Building a Life in Enrollment

Finding purpose, embracing the unexpected, and building a career worth having.

Most people don't set out to build a career in enrollment management. They simply say yes to one opportunity, then another, and somewhere along the way discover that what began as a job has become something much more meaningful.

I had the privilege of facilitating a conversation on this topic at the Potomac and Chesapeake Association for College Admission Counseling (PCACAC) annual conference this past spring with two exceptional enrollment leaders: Catherine Hurd, Vice President for Enrollment Management/Marketing & Student Services at Notre Dame of Maryland University, and Colby McCarthy, Vice President for Enrollment Management at Hood College. They brought different professional experiences, perspectives, and approaches to leadership. Yet as our conversation unfolded, I was struck by how often their stories pointed toward similar lessons about what it takes not simply to succeed in enrollment, but to build a meaningful life doing this work.

We spent much of our time discussing the kinds of things you might expect from a career development session: professional opportunities, difficult decisions, influential mentors, and lessons learned along the way. But underneath those stories was a much more interesting conversation.

We were talking about vocation.

If you've worked in enrollment for any length of time, you've probably noticed that very few people intentionally choose this profession. Ask almost any Vice President for Enrollment how they got started, and you'll rarely hear, "I've wanted to do this since college." Instead, you'll hear stories about unexpected opportunities, chance conversations, and people who saw something in them before they recognized it themselves.

Enrollment has a funny way of finding people.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. My own career began in undergraduate admissions at Azusa Pacific University, where I spent much of my time as a student working alongside the very people responsible for helping prospective students find their way to campus. By the time I graduated, admissions had become much more than a student job. It was a community of colleagues, mentors, and friends who had helped me discover an unexpected professional calling.

I certainly didn't have a 25-year career mapped out. I couldn't have anticipated the institutions I'd serve, the opportunities I'd encounter, or the remarkable people I'd meet. And I suspect that if you asked Cathy or Colby to look back at the beginning of their careers, they would recognize something of that experience.

What I've come to appreciate is that a meaningful career in enrollment isn't necessarily something we carefully construct from the beginning. More often, it's something we discover, nurture, and occasionally reinvent along the way.

Early in our careers, it's tempting to imagine professional success as a predictable sequence of increasingly impressive job titles. You start as an Admissions Counselor, become an Assistant Director, then a Director, a Dean, and perhaps eventually a Vice President.

There is nothing inherently wrong with that ambition. Higher education needs talented, committed people who aspire to institutional leadership. But the assumption that every worthwhile career should follow a particular trajectory can cause us to overlook some of the most valuable opportunities for growth.

My own career certainly hasn't followed a straight line.

At Azusa Pacific, I moved from admissions counseling into recruitment marketing and communications. I discovered that I loved thinking about how institutions tell their stories, how prospective students make decisions, and how technology could help admissions teams build more meaningful relationships at scale.

Later, I moved into educational technology, eventually helping colleges and universities implement the very systems I'd once relied upon as an admissions professional. I returned to campus-based enrollment leadership for a time, then found my way back into consulting and institutional strategy.

From the outside, some of those transitions might have looked like detours. From where I stand today, each contributed something important to how I understand this profession.

I think about that whenever I meet a young admissions professional who is anxious about what comes next. Perhaps they've spent three years traveling their recruitment territory and feel they should be an Assistant Director by now. Maybe they've been offered an opportunity in financial aid, student success, or marketing but worry that moving sideways will somehow put them behind.

My encouragement is to think less about whether an opportunity represents a promotion and more about what it might teach you.

Will it challenge assumptions you've grown comfortable with? Will it introduce you to a part of the institution you don't yet understand? Will it stretch your abilities or help you discover talents you haven't had the opportunity to exercise?

Those questions may prove far more consequential than the title printed on your next business card.

After 25 years working in and alongside higher education, I've noticed that some of the most effective leaders are those whose careers have given them a broad appreciation for how institutions actually work. They understand that recruitment doesn't happen in isolation from financial aid, academic affairs, student life, institutional research, or the countless other functions that shape the student experience.

