Image generated by Gemini 2.5, prompted by Matthew Brophy.
The third week of classes, I asked my students: “How many of you have used AI to help yourselves learn?”
Crickets. Not a single hand went up.
And why would they, when so many faculty scorn AI use, dismissing it as cheating or undermining critical thinking? But when I described how I employed AI in my own workflow, one student bravely raised his hand. After class, he stayed behind to share more.
He had stayed after class the week before, asking my advice on how to do better on the reading quiz. I advised as I always do: Review the main points before class. Unfortunately, it hadn’t helped: He still failed. Then he saw a TikTok about NotebookLM. By uploading the readings, he could listen to them as podcasts. He did, and aced the next reading quizzes. I tried it myself with Descartes’ Meditations I and II, and was impressed by the nuanced, insightful AI conversation.
I encouraged this student to share his story at our next class meeting, which he did. Inspired by his bravery and honesty, soon other students began opening up.
The stories students have shared across my classes have been revelatory to me. A student with aphantasia uses AI to generate diagrams and mnemonics in organic chemistry, compensating for the fact that she cannot form mental images. Another battling anxiety builds confidence by generating practice tests with ChatGPT, rehearsing so she no longer freezes at exam time. A commuter student turns dense readings into audio so she can review them while driving. One student identifying as on the autism spectrum told me she uses AI for social insights, such as how she could contribute to a group project without sounding “pushy.” A first-generation student told me she relies on AI to figure out what she needs to do in college: How to email a professor, what office hours are for, what an annotated bibliography is. A multilingual student said he asks AI “basic” comprehension questions that he’d be embarrassed to ask someone else. A student with ADHD described getting easily overwhelmed, but ChatGPT would assure her that she could do it, and would break up her workload into small “bite-sized” tasks she could tackle one at a time.
I myself struggle with learning at times: Most recently, I tasked ChatGPT to generate analogies so I could understand what the heck an “API” is, in regard to artificial intelligence, since my brain processes concepts better when it can start with a simpler scaffold.
What my own students’ stories revealed was that they weren’t using AI to cut corners. They wanted to learn, to keep up, to be included, to succeed. They just needed a way forward that didn’t make them feel stupid or inadequate. AI paved that way forward: it served as an informal accommodation, often more effective than formal channels, which many describe as slow, stigmatizing or ineffective.
That conversation illuminated for me what we faculty often overlook: Many students face hidden hurdles. Dyslexia. Aphantasia. ADHD. Anxiety. Being first-generation. Battling bias. Commuting while working part-time. Learning in a new language.
Too often, we treat AI—if not as the enemy—then as a new-fangled add-on students might use if they wish. But for many students, it is not a convenience. It is a bridge that allows them to cross into meaningful participation.
The national conversation, unfortunately, often moves in the opposite direction. A recent article in The Atlantic, “The Question All Colleges Should Ask About AI,” challenges colleges to ban AI tools and double down on handwritten exams, largely dismissing accessibility concerns. But for my students, AI is not a shortcut to avoid thinking: It’s a lifeline to their learning. And to frame a ban as “rigor” is to confuse integrity with exclusion.
Research underscores this danger. In May 2023, The Chronicle of Higher Education reported “How ChatGPT Could Help or Hurt Students With Disabilities,” warning that blanket bans or mandated in-person exams risk disproportionately harming students with disabilities who rely on text-to-speech, and other AI-enabled supports.
Also back in 2023, Inside Higher Ed published “In an AI World, Let Disability Access Lead the Way,” recommending that institutions prioritize accessibility in their AI policies. That advice feels even more pressing today, given that students with disabilities already face steep graduation and employment gaps. If colleges now respond to AI by prohibiting it outright, we risk perpetuating inequities that undermine student success.
It has been more than two years since those warnings, and they seem to have faded from the public discourse, even as more disadvantaged students could benefit from these tools.
Higher education has a duty of care under the Americans with Disabilities Act and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act. Those laws require colleges to provide reasonable accommodations and ensure equal participation. While written before AI existed, the principle still applies: If a tool helps level the playing field for students with disabilities or other disadvantages, ignoring it is not neutrality—it’s negligence.
Ableism is all too easy to participate in from behind the lectern, assuming that students are on equal footing, when they are not. Ableism in higher ed is not an accusation, but a diagnosis—and one in which I include myself. I have too often equated student participation with speaking up in class, forgotten to enable captions on videos, and overloaded students with dense readings without offering alternatives. These are easy mistakes to make. And those harmed most often stay silent, reluctant to ask for accommodations that might make them seem inadequate in the eyes of the professor, their peers or even themselves. Naming this dynamic as ableism isn’t an aspersion but an invitation to examine our practices so that we don’t, by default, exclude those already shouldering heavier burdens.
Barriers manifest in many forms: neurodivergence (diagnosed or not), social stigma, economic disadvantage, hidden curriculum, language differences. AI will not erase these inequities. In fact, AI can cause harm, hallucinate falsehoods, invite integrity concerns, exact environmental costs and introduce new divides of access and affordability. Even so, these risks do not outweigh the reality that for many students, AI provides a lifeline to their learning.
I implore my colleagues: Take ten minutes of class to talk with students about how AI might help them learn. Ask for their stories. Share your own. Show them how these tools can be used to empower, not erode, their learning. That simple act can open doors, remove obstacles and remind students that they are not alone.
That’s not just technology. That’s equity. That’s care. That’s teaching.
