Every semester, I find myself wondering: What is it like to be a student right now? Not ten or more years ago when I was a student, but now, this week, in these classrooms, on this campus.

That question isn’t rhetorical for me. It pushes me to be thoughtful about where I spend my time. Often, that means eating in the dining hall a few times a week. Sometimes I eat alone; sometimes I sit near students and let them decide if they’d like to engage. I’m always friendly, but I give them the lead. Occasionally, we end up in conversation. And sometimes, one of them gives me the ultimate compliment: “Nice fit!” (Nothing beats a spontaneous outfit endorsement from an undergraduate.)

What might sound like just a lunch plan is more intentional. Eating where students eat pulls me out of my inbox, away from screens, and into a shared space that feels noisy, human, and alive. It helps me reset. Looking around at students having lunch: laughing, often scrolling, venting, or sometimes studying, I’m reminded of the whole point: they’re living here, on this campus, to pursue an education. Witnessing that gives me energy and clarity. It helps me see their experience beyond the classroom walls.

Sometimes I invite my own students to join me. It’s not a formal meeting, just a chance to talk, decompress, and connect. There’s something about sitting across from each other over a plate of food that shifts the dynamic. The conversation gets more real when we talk about life, stress, goals, and what we like to eat. These moments build trust.

I also spend time in campus study spaces, often Morgan Library. In between writing or reading, I observe and absorb. I notice how students move through the space, who’s working in groups, who’s relaxing in a comfy chair. That time helps me tune into student rhythms. Studying isn’t always a quiet, focused session. It’s full of distractions, snacks, social media breaks, and small conversations. That awareness makes me more thoughtful about what I assign and how I encourage learning outside the classroom.

I pay attention to the conversations students have before class, too. In those unscripted minutes, I often hear things I wouldn’t otherwise: how hard an exam was, how much fun they had at trivia night, what really clicked in another class. These windows into student life help me understand what’s happening beyond my course and remind me that learning doesn’t just happen during my 75-minute block. It is part of a much larger, interconnected experience.

Curiosity, to me, is the starting point for understanding student experience. And understanding is what creates connection. You can’t support someone’s learning unless you’re curious about who they are and what their life looks like. bell hooks describes the classroom as a community where genuine learning depends on recognizing one another’s presence and hearing one another’s voices, not just exchanging information (hooks, 1994). When I intentionally spend time in student spaces and stay curious about their daily lives, I am trying to build an understanding of experience across and beyond the classroom walls.

Spending time in student spaces reminds me that students are full humans, too. In the classroom, I sometimes only see one version of them: the notetaking, quiz-taking version. But in more ordinary settings, I remember they’re also managing jobs, friendships, family dynamics, identity development, and uncertainties about the future. That wider view shapes how I respond to things like late work, silence in class, or a missed assignment. I still hold high standards, but I hold them with more humanity.

My curiosity practice has also reshaped how I think about equity. Staying close to students’ lived realities keeps me from drifting into assumptions. I’ve come to understand that empathy isn’t just a trait we either have or don’t, instead it’s a skill. And like any skill, it requires repetition and intentional practice. In classrooms, empathy can be strategically cultivated through intentional pedagogical practices (Zembylas, 2012). When I approach student spaces with curiosity, I’m not just observing. I’m practicing empathy in ways that deepen both connection and equity.

These small, curiosity-driven choices about where I spend time on campus aren’t radical acts. But they’ve changed the way I teach. I ask better questions, assume less, and listen more.

If you’re looking for a way to reconnect with your students, I offer this: approach them with curiosity. Not as an abstract mindset, but as a tangible, everyday practice. Walk through a space you don’t usually visit. Try eating in the dining hall. Sit near students. Pay attention. Ask yourself: What is it like to be them right now? Let that question guide how you design learning experiences, interact in the classroom, and build community.