That kind of perspective takes time to develop, and it rarely comes from following the shortest possible path to the executive suite.

Sometimes the best thing you can do for your career is pursue an opportunity that doesn't immediately look like advancement.

When I reflect on my earliest years in admissions, I don't immediately think about the recruitment territories I managed, the campaigns we developed, or the enrollment goals we worked so hard to achieve.

I think about people.

I think about colleagues who took time to explain things I didn't yet understand, supervisors who trusted me with responsibilities I wasn't entirely sure I was ready for, and professional mentors who encouraged me to look beyond the boundaries of my own institution.

Some of those relationships began in ordinary places: a conversation between conference sessions, a shared meal after a long day of recruitment travel, or a colleague taking a few extra minutes to offer advice.

I still remember attending an early-career gathering of Christian college admissions professionals at Judson University in 2006. At that point, my professional world was relatively small. I knew my campus, my colleagues, and the responsibilities of my own position. Being surrounded by people from other institutions who cared just as deeply about this work helped me begin to see admissions as something larger than a job at a particular university.

It was a profession. A community. And, perhaps, a place where I belonged.

In the years that followed, organizations like NACCAP and regional admissions counselling associations became important parts of my professional development. I found opportunities to learn from experienced leaders, exchange ideas with peers, and eventually contribute to conversations as a presenter and facilitator myself.

I mention this because I worry that early-career professionals sometimes underestimate the importance of building relationships outside their immediate workplace.

When you're juggling recruitment travel, application reviews, campus events, and the endless demands of an admissions cycle, professional networking can feel like one more obligation competing for your time. But the real value of those relationships often has very little to do with finding your next job.

It's about finding people who understand your challenges, celebrate your successes, challenge your assumptions, and remind you that you're part of something bigger than your institution's enrollment goals.

Cathy and Colby's willingness to share their experiences with a room full of colleagues was itself an expression of that kind of professional generosity. They had little to gain personally from offering their time and perspective, but a great deal to contribute to the people coming behind them.

As I've grown in my own career, I've also come to appreciate that relationships aren't simply something that help us advance professionally. They're central to how we become effective leaders.

There's a phrase I've heard repeated countless times throughout my career: "Everyone is responsible for enrollment."

It's a useful sentiment, and there's certainly truth behind it. The student experience is shaped by far more than the admissions office. Faculty, financial aid counselors, academic advisors, student affairs professionals, and countless others influence whether a prospective student ultimately chooses an institution and whether that student succeeds once they arrive.

But I've always thought the familiar expression leaves out an important distinction.

Everyone may share responsibility for enrollment, but not everyone is accountable for enrollment.

An admissions director may spend months worrying about whether the institution will meet its incoming class goals. Meanwhile, a faculty member is preparing courses, conducting research, and advising students. A colleague in student affairs may be navigating a particularly demanding period of the academic year. All of these people care about the institution's success, but they experience its priorities through different responsibilities and expectations.

One of the mistakes enrollment leaders can make is assuming that because enrollment is important to everyone, everyone should instinctively understand what the enrollment team needs from them.

I've seen this dynamic play out in countless forms. An admissions office becomes frustrated because faculty participation in recruitment events is inconsistent. Academic departments are asked to respond more quickly to prospective student questions without understanding why the timing matters. Campus partners receive urgent requests for assistance without much context about the strategy those requests are intended to support.

In these situations, it's tempting to conclude that colleagues simply don't appreciate the importance of enrollment.

But I wonder how often the real challenge is that we haven't done enough to help them understand how they can meaningfully contribute.

The most effective enrollment leaders I've encountered don't simply ask their campus colleagues to do more. They help cultivate an institutional culture that is both service-oriented and enrollment-sensitive.

They communicate enrollment goals in ways that connect to the broader institutional mission. They share what they're learning about prospective students and their changing expectations. They invite colleagues into planning conversations early enough that participation feels collaborative rather than obligatory. And they create clear, manageable opportunities for campus partners to contribute their particular expertise.

