I’ve been teaching long enough to recognize when something fundamental is shifting in the classroom. Lately, that shift sounds like a single word echoing through my courses: why.
Why are we doing this? Why does it matter? Why should I care?
At first, it can sound like pushback, the kind of challenge that might once have been mistaken for defiance. But I don’t see it that way. When Gen Z students ask “why,” they’re not questioning authority; they’re questioning meaning. They’re trying to understand whether what they’re being asked to learn aligns with a world that already feels crowded with information, competition and contradiction.
And they’re right to ask.
Gen Z has grown up surrounded by constant messaging — some genuine, some hollow. They’ve seen companies preach purpose while chasing profit, influencers claim authenticity while filtering reality, and institutions talk about mental health while rewarding burnout. So when they step into a classroom, they’re not looking for performance. They’re looking for proof.
In many ways, “why” has replaced the old-fashioned raise of the hand. It’s the new signal for engagement, not disengagement. These students aren’t rebellious for sport; they’re searching for relevance. When they ask “why,” they’re asking us to show them the thread between knowledge and purpose.
For educators, that’s both thrilling and challenging. The old classroom contract may no longer be enough. Gen Z expects transparency in exchange for trust. They want to know not only what they’re learning but how it connects to who they’re becoming. That expectation is reshaping how many of us teach.
I’ve noticed that when I take the time to explain why we’re doing something — even briefly — engagement rises. It doesn’t need to be a speech or a slide titled “Why It Matters.” It can be a few sentences woven into the moment: “You’ll use this when you’re leading a team someday,” or “This will help you understand how strategy actually plays out in a business setting.” Framing purpose in passing often lands more effectively than any formal statement could. It tells students that there’s intention behind what they’re being asked to do.
And when the connection isn’t obvious, I try to make the learning process itself transparent. I’ll tell them why I’ve designed a particular project or changed an assignment from last semester. I explain my reasoning the way I’d want a mentor to explain theirs — not to justify, but to include. Once they see the care that goes into the design, their tone shifts from skeptical to curious.
New Perspective
That shift has changed my own mindset as an instructor. I’ve started to see my role less as delivering content and more as modeling thoughtfulness — the same kind I’m asking of them. I don’t have to declare that an assignment matters; I can show that it does by connecting it to a broader purpose, by caring about it visibly.
When things don’t go perfectly, I’ve learned to acknowledge that too. I used to think admitting uncertainty would weaken credibility. It turns out it does the opposite. When I tell students, “I’m still experimenting with how to teach this,” they don’t lose confidence — they lean in. They respect honesty because it mirrors their own experience of figuring things out.
That’s the real undercurrent here: authenticity has replaced authority as the key driver of credibility. Gen Z doesn’t automatically trust titles or experience; they trust consistency between what we say and what we do. They’ve been burned too many times by institutions that preached one set of values and practiced another. In the classroom, they want something simpler — teachers who mean what they say.
This doesn’t mean lowering standards or catering to comfort. If anything, it’s raised expectations. When students believe something has meaning, they work harder. I’ve seen it when my students analyze real company challenges instead of hypothetical ones, or when they present their findings to local business leaders rather than just to me. They’re sharper, more invested, and more willing to push themselves when the stakes feel real.
Even small acts of transparency build trust. Explaining why feedback is framed a certain way, or why participation matters, helps students see that the structure exists for a reason. They might not always agree, but they rarely tune out.
Overcoming Defensiveness
Of course, this approach can be draining. There are days when the “whys” feel relentless — when every question seems to demand another explanation, and you wonder if they’ll ever just take your word for it. But over time, I’ve come to see their skepticism not as defiance but as discernment. They’re not trying to tear down the system; they’re trying to make it make sense.
When a student asks, “Why are we doing this?” they’re really saying, “Help me to see the point.” That’s not cynicism. You might call it curiosity with higher benchmarks. And if we can meet that question with openness instead of defensiveness, the classroom becomes a space of shared inquiry rather than guarded authority.
There’s an irony in all this. The very generation accused of being distracted is, in many ways, the most focused — just not on what older models of education assumed mattered. They’re focused on meaning. They want clarity, fairness and consistency, but they also want a sense of humanity behind it all. They crave professors who teach like people, not policies.
Maybe that’s the lesson for us, too. If Gen Z is asking “why,” perhaps we should start asking it of ourselves — not as a challenge, but as reflection. Why do we teach the way we do? Why do we grade like this? Why do we define learning in these terms?
Teaching a generation that questions everything isn’t easy. But it’s not resistance, it’s renewal. Their “why” invites us to rediscover our own.
