The Urgent Case for Reinventing Education

The Urgent Case for Reinventing Education

Delivered at the Council of International Schools Summit, Bogotá, Colombia

We all love stories.

But to fully experience them—to let them guide us—we must be willing to listen. We must be willing to lean in. We must be willing to feel.

And at times, we must be willing to let go.

Every great story has a turning point.

A moment when the protagonist realizes they've been holding onto something—a belief, a system, a way of doing things—that no longer serves them.

A moment when they must make a choice:

Cling to the past or step into reinvention.

I have lived that moment.

Many of you have lived that moment.

And today, higher education is living that moment.

We are at the crossroads.

The question is: will we be creative pioneers or will we be tarred and feathered as those responsible?

For the past half-decade—from the pandemic through to today—we have been engulfed—flooded—with raw, unfiltered emotion. Moments of rage, of loss, of exhilaration. Tears, confusion, and the weight of a world shifting beneath our feet. Leaving us feeling powerless, useless, unable to build, adrift.

We have also witnessed a truth many hesitate to say out loud:

The system of higher education, as we knew it, is being left for dead.

In fact, let's call out the elephant in the room. Fear. Fear of job loss. Fear of industry death. Fear of enrollment numbers. Fear of loss of enrollment. Fear of the AI effect on our livelihoods and families. Fear of your boss who has a fear of their own boss. Fear of suffering the same fate we see all over the news in the United States—enrollment nosedive, skyrocketing tuition, the imminent death of the department of education—and something far worse: being blamed, tarred and feathered for having the audacity to call out plainly what we are all witnesses to.

I get it. The calling we dedicated our lives to. The value system of higher education. The liberal arts. The very principles we once held as pillars of knowledge—truth, science, history—are all under the duress of an existential shift. Who wouldn't be overwhelmed by fear?

But no amount of fear will change the hard fact that the system of higher education is being left for dead.

If you had asked me at 18 what my life's mission was, I would have had a simple answer:

Getting into Georgetown University.

I believed that if I could just get there—if I could graduate from there—that would be it. The end-all, be-all. The ticket. The answer.

I imagine many of you know that feeling. As counselors, as admissions officers, you have seen it in students' eyes. That certainty. That belief that a singular institution, a singular achievement, will define their future.

That was everything to me.

I was a kid born and raised along the U.S.-Mexico border, fluent in both Inglés and Español, immersed in two distinct cultures. I understood the contrast—the different value systems, the opposing worldviews.

One culture prioritized community—deep, genuine human connection.

The other emphasized individual triumph—personal accomplishment.

I learned to navigate them both.

But I didn't fully understand it—not like I do today. Back then, everything was raw. I led with emotion. If there's one undeniable truth about América Latina—about the Latino community, no matter where we stand on this planet—it's our deep-rooted belief in community. We are bound by the power of shared experience, by genuine human connection that penetrates the soul. Emotional intelligence is not just present in our culture—it is second nature. It moves through us before logic steps in, before any filter is applied.

So this story should be of no surprise:

In 2003, with my fresh minted Georgetown degree hanging above my municipal government desk, I began to "crumble in a way that only someone who had never crumbled ever could." In that crumbling moment one of my dearest mentors, Ernesto Nieto, flew into my hometown of El Paso, Texas. Over coffee, he asked me one simple question:

"How's life?"

I was first time crumbling: Angry. Frustrated. Disillusioned.

I had stepped into government service straight out of Georgetown with that idealistic vision of the West Wing—believing in what public service could be, what it should be.

Instead, I found myself working under some shady mayor, someone the city adored, yet whose true "leadership" I saw from behind the curtain.

I had worked tirelessly to land that position—six interviews to get the job, secured at just 21 years old, fresh out of Georgetown.

I turned down offers from the White House, from D.C.—roles that carried weight, prestige, history.

For what?

To be swindled at every turn, my salary promises unfulfilled, my work a far cry from the impact I had dreamed of making.

I vented all of this to Ernesto.

He listened. He nodded.

Then he looked at me and asked:

"Have you ever thought of nonprofit work?"

"Have you ever thought about working to generate real social impact?"