That last point is especially important. A faculty member may be genuinely enthusiastic about helping recruit students but have little interest in attending another committee meeting. Give that same faculty member an opportunity to speak with prospective students who share their academic interests, however, and the contribution can become both natural and meaningful.

Over the years, I've also come to appreciate that this philosophy extends beyond the boundaries of campus.

Our institutions increasingly rely on external partners for specialized expertise, technology, research, marketing, and strategic support. Having spent much of my career on both sides of those relationships, I've seen how differently they can function.

Some institutions engage their external partners primarily as service providers, involving them when something needs to be purchased, delivered, or repaired. Others develop genuinely collaborative relationships in which partners are invited to share observations, challenge assumptions, contribute ideas, and help the institution think through difficult problems.

The latter approach, when grounded in trust, clear expectations, and appropriate accountability, can create tremendous value.

That doesn't mean every vendor deserves a seat at every table, or that enrollment leaders should surrender their judgment to outside consultants. Healthy partnerships require discernment, transparency, and a willingness to have difficult conversations when expectations aren't being met.

But it does mean recognizing that valuable expertise doesn't stop at the edge of campus.

Some of the most insightful enrollment conversations I've participated in have brought together institutional leaders, campus colleagues, and external specialists who approached the same challenge from entirely different perspectives. The solutions that emerged were stronger precisely because no single participant had all the answers.

I think this is one of the more significant transitions professionals make as they grow into leadership.

Early in our careers, we're often rewarded for what we can accomplish ourselves. We become proficient in our responsibilities, develop specialized expertise, and earn the trust of others by consistently delivering results.

As our responsibilities grow, however, our effectiveness increasingly depends on our ability to help other people succeed.

We learn to communicate rather than assume, invite rather than demand, and create shared understanding rather than rely on positional authority.

Ultimately, enrollment leadership isn't about persuading everyone else to adopt the admissions office's priorities. It's about helping a diverse community recognize how its collective efforts contribute to something worth accomplishing together.

Several years into my career, I began working with colleges and universities on enrollment technology implementations.

I had come into that work with firsthand experience using admissions systems, developing recruitment communications, and managing enrollment processes. I understood the pressures admissions teams faced, and I was eager to help institutions become more effective. What I learned, however, was that knowing how a system should work was only a small part of helping an institution succeed.

Imagine sitting around a conference table with representatives from admissions, financial aid, information technology, and institutional leadership. Everyone agrees that the institution needs a better way to manage prospective student relationships. The project has executive support, a budget, and an ambitious implementation timeline. Then the conversation turns to something as seemingly straightforward as defining an inquiry.

For admissions, an inquiry might be anyone who expresses interest in attending. Marketing may distinguish between an anonymous prospect and someone who has formally requested information. A graduate program may use an entirely different process. Institutional research may need a definition that supports consistent reporting. Suddenly, what appeared to be a technology conversation becomes a conversation about organizational culture, institutional priorities, and the different ways people understand their work.

I've encountered variations of that dynamic throughout my consulting career. And I've come to appreciate that the most important question in those moments often isn't, "How do we configure the system?"

It's, "Why have we been doing it this way?"

That question requires curiosity, humility, and a willingness to listen before offering solutions.

It also reminds me how much there is to learn from institutions unlike our own.

Over the years, I've worked with enrollment teams at community colleges, research universities, Christian colleges, art schools, specialized graduate programs, and institutions serving adult learners. Each operates within a different context, with different students, challenges, resources, and institutional missions. The temptation is to assume that what worked brilliantly at one institution should work equally well at another. Experience has taught me to be cautious about that assumption.

Sometimes a small college with limited resources develops an extraordinarily thoughtful approach to student communication. Sometimes a large university with sophisticated technology struggles with something as fundamental as helping students navigate the admissions process. Neither institution has a monopoly on good ideas.

The best enrollment professionals I've encountered remain curious enough to recognize that.

And that curiosity becomes even more important as our profession changes. Artificial intelligence, demographic shifts, growing financial pressures, and evolving student expectations are challenging many of the assumptions that have guided enrollment strategy for decades. Experience is valuable, but only if we're willing to keep learning from it.

