A pause could become permanent for low-income students
As the pandemic reshaped American life in the autumn of 2020, universities witnessed something historically unusual: economic crisis was not driving students toward education, but away from it. The students disappearing most rapidly were those with the least margin for error — low-income, Black, and Hispanic young people for whom a single disruption, a lost job, a closed library, an unreliable internet connection, could sever the fragile thread connecting them to a degree. Researchers who study these departures know that most who leave do not return, and that what looks like a pause often becomes a permanent detour from the life a credential might have made possible.
- A young woman in rural Tennessee drove to a McDonald's parking lot to attend her online classes, only to be locked out by a security flag — and two weeks later, she was gone from college entirely.
- Black and Hispanic enrollment at community colleges fell as much as 19 percent, exposing how the pandemic's economic devastation landed with crushing unevenness on students who had the least cushion to absorb it.
- Unlike every previous recession on record, when hardship pushed people back into classrooms, the COVID-19 crisis was doing the opposite — stripping away the jobs, the money, and the connectivity that made enrollment possible in the first place.
- With youth unemployment exceeding 14 percent and millions of families forced to choose between rent and tuition, the calculus for low-income students had become brutally simple.
- Education leaders and researchers were sounding alarms about a 'lost generation,' knowing that only 13 percent of dropouts ever return — meaning each departure was less a pause than a likely permanent exit from higher education.
When the fall 2020 semester opened, American universities faced a reversal that alarmed education experts: instead of the enrollment surge that typically accompanies economic hardship, students were leaving — and the ones leaving fastest were those from low-income families. The pattern was unlike anything seen during the Great Recession, when job scarcity drove people back to school. This time, the pandemic was pushing them out.
The story of Paige McConnell captured the problem precisely. She enrolled at Roane State Community College in Tennessee, but her rural home had no internet, the local library had closed, and the Wi-Fi at a nearby McDonald's flagged her connection as insecure and locked her out of her classes. Two weeks in, she quit.
Federal financial aid data confirmed the broader damage. Students from households earning under $75,000 were nearly twice as likely to cancel college plans as those from families earning over $100,000. At Harrisburg Area Community College, overall enrollment fell 13 percent — but among Black students it dropped 17 percent, and among Hispanic students 19 percent. Miami Dade College saw a 17.5 percent decline. A research firm tracking 100 colleges documented an 8.4 percent drop in tuition payments from families earning under $60,000.
The reasons were interlocking: frustration with online learning, fear of infection, job losses in restaurants, hotels, and entertainment — sectors where students and their families had depended on income. National unemployment stood at 8.4 percent, but for Americans aged 20 to 24 it exceeded 14 percent. For families already stretched thin, rent came before tuition.
What made the moment especially grave was what researchers knew about students who leave. Only 13 percent of dropouts ever return, and far fewer finish a degree. Bill DeBaun of the National College Attainment Network warned of a 'lost generation of low-income students' — young people pulled into the workforce to support their families, their educational futures not paused but quietly foreclosed.
As the fall semester began in 2020, American universities confronted a troubling reversal: instead of the usual surge in enrollment that accompanies economic hardship, colleges were watching students—particularly those from low-income families—walk away. The pattern was sharp enough to alarm education experts, who recognized it as fundamentally different from what had happened during the Great Recession, when people typically sought retraining and credentials precisely because jobs were scarce. This time, the pandemic was pushing students out rather than pulling them in.
Paige McConnell's story crystallized the problem. She enrolled at Roane State Community College in Tennessee in August, eager to begin her studies. But in her rural corner of Crossville, there was no home internet. The local library had closed its doors to extended use because of the virus. So she tried the Wi-Fi at a nearby McDonald's, logging in to her online classes from the parking lot. The system flagged her connection as insecure and locked her out. Two weeks into the semester, she quit.
Data from the Free Application for Federal Student Aid platform, which tracks college-going intent among high school seniors, showed the damage in August numbers. Applications for financial aid had dropped significantly compared to previous years. The Washington Post, which gathered these accounts, noted that the decline reflected the economic catastrophe the pandemic had unleashed—one that had hit low-income families and communities of color with particular force. A census conducted in August revealed the disparity starkly: students from households earning less than $75,000 annually were nearly twice as likely to cancel their college plans that fall compared to students from families making over $100,000.
The enrollment collapse was hitting some institutions harder than others, and the pattern was unmistakable. At Harrisburg Area Community College in Pennsylvania, overall enrollment fell 13 percent, but among Black students it dropped 17 percent and among Hispanic students 19 percent. Miami Dade College saw a 17.5 percent decline. The EAB, an education-focused research firm monitoring 100 colleges across the country, documented an 8.4 percent drop in tuition payments from families earning under $60,000 annually. The reasons students cited were interconnected: frustration with online learning, fear of infection, the simple inability to pay after job losses. Some questioned whether paying full tuition for remote classes made any sense at all. Others lacked a quiet space or reliable internet at home.
The employment picture explained much of it. Millions of Americans had lost work in restaurants, hotels, and entertainment venues—sectors where many students and their families had depended on income. In August, the national unemployment rate stood at 8.4 percent, but for Americans aged 20 to 24 it exceeded 14 percent. For families already stretched thin, the choice between paying rent and paying tuition was no choice at all.
What made this moment particularly ominous was what researchers knew about students who leave college. A report from the previous year had found that only 13 percent of those who dropped out ever returned, and far fewer completed a degree. Bill DeBaun, director of the National College Attainment Network, which oversees the FAFSA platform, voiced the fear that was spreading through higher education: this could become a "lost generation of low-income students." Unlike recessions past, when economic pressure drove people back to school, the pandemic seemed to be severing the connection entirely. For low-income students especially, a pause could become permanent—young people pulled into the workforce to help support their families, their educational aspirations deferred indefinitely.
As fall classes began, official enrollment numbers for the semester were still being compiled. But education leaders were watching the summer trends closely, treating them as a harbinger of what was coming.
Notable Quotes
This could become a 'lost generation of low-income students'— Bill DeBaun, National College Attainment Network director
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why is this different from what happened in 2008, when the recession actually pushed more people into college?
Because then, people saw education as a shield against joblessness. Now, the immediate crisis—lost income, no internet, fear of the virus itself—is forcing students to choose survival over credentials. It's not a rational calculation anymore; it's desperation.
So it's not just about money, then.
Money is the foundation, but it's tangled with everything else. A student in rural Tennessee can't attend online classes without internet. A young person whose parent lost their restaurant job can't justify tuition payments. The system assumes a baseline of stability that's simply gone.
You mentioned that only 13 percent of dropouts return. Why is that number so damning?
Because it suggests that leaving isn't temporary. Once a student steps out—to work, to help family, to survive—the momentum breaks. The longer they're away, the harder it becomes to imagine going back. For low-income students, that gap can become permanent.
The data shows Black and Hispanic students hit harder. Is that just because they're more likely to be low-income?
That's part of it, but it's also that these communities were already hit hardest by the virus itself—more illness, more death, more economic devastation. The pandemic didn't create inequality; it exposed and deepened what was already there.
What happens to these students if they don't go back?
They enter the workforce without degrees, in a labor market that's already contracting. Their earning potential flattens. And the gap between them and their peers who stayed in school widens every year. That's the real cost of this moment.