I know I don’t post much anymore, but I wanted to put this in writing somewhere. Every two weeks, in my role as Director of the School of Environment and Natural Resources at Ohio State, I write a reflection for our faculty newsletter titled (creatively) ‘Thoughts from the Director’. This was my reflection this week (some of the facts/dates might be off as I am relying on memory):
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I’m going to ask your indulgence for what’s admittedly a more personal reflection than usual.
Last week, I received some devastating news. A former PhD student of mine—a 2011 graduate of Ohio State and now a full professor at Colgate University—was diagnosed less than a month ago with an aggressive form of cancer. The cancer had already spread to her lungs, liver, bones, and brain.
Carolina was a special student. In 2006, she was part of a large cohort—three of whom would eventually become my advisees thanks to a large NSF grant I led. Her research focus was far afield from mine. While I specialized in environmental economics, Carolina was interested in the intersection of gender roles, social norms, and economic outcomes in developing countries.
In 2009, after facing difficulties with her assigned advisor, Carolina came to me and asked if I would co-advise her. I had taught her in our first-year Quantitative Methods course, and I knew her to be bright, fearless, and unafraid to speak her mind. Some found her demeanor off-putting—I found it admirable, exactly the type of courage needed to break into a notoriously non-diverse field (at the time, less than 10% of academic economists were women).
I agreed to be her advisor under two conditions: 1) For funding reasons, she needed to work on my NSF project, which was not directly in her field, and 2) I wouldn’t be teaching her what she needed to know for her dissertation work, she would be teaching me.
For the next two years, we met weekly—often more—and Carolina brought me into her world of development economics, gender theory, and intrahousehold bargaining. She guided me through the literature, challenged my assumptions, and broadened my intellectual horizons. I challenged her as well, but I guarantee you: I learned far more from Carolina than she ever did from me.
Her dissertation was outstanding. It won our department’s best dissertation award and helped her land a tenure-track position at Colgate, a top liberal arts college. She quickly rose through the ranks, eventually earning a named professorship and a secondary appointment at Cornell University.
Although we didn’t talk as often in recent years, we stayed in touch. And no matter how long it had been, she always opened with the same greeting:
“Hi Advisor!”
At first, I thought she was joking. Over time, I came to realize it was genuine, heartfelt. So, I would always end our conversations with a reply:
“Goodbye, advisee.”
Years later, Carolina told me that my willingness to advise a student whose work had almost no overlap with mine—we had one paper together (from the NSF project), and no other shared research—gave her the confidence to believe she could make it in academia. She told me she had modeled her own mentoring style after mine.
Our paths diverged—my move into administration, her dealing with personal challenges. I hadn’t spoken with Carolina for a while. We last spoke in late December. I’d heard she had been struggling with mental health and was questioning her future in academia, so I reached out just to check in. She seemed in a good place.
Then, this past Saturday, while sitting at a bar with my wife, I got a text from another former advisee—one from Carolina’s cohort, now an associate dean at Clemson.
The message was brief:
“We lost Carolina today.”
I was stunned.
Less than a month after her diagnosis.
Just four days after I’d heard.
Gone.
No chance to reach out.
No chance to offer support.
No chance to do more.
Just… gone.
In the messages that followed, another colleague who had been close with Carolina as well asked me how I was doing.
I replied:
“I’m not sure what emotions I have right now. Obvious sadness, but anger and regret for not reaching out more. Just stunned.”
She responded:
“My partner would say that the mind can always find something to regret or blame yourself for, when someone dies. But I know that Carolina really loved you and always felt supported by you. You did enough by her.”
It was the right message at the right moment.
Because I had lost track of two things.
First, I had forgotten the impact we have on our students—not just as scholars, but as humans. We help shape their journeys. We are not just guides through research or academia; we are often mentors, role models, and confidants. That impact can last a lifetime.
Second—and perhaps more profoundly—I had forgotten the impact our students have on us. Carolina taught me, stretched me, challenged me. She left an imprint on me that I didn’t fully appreciate until I was sitting in that bar, staring at my phone. Stunned.
So, I share this with you not only to honor Carolina, but to remind all of us: the advisor–advisee relationship is important. It is a bond that can shape lives—on both sides.
Goodbye, advisee.