During my early years at Azusa Pacific, I spent a great deal of time thinking about prospective student communications. We worked to make our outreach more timely, relevant, and responsive, recognizing that a student's first interaction with an institution could influence how they felt about the entire admissions experience.

One of the operational improvements I helped champion was a process designed to acknowledge incoming admissions emails within five minutes.

Today, that may sound almost quaint. We live in a world of automated workflows, conversational AI, sophisticated CRMs, and increasingly personalized digital engagement. But at the time, the underlying idea was important to me.

When a prospective student reaches out, someone should acknowledge that they've been heard. Behind that email might be a student nervous about whether their grades are good enough. A parent trying to understand how their family could possibly afford college. Or someone who has spent weeks working up the courage to ask a question they worry will sound foolish. To the admissions office, it may be another message in an overflowing inbox. To the person who sent it, the response may carry considerably more weight.

I think about that distinction often in my work today.

Enrollment management has become extraordinarily sophisticated. We can analyze patterns of student behavior, predict enrollment outcomes, personalize communications at scale, and use data to identify students who may need additional support. These are powerful capabilities, and I'm genuinely enthusiastic about what they make possible, but I sometimes worry that in our enthusiasm for optimizing the student journey, we risk losing sight of the student. An application isn't simply a conversion event. A campus visit isn't merely an engagement metric. And an enrollment deposit represents something far more consequential than a successful yield strategy. For the student, these moments are part of a much larger story about identity, possibility, belonging, and the future.

Our responsibility is to remember that the numbers we study represent real people making some of the most consequential decisions of their lives. At its best, enrollment management helps people imagine futures they may not yet believe are possible. It creates pathways to opportunity, connects students with communities where they can flourish, and helps institutions fulfill the promises embedded in their missions.

That is meaningful work.

And on the difficult days, when the enrollment forecast is discouraging or another deadline is approaching, remembering that larger purpose can make all the difference.

There's another dimension to building a life in enrollment that deserves more attention than we sometimes give it.

The work can be consuming.

Anyone who has spent a September traveling between high schools, an October managing campus visit programs, or a spring anxiously watching deposit numbers knows that enrollment has a way of organizing our calendars and, if we're not careful, our lives.

There's always another event to attend, another student to call, another report to finish, another problem demanding immediate attention.

And because the work matters, it's easy to convince ourselves that every demand deserves our full energy.

I've certainly felt that tension throughout my career.

Early on, I embraced opportunities to travel, volunteer, present at conferences, and take on new responsibilities. Those experiences shaped me professionally, and I remain grateful for them. But over time, the meaning of a successful career has evolved alongside the rest of my life. Marriage, parenthood, friendships, community, and the responsibilities we carry outside the workplace have a way of changing our perspective. The things that seemed urgent at 25 don't always feel quite as urgent at 45.

I don't mean to suggest that ambition is misplaced or that meaningful professional accomplishments are somehow less worthy of pursuit. Quite the opposite. I believe deeply in the importance of our work and the value of doing it exceptionally well. But a profession devoted to helping students build meaningful futures should also make room for its practitioners to build meaningful lives.

That may involve learning to establish healthier boundaries. It may mean choosing an opportunity that offers greater stability over one that carries a more impressive title. Sometimes it requires recognizing that the season of life you're in calls for a different definition of success than the one you held five or 10 years earlier.

None of those decisions represents a failure of professional commitment.

In fact, I suspect the leaders who sustain long, meaningful careers are often those who learn to distinguish between being devoted to their work and being defined entirely by it. Higher education needs passionate people. It also needs healthy, grounded leaders who bring the fullness of their humanity into the workplace.

We should aspire to become both.

Near the end of our PCACAC session, I recommended a book that has influenced how I think about vocation and professional purpose: Let Your Life Speak by Parker J. Palmer.

Palmer explores the idea that vocation isn't necessarily something we invent by identifying the perfect career and pursuing it relentlessly. Instead, it emerges through paying attention to who we are, what gives us life, and the experiences that reveal our gifts and limitations. It's a perspective I find particularly meaningful in a profession where so many of us arrived almost by accident.

