Is College Dropout TikTok Telling the Truth About Gen Z?

Two weeks into her freshman year at Southern University in Louisiana, Daii’yaHnna Fleming, 17, texted her mother on the walk back from an off-campus party she hadn’t enjoyed and told her that she was returning home to complete her studies online. Despite connecting with her suite mate and setting up a side business doing makeup out of her dorm room for cash, Fleming quickly tired of campus life. She told The New York Times that regularly walking across the expansive grounds aggravated a medical condition and she felt unsafe commuting to her job near campus. The party was the last straw. “I had never really been to a party, and I really just did not like it at all,” Fleming said. “I got really fed up with everything.”

She later posted on TikTok about her decision, rebuking comments that said she was giving up too easily. “I’m not gonna force myself to be uncomfortable and unsafe, ’cause randos think I should be,” she wrote in the caption, adding, “I don’t care about the college experience. I just want my degree.”

Still, as more students post about their decisions to leave college during the first semester of freshman year, Millennials and Gen X-ers wonder: Are Gen Z students allowing discomfort to deprive them of a formative experience? Or are older generations exaggerating the transformational nature of traditional undergraduate life?

Whatever your position, available data doesn’t suggest a crisis. Nearly 23% of students who started college in fall 2024 didn’t return in fall 2025, according to the Education Data Initiative, a slight decrease from the pre-pandemic average of roughly 24%. So Gen Z doesn’t seem to be leaving college at higher rates, but perhaps more young adults are posting about their decision online, and their posts are having greater repercussions.

And while some choose to leave, others end up finding ways to stay. Adrianna Bankston, 19, now a sophomore at a Georgia university, struggled during her first weeks of school last year, admitting that the idea of leaving “was a thought that we all had when we first got here.” After isolating in her dorm room for a week, she realized that what was missing were critical connections. “I need a friend group,” Bankston realized. “I need to go out and do stuff.” Attending campus events and meeting new people changed everything.

Bankston’s turnaround is the outcome advisors are hoping for, but the people who work on attrition say the quitting videos are pointing at something real. Sarah Manville, an assistant dean and adviser at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, rejects the idea that Gen Z lacks grit outright. “Kids are not weak,” she said. “They’re extremely resilient — but there’s something about this phenomenon that they cannot persist through.” What’s changed, Manville said, is that younger students are more reluctant to ask for help, and tend to leave before giving the semester a fair run. She frames it as fear-based decision-making: students aren’t giving themselves enough of a chance to succeed.

Michael Williams, a college access and success professional, said he’s noticed the past two years’ classes have arrived noticeably less socially adjusted than the ones before them, marking a measurable dip in social-emotional competency. But the pressure isn’t only social. Federal aid is shrinking, tuition is growing and graduates are competing with AI for entry-level jobs. “The barriers to entry just keep compounding in this particular moment,” Williams said.

Relative to costs, there’s also a clock the debate mostly ignores. Tuition and fees vary by school, but student loans are generally easiest to cancel within the first two weeks. Fleming hadn’t yet paid room and board for the year when she left. Another student who posted about her departure received a refund from her university. The window for a clean exit, it seems, closes around the time homesickness is expected to lift.