Then he said something that changed my life:

"We're opening a Northeast U.S. office on the campus of Villanova University. I think you'd be great. You need to meet someone. His name is Steve. Steve Merritt."

That conversation sidetracked my life's course—and thank God it did.

I left everything behind—my titles, my municipal government career, my international trade role, my carefully built plan—and stepped into nonprofit higher education.

Because that sidetrack—that's what got us here today.

That brings us to you.

The admissions professionals.

The people who stand at the threshold between what higher education was and what it could become.

You have more power than you realize.

I used to travel 24/7—90% of my year on the road. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that nothing expands your frame of reference like movement. Like seeing the world firsthand.

If you've walked the streets of Colombia, Brazil, Argentina, Mexico—if you've listened, truly listened, to the pulse of these places—you know what's at the heart of our stories.

You can feel it.

You can certainly understand that there's a vibe.

As admission professionals we need to tap into that vibe, that unspoken energy. It can be the key to big new ideas and great power.

You have more power than you realize.

You are not just the gatekeepers.

You are the architects.

Admissions is not just about numbers.

It is about narratives—who gets to write their future and who is shut out.

The worst thing we can do right now is stay silent.

We need conviction.

Conviction to reject the outdated.

Conviction to design systems that reflect the world as it is, not as it was.

Conviction to be the ones who step up, who speak up, who rewrite the script of access before the system collapses under its own weight.

Because if we don't, who will?

We talk a lot in this space with students about pursuing dreams, reaching new heights. But I believe there's something even more important: differentiation.

Think about the biggest dreams you've ever had.

The difference between an idea that is genuine, true to yourself, worth pursuing, powerful—and an idea that is superficial, fleeting, external.

Think about it like this.

How many times were you told what kind of job you should have?

How many times did you hear that success meant securing a great salary?

That the goal was the highest-paying job, the biggest title, the greatest financial reward?

How many times did you think like I did after leaving Georgetown?

We were raised on this idea. Trained to believe it.

But there's a difference—a vast, life-altering difference—between chasing what others define as success and pursuing what is true to you.

And that lesson?

I didn't learn it in school.

I learned it from my mentors.

I learned it from life.

If you had asked me at 33 my biggest dream, my life's mission, I would have told you it was to build a financial aid system for Latin America.

In 2009, I set out to write a white paper with Steve Merritt.

We wanted to issue a course correction, to warn higher education leaders about the storm that was coming.

I was the primary author, but Steve was right there behind me—a co-author in every way that mattered.

Together, we asked:

What is the future of higher education—not just in the U.S., but across the world?

And our biggest realization?

A massive demographic shift was coming.

A shift that higher education was not prepared for.

A shift that we are now living.

We wrote, very clearly:

Universities would begin to see enrollment declines.

If models weren't changed, if systems weren't restructured, we would see schools start to close.

And here we are.

The height of U.S. college enrollment was 19 million students in 2017.

Today?

We can't even break 15 million.

And it's not a population problem.

The population is still growing.

But the system is failing.

Back in 2009, we could see it coming.

But nobody listened.

Not even at my own alma mater.

And honestly? I don't blame them.

At the time, higher education was riding high—it seemed like a golden age.

Why listen to two enrollment managers talking about a coming collapse?

But I couldn't ignore what I saw.

And so, like a pattern that keeps repeating in my life, I did what I always seem to do.

I don't know how many times I've replayed this moment in my mind.

The year I left it all, again.

I sat down with Steve Merritt, Dean of Enrollment at Villanova and told him, plainly:

I was leaving.

Walking away from everything.

A stable salary. A nice title. The travel. The hotels.

At the time, I was also the Senior Vice President of the National Hispanic Institute.

And let me tell you—that conversation was epic.

At the time, I didn't fully understand the magnitude of what I was saying.

But he did. He understood.

Sadly, three years after this conversation with Steve we lost him at age 59.

When I left Villanova I left believing that my mission was clear:

To build a system that would mirror what already existed.

To replicate the financial aid structure of the United States and bring it to Latin America.

I thought I was creating something new.

