Instructors sometimes see “accessible” and “rigorous” as opposing concepts, fearing that lowering barriers and making the content “too easy” would reduce rigor. In fact, these concepts not only coexist but are interconnected. Designing courses with inclusive teaching principles—such as providing multiple means of engagement, removing unnecessary barriers, and offering flexible pathways to demonstrate learning—increases accessibility and academic success without reducing standards of excellence. However, fully implementing inclusive practices requires rethinking assumptions about rigor and distinguishing between two types: toxic rigor, which creates exclusionary barriers, and inclusive rigor, which provides productive challenge. 

Tara J. Yosso’s notion of cultural capital demonstrates that deficit thinking reinforces stereotypes and reproduces educational injustice, ignoring the assets students bring to classrooms (p. 74). In his book Ratchedemic, Christopher Emdin reframes rigor as requiring “infusion of life and joy,” arguing that effective instruction must be “loud, proud, mobile, unpretentious, and challenged to take on whatever obstacles come one’s way” (p. 30).  Educational developers McGurk and Brooks establish three principles of rigor as inclusive teaching: rigor as an inclusive practice must be defined apart from deficit ideology; inadequate definitions of rigor lead to poorer outcomes, particularly for underrepresented students; and rigor should be purposeful and transparent—not hard for hardness’s sake. 

Some worry that flexibility lowers standards, but literature shows that purposeful and structured flexibility can deepen engagement when aligned with course goals (Tobin & Behling, 2018; Sathy & Hogan, 2022). To better understand inclusive rigor, we must recognize its opposite: toxic rigor. Toxic rigor refers to instructional practices that impose unnecessary hardship on students under the guise of maintaining standards—practices that often punish rather than promote learning. It manifests as performative difficulty, hidden expectations, punishment-based grading, and rigid, one-size-fits-all models meant to promote “fairness.” To avoid toxic rigor, many instructors consider alternatives to common practices like infrequent high-stakes exams, grading curves, and rigid late work policies. 

But how do we distinguish between toxic and inclusive rigor? The question we must ask ourselves is not whether our courses are difficult, but whether the difficulty aligns with learning objectives. Are we measuring what matters, or perpetuating practices that serve no pedagogical purpose beyond tradition? 

Let’s consider timeliness: if punctuality and deadline management are explicitly taught—say, in journalism or project management—then strict deadlines serve a purpose. But if timeliness isn’t a learning goal, rigid deadlines may reflect toxic rigor that obstructs rather than supports learning. Feldman’s research shows that not penalizing late work leads to more—and better—student submissions. This doesn’t mean abandoning all structure; many instructors maintain deadlines for their own planning while implementing flexible policies such as allowing a set number of late submissions without penalty and offering 48-hour grace periods. The key is distinguishing between deadlines that support learning and those that simply sort students by their ability to manage competing demands. 

Imagine classrooms where students approach challenging material with excitement rather than fear, where intellectual risk-taking is rewarded. If we want students to thrive in our classrooms, we must redesign the challenge as an invitation rather than an obstacle. We must stop mistaking accessibility for weakness and start designing learning experiences that invite students into complexity rather than block their path to it. The goal isn’t to make education easier—it’s to make learning possible for everyone who enters our classrooms. 

Rigor should open doors, not close them. Let’s foster education that challenges, uplifts, and includes simultaneously.