Chapter Five - The Cost of Belonging

CHAPTER FIVE

The Cost of Belonging

ONCE COLLEGE BECAME the American Dream’s favorite sidekick, something inevitable happened:

It stopped being a gift and started being a product.

It’s not like someone stood up in a boardroom and shouted, “Let’s ruin this!” It was slower than that. Smoother. The kind of drift you only notice when it’s too late. Like realizing your neighborhood café now sells $14 matcha lattes and a beanie costs $45.

College didn’t just cost money.

It started needing it.

There’s no single villain here, which makes it worse. It wasn’t just one greedy administrator or one crooked senator. It was a perfect storm of incentives, assumptions, and absolutely no one saying, “Wait, is this sustainable?”

States started cutting higher ed funding quietly, steadily, and with a smile. Schools had to make up the difference somehow, and guess who they turned to?

You.
Your parents.
Your future.

And with each little tuition bump came a justification.

“We’re upgrading the dorms.”
“We’re investing in student success.”
“We just installed a climbing wall in the wellness center.”

Which brings us to the next trick…

Colleges realized they weren’t just competing on academics anymore. They were competing on vibes. Campus life. Dining halls with sushi bars. Gyms with saunas. Study pods that look like the Starship Enterprise.

Because if everyone was offering the same degree, how else were you supposed to stand out?

So schools leaned in. They hired marketing teams. They made drone videos. They created hashtags and merch lines and ad campaigns that could pass for Nike drops.

You weren’t just getting an education. You were getting a lifestyle.

And you were gonna pay for it.

Somewhere along the way, the degree itself stopped being a tool and started becoming a status symbol. Like a handbag with a Latin name. Same function, different price.

It wasn’t just “go to college.”
It was where you went.
What it cost.
How exclusive it sounded when you said it out loud.

Suddenly, people were willing to go tens of thousands of dollars into debt for a four-year experience that might open doors and might not. But either way, it looked good on Instagram.

The school sweatshirt became a kind of armor. The diploma became a certificate of cultural belonging.

It didn’t matter if you learned anything.
You had the stamp.

The irony here? While colleges expanded their marketing to make first-gen students, adult learners, and international applicants feel included, they also raised the price of admission year after year.

You could get in. Sure.
But get out? That would cost you.

They sold it as opportunity.

But in fine print, it read like a subscription you could never cancel.

Because now you weren’t just buying classes. You were buying the right to participate in society. To not fall behind. To be taken seriously.

And when that’s what you’re selling?

There’s no ceiling.

Just more debt.
More branding.
More belief.