I thought I was a revolutionary.

But in reality? I was only replicating.

I wanted to be a change agent—but I was still operating within the same old framework.

I wanted to disrupt the system—but I was still seeing the world through the prism of my own U.S. experience.

And that was my mistake.

At 18, my entire life's mission had been getting into Georgetown.

At 33, my entire life's mission became building a financial aid system for Latin America.

But here's the hard truth: I was wrong. That wasn't what we needed.

Yet, everything in my training—everything in my first class education—told me it was.

The FAFSA system had helped millions in the U.S., so logically, why wouldn't it work elsewhere?

Because I was missing the bigger picture.

I was trying to solve a systemic problem with a system-dependent solution.

I was trying to break free while still being bound by the most expensive education model in the world.

And that's where I began on the wrong foot.

Don't get me wrong—I am a product of affirmative action, a product of financial aid.

Without it—without scholarships—I wouldn't be standing on this stage before you today. I recognize that. I honor that.

I also recognize this:

How much of that model is now outdated?

How much of it was built upon an old imperial system?

How much of it is simply not where the future is headed?

When I look back at my notes from the time I left Villanova, when I was just beginning this journey—building BeNeXT Global and Futuro Las Américas—one line stands out:

"Secure the funds necessary to unlock millions of Latinos throughout the world—to give them access to the rigor, the challenge, and the social capital that elite institutions like Georgetown and Villanova provide."

I believed it.

I believed it to my core.

At the time, higher education enrollment was hovering around 16 million students, maybe edging towards 17 million.

And I was convinced the answer was simple:

We just needed to figure out a way to pay for it.

That was the battle I took on—the funding—because in my mind, that was the key to opening the gates.

But looking back? I see it now.

I was wrong.

The model I believed in?

It wasn't the answer.

It was the runway—the path that led me to the real answer.

Because today, higher education isn't too accessible—it's collapsing under its own weight.

I know many of you here today are still fighting for solutions.

Many of you are the ones being sent to recruit international students—trying to figure out how to get them to pay full freight.

I also know that you have ideas.

You have thoughts on how this could work differently.

And yet, most of us—we stay quiet.

We hold back.

We don't put our ideas on the table—because we fear they won't align with what higher education believes about itself.

But that is exactly what we need to change.

Go back home.

Talk about this.

Talk about new models.

Talk about different ideas that could reshape the future of education.

Because make no mistake:

We are living through the biggest existential shift of education in modern history.

For years, I've had the privilege of being part of global conversations on educational policy.

I was there when the G20 was hosted in Latin America, in Argentina.

And let me tell you—everyone is looking for answers.

But very few people actually have them.

And that's why I'm looking at you.

Because sitting in this room today are some of the most capable individuals in the world to shape the future of higher education.

I would love to see some of you become university presidents.

Because if more of us—people who understand this shift firsthand—were at the board level, at the presidential level, at the decision-making level—we could change the world.

And it wouldn't be hypothetical.

It would be real.

Let me tell you the story of Michael Gaynor, Director of Admission at Villanova University. To speak of Michael is to speak of stories—stories spun with a masterful blend of suspense, humility, and humor. He was a weaver of connections, each thread a life he touched, each knot a bond he forged. I remember the first time we met, a luncheon at a well known eatery in Villanova, Pennsylvania. There, surrounded by the formalities of a professional introduction, Michael stood out—not by asserting his presence, but by drawing out the presence of others. He asked the questions that mattered, the ones that would unlock the stories within us all, and then he'd share his own, always tying them back to something personal, something that made you feel seen, understood.

It was this gift of connection that made him beloved in places far from his home, in corners of the world where his name became synonymous with warmth, with trust, with friendship. Latin America, where I had the privilege to follow in his footsteps, was one such place. He had no need for social media, no reliance on the digital threads that bind most of us today. Instead, Michael carried with him a leather-bound agenda, a day timer filled with the names, dates, and details that only someone who truly cared would remember. He was, in many ways, a keeper of memories—yours, mine, and those of countless others who had the good fortune to cross his path.

