think about: ‘You don’t have to choose between where you came from and who you are. You get to build the bridge.’”
What Helped
Morgan identified several campus resources that made the difference between surviving and thriving:
The LGBTQ+ center’s mentorship program. One-on-one connection with someone who’d navigated the same transition. “Having someone who just got it, without me having to explain everything, saved my mental health.”
A faculty ally in an unexpected place. Morgan’s statistics professor included pronouns in their email signature and mentioned attending Pride events casually during office hours. “I started going to office hours just because I felt safe there. That professor ended up helping me declare my major.”
Student health insurance that covered gender-affirming care. “I didn’t think I’d need it my first year, but when I decided to start low-dose T in spring semester, the campus health plan covered it. I know students at other schools who aren’t that lucky.”
Finding off-campus community. The campus LGBTQ+ center was essential, but Morgan also found a queer-friendly coffee shop downtown, a local book club, and a volunteer group. “Campus is a bubble. Having connections in the actual town made me feel like a real person, not just a student.”
What Still Needs to Change
Morgan’s experience was largely positive, but they pointed to gaps: “My residence hall RA tried to be supportive, but they didn’t know what to do when my roommate made comments about my clothes. There’s no training for that. And the dining hall — I know it sounds small, but when you’re already anxious about how people perceive you, walking into a crowded cafeteria alone is genuinely hard.”
The LGBTQ+ center is working on extending its first-year outreach to include residence hall programming and peer support networks specifically for rural and first-generation queer students. Morgan is part of that effort now, as a rising sophomore.
“I’m not the same person who left my town in August,” they said. “But I also haven’t forgotten that person. They just needed someone to tell them it was going to be okay. So now I try to be that person for other students.”