When we're young, we often approach career planning by asking what we want to become. We imagine a particular role, a certain level of responsibility, or an accomplishment that will finally make us feel successful. But somewhere along the way, I think a different question becomes more important.

Who am I becoming through the work I've chosen to do?

Are we becoming more patient with people whose perspectives differ from our own? More generous with our knowledge and opportunities? More courageous in difficult conversations? More attentive to the needs of the students and colleagues who depend on us? And are we developing the wisdom to recognize when it's time to embrace a new challenge, reconsider our priorities, or simply appreciate the season we're in?

I don't imagine Cathy or Colby would suggest that every decision in their careers was perfectly planned or that every professional challenge came with an obvious lesson. That's rarely how life works. But listening to their stories reminded me that a meaningful career is built through the accumulation of experiences, relationships, decisions, and opportunities that gradually shape not only what we're capable of doing, but who we become. That's a reassuring thought for anyone still trying to figure out what comes next.

You don't need to have your entire career mapped out. You don't need to know whether you'll someday become a Vice President, transition into another area of higher education, or discover an entirely different way to contribute to the field.

You need to remain curious, invest in relationships, pursue opportunities to grow, and remember why the work matters.

And perhaps most importantly, you need to give yourself permission to build a life that is larger than your career.

These reflections were on my mind again recently as I walked the halls of the 2026 NACAC Conference in Minneapolis.

There's something energizing about being surrounded by thousands of people who share a commitment to helping students navigate one of life's most consequential transitions. Old friends reconnect between sessions, colleagues exchange ideas over coffee, and conversations that begin with a simple introduction sometimes grow into relationships that last for decades.

I've attended enough of these gatherings to appreciate how quickly the years pass. People I once knew as young admissions counselors are now deans, vice presidents, and institutional leaders. Others have found their calling in consulting, technology, school counseling, or entirely different corners of the profession. And every year, I meet a new generation of professionals bringing fresh ideas, infectious enthusiasm, and a genuine desire to make a difference.

As I watched those conversations unfold in Minneapolis, I found myself thinking again about Cathy and Colby, and the wisdom they shared with our colleagues at PCACAC earlier this year.

I wondered how many of the young professionals attending NACAC were experiencing the same sense of possibility I remember feeling at my first professional conferences. How many were discovering, perhaps for the first time, that admissions could become more than an entry-level job? That the people they were meeting might someday become trusted mentors, lifelong friends, or collaborators in work they couldn't yet imagine?

And I hoped they were beginning to see what took me years to fully appreciate: Enrollment management isn't simply a collection of jobs at colleges and universities. It's a professional community worth investing in, and perhaps even a place to plant roots.

Our profession certainly has its challenges. The pressures facing higher education are real, and the work can sometimes feel relentless. But there is also tremendous opportunity ahead for people willing to bring their curiosity, creativity, compassion, and conviction to the work of helping students find their futures.

We need those people. We need their ideas, their questions, and their willingness to challenge the assumptions of those of us who have been doing this for a while. And we need experienced professionals who are equally willing to welcome them, encourage them, and make room for their leadership.

Twenty-five years into my own journey, I'm still learning what it means to build a life in enrollment. My path has taken turns I never anticipated, introduced me to people I might otherwise never have known, and given me opportunities to contribute to institutions whose missions I deeply admire.

I wouldn't pretend to have it all figured out. But I know this much: The relationships I've built, the lessons I've learned, and the sense of purpose I've found in this community have enriched my life in ways I couldn't possibly have imagined when I first stepped into an admissions office.

So, to the young professionals who returned home from Minneapolis energized by the conversations, ideas, and connections they experienced, I hope you'll hold on to that feeling. Stay curious. Seek out mentors. Take the unexpected opportunity. Invest in the people around you. And don't be too quick to assume that the next step in your career must take you somewhere else.

There's a great deal of meaningful work still to be done here, and this profession needs people who are willing to make it their life's work.

After all, we spend our careers helping other people discover who they might become.

What a privilege it is to discover a little more about ourselves along the way.