In many of our circles he was known as Miguelito Merengue because he genuinely had a love for Latin America. Michael knew what many still say about Latin America today in 2025:

"There's no money in Latin America—why go there?"

"Students aren't prepared for our level of education—why bother?"

But he never listened to the noise.

Instead, he traveled there.

Not just once.

Not just occasionally.

He went consistently.

And he brought others with him.

When I first started, I was following in his footsteps—but I wasn't just following.

I was expanding his vision, reaching deeper into Latin America than anyone had before.

Michael's leadership was quiet, steady, humble.

He was never about the spotlight.

He was about the work.

In Puerto Rico, Panama, Mexico, Michael was a rockstar in our field—but never for the sake of recognition.

He was about building something bigger—genuine kinship.

Michael quietly organized advisory groups across Latin America.

He built coalitions before we even had a word for it.

He brought together people who believed in the mission—people like me and Juan Camilo, who is here today.

But beyond that?

Michael put admissions practices aside to fight for individual students.

He didn't advocate for policy.

He didn't advocate for numbers.

He advocated for people.

I cannot count the number of times he took cases all the way to Father Peter Donohue, President of Villanova—not because it was his job, but because he refused to let a broken system decide a student's future.

Michael's leadership was quiet, humble, relentless.

Michael led by example.

Today, we are called to lead by example—and by action.

The world we are in now demands:

Fearless vision.

Unapologetic action.

Relentless pursuit of what is right.

Because today, we cannot afford to wait for permission.

We cannot afford to play it safe.

We cannot afford to whisper when the moment demands we speak.

Michael didn't just believe in a different future for higher education—he built it, student by student, decision by decision, fight by fight.

Now, it's our turn.

The days of incremental change are over.

The days of playing within the rules of a broken system are over.

The days of waiting for someone else to take the first step are over.

This is our moment.

Here we stand at the beginning of this conference. What will we actually accomplish—beyond the superficial? Beyond the social? What will we accomplish in a moment when the world is standing in judgment of the future of education?

It doesn't matter whether you're here in Latin America, the United States, Europe, Canada or Australia. We are all here, in the same moment, facing the same urgency. The time of change is now. Change in education. Change in our value systems. Change on a grand scale. And while some may hesitate—may hold back their thoughts, their opinions—it doesn't matter what ideology you align with. It doesn't matter what political perspective you claim.

What matters are the ideas.

The ideas that turn into action.

The thoughts that transform into projects.

The projects that become reality.

Out of my entire life experience thus far, not a single moment at Georgetown University defined my life the way the mentorship, my family, and my travels did.

Not one lecture. Not one exam.

Because education, as we've come to define it, is incomplete.

The biggest realization I've had is that challenge is necessary. Rigor is necessary. But education cannot be confined to the walls of a classroom. It must be lived.

My mentors taught me this—not in theory, but in action.

They challenged me. They taught me to think, to create, to face real-world problems head-on. They didn't just prepare me for a degree—they prepared me for impact.

And that kind of learning? That deserves academic credit.

Yet, our current systems don't recognize it.

Our models—our definitions of education—are outdated, bound by structures that fail to measure true learning.

I know this firsthand.

Because I wasn't just a student of academia.

I was a student of experience.

Let's reimagine what's possible.

Imagine this—

I send you to Washington, D.C. for an intensive 10-day experience on the campus of my alma mater.

You stay in the same dormitories where Bill Clinton, Madeleine Albright, and countless world leaders once lived.

But this isn't about nostalgia.

This is about collaborating with peers from across the globe on tangible, real-world projects that drive real impact.

You're working with the best minds in business, in NGOs, in environmental science, in engineering, in the arts, in diplomacy.

At the end of those 10 days, you don't just have a certificate.

You have a real, fundable project backed by partners like Gartner.

You have global relationships that will shape your future.

You have an experience that no online course, no lecture, no traditional class could ever replicate.

And instead of paying $120,000 a year, you pay a fraction of that cost—and still receive an education that's more rigorous, more challenging, and more transformative than sitting behind a screen.

Education can no longer be confined to four years in a classroom. It must evolve—it must become a lifelong journey, one that adapts to the shifting needs of individuals, of society, of the human experience itself.

This keynote is a special moment for me.

I've spoken at major international events—at the G20, at the White House, in rooms where policy is debated and decisions are made. But today?

Today is different.

Because today, the moment meets the speech. The urgency of the times meets the people in this room. This is where we begin.

We are standing at the crossroads of change.

For me, the reason to be here is simple:

I want to see a world where real-world experiences blend with academic rigor.

I want to see a world where our collective knowledge—gained from our travels, our work, our human interactions—is woven into leadership development, professional certifications, and community-driven projects.

But more than that—

I want to see a movement.

Something that transcends the idea of a program.

Something that becomes an alternative education model for the future.

Something that we can all rally behind—regardless of politics, backgrounds, or ideology.

Let's be clear: the system is in crisis.

Rising costs.

Declining enrollment.

Growing inequities.

It doesn't matter where you're from—whether you're from Europe, Australia, Canada, the United States, or Latin America—the reality is the same.

We are watching an existential shift.

And here's what I know to be true:

Latinos understand the humanity. It's embedded in our culture.

It's time for that ethos, that deeply embedded Latin American value system, to take center stage.

It's time for us to build the future of education.

It's time to step into our power.

It's time for us—admissions professionals, educators, and leaders—to become the revolutionaries higher education so desperately needs.

Because while the world drowns in Zoom calls, emergency meetings, frantic memos, scrambling to rewrite websites to meet the demands of a new style of authoritarianism—

We cannot afford to be passive.

We cannot afford to be reactionary.

We must lead.

So What Now?

This isn't just an idea. This is a movement.

The future of education isn't waiting on policy changes—it's waiting on us.

I was asked recently: How do we turn this energy into action?

Here's what I told them.

1. Let's Make These Next Two Days Count

Not just for networking.

Not just for casual discussions.

But for building something real.

2. Let's Launch Global Access Coalitions

Right now, in this room, we already have the people, the ideas, and the infrastructure to create strategic alliances between:

Latin American high schools.

Universities worldwide—across Europe, Australia, Canada, and the United States.

Industry partners who can bridge the gap between education and opportunity.

Real pipelines for underrepresented students are not built through rhetoric.

They are built through bold commitments, streamlined admissions, and intuitive bridging programs.

3. Let's Rebuild Everything

And let's stop being shy about it.

We cannot afford to tiptoe around innovation while the world is moving at quantum speed.

Let's create global experiential hubs.

Let's explore ways to slash tuition without compromising rigor.

Let's embrace hybrid learning, shared international residencies, and micro-credentials tied to real-world projects.

Because this is what globally mobile students need.

And if we don't give it to them, someone else will.

4. Let's Tell Human Stories

Enough with the same old recruitment playbook.

Let's tell stories that resonate.

Let's build narratives that attract students from neighboring borders and beyond.

Let's showcase the human side of our institutions so families see us as the bold, inclusive choices that we are.

Higher education systems across the world are tied in knots—

Legal battles.

Skyrocketing tuition.

Outdated admissions processes.

Political fights splashed across the news.

Turn off the TV.

While others are tangled in chaos, we stand on the verge of massive breakthrough.

This keynote isn't a lament about what's broken.

It's an uncompromising call to lead.

I am dedicating the remaining days of my lifespan to building the change I want to see.

Not just for me, but for my son. The last time my eyes welled up with tears was just a few days ago—when my son turned one. A flood of emotions—immense pride as a first-time father at 45, but also a quiet undercurrent of nostalgia, of doubt, of wondering about the world he will grow up in.

One day, he will stand at his own crossroads—facing an idea, a belief, a system that no longer serves him.

And in that moment, will he have the conviction to change?

That is the question we must ask ourselves today.

Because the systems we refuse to challenge today are the ones we leave for our children tomorrow.

Higher education is standing in judgment of itself.

This is not just another conference.

This is not just another industry discussion.

This is a defining moment.

So I ask you:

Will you be a passive observer?

Or will you be a force for transformation?

Because history does not wait for those who hesitate.

It rewards those who have the conviction to lead.

Let's rewrite the future.