Ironically, I was invited because of my work. Twenty-eight years as an educator. An award-winning veteran school counselor. Founder and CEO of HBC&U Legacies. College and career readiness lead. Adjunct professor. Years of building programs, creating pathways, advocating for students and yes…I have the receipts.

Yet, when I walked into UNCF UNITE, I still questioned whether I deserved a seat.

I came prepared to share the work my team and I have been doing to create intentional access to historically Black colleges and universities (HBCUs). I was invited because of that work, but a small part of me still wondered if I was enough.

The truth is, I could have let those thoughts take over.

Instead, I made three intentional decisions that changed my entire conference experience.

First, I recentered myself. 

I reminded myself that my voice served a greater purpose. I wasn’t there to prove I belonged. I was there to represent my students, my school, my city and nearly three decades of work dedicated to ensuring students have access to opportunities they may never have imagined for themselves.

Once I shifted my focus from myself to service, everything changed.

Second, I challenged myself to sit with someone new every day. 

Each morning during the continental breakfast, I intentionally chose a different table and sat beside someone I had never met. Before sharing my own story, I listened to theirs. I wanted to know why they had been called into this work, what fueled their passion and how they were creating opportunities for students.

Those conversations reminded me that everyone in that room carried a purpose much greater than their title.

One conversation in particular will stay with me for a very long time.

A gentleman shared that although he served at a prominent HBCU, he sometimes struggled with feeling like he truly fit where he served. He explained that he had considered enrolling in additional courses—not because he needed another credential, but because he hoped it would quiet the feeling that somehow he wasn’t enough.

As I listened, I realized his story wasn’t just his story. It belonged to all of us. I paused and said, “I believe every one of us carries a layer of inadequacy somewhere within us. No matter our titles, accomplishments or years of experience, there is often a part of us that quietly questions whether we belong.”

Then I shared my own truth.

I told him that one of the greatest sources of my own self-doubt has been attending the University of Michigan, a predominantly White institution, for my undergraduate education. As someone whose parents both graduated from Tuskegee Institute (now Tuskegee University), whose maternal great-grandparents were educated at Bishop College and whose life’s work has become advocating for HBCUs, I sometimes questioned whether I was “HBCU enough.”

For years, I wrestled with that. Then I realized something. My story doesn’t weaken my advocacy—it strengthens it.

Because my journey allows me to meet students exactly where they are. I understand what it means to make college decisions without fully understanding every option. My experience gives me an even greater responsibility to ensure every student has access to complete information and can make an informed decision.

Everyone deserves exposure to every pathway with the same enthusiasm. Because HBCU advocacy isn’t reserved for HBCU graduates—it belongs to all of us.

Everyone has a seat at this table.

Everyone has a responsibility to tell the story of HBCUs and ensure students understand that these institutions are pillars of academic excellence, culture, innovation, leadership and opportunity.

When I finished sharing, he thanked me. He told me that hearing my story helped him appreciate his own. As we stood to leave, he handed me his business card and said, “If there’s ever anything I can do, please reach out.” It reminded me that sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person isn’t advice—it’s permission to believe they are already enough.

Third, I decided to be fully present. 

Graphic from HBC&U Legacies.

Not halfway present. Not observing from the sidelines. Fully engaged.

I asked questions. I participated in conversations. I accepted invitations. I immersed myself in every session, every meal, every hallway conversation and every opportunity to connect.

Most importantly, I remembered that I wasn’t speaking for myself alone. I was carrying the voices of students who deserve someone to advocate for them. Every conversation became another opportunity to create pathways for students from communities like mine.

By the end of the conference, I realized I wasn’t just present—I was immersed. Every session. Every meal. Every laugh. Every conversation.

Every new relationship was rooted in culture, history, excellence and possibility.

It was, without question, the Blackest professional conference I have ever attended. And I mean that as the highest compliment.

What made it so special wasn’t just who was in the room—it was the spirit of the room.

This was the only conference I’ve attended where no one’s title mattered, because everyone had one. Presidents. Chancellors. Deans. Vice Presidents. Admissions leaders. Faculty. Counselors. Enrollment professionals. Advocates.

Everyone brought expertise. Everyone brought influence. Yet no one led with their title—they led with purpose.

No one was trying to prove they belonged. No one was trying to outshine someone else.

Everyone came for the same reason: Community. Collaboration. Collective Impact.

The conversations weren’t centered on individual accomplishments—they were centered on student success. How do we remove barriers? How do we create bridges? How do we ensure more students know HBCUs are not simply an option, but institutions of excellence worthy of consideration?

That spirit of collaboration was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. There was no competition—only a shared commitment to changing lives.

Over just two days, I connected with representatives from nine different HBCUs. Each conversation created opportunities for future partnerships, stronger pipelines and meaningful collaborations that will ultimately benefit the students and families I serve.

But perhaps my greatest takeaway wasn’t measured by the number of connections I made. It was the people. I left with more than business cards—I left with relationships. I left with collaborators. I left with accountability partners. And I left with family.

Throughout the conference, I found myself welcomed by an incredible group of professionals representing Clark Atlanta University and Morgan State University. Somewhere between the sessions, the conversations and the laughter, they became my conference family. Wherever they went, I was invited to go too. We attended sessions together. Shared meals together. We explored Atlanta after hours because no UNCF UNITE Homecoming experience is complete without a stop at the 24-hour IHOP.

UNCF UNITE

We laughed together. We learned together. It reminded me of what happens when children finally find their people on the playground. They don’t have to force their way into a group—they simply belong.

That’s what happened to me. I found my tribe.

This conference arrived exactly when I needed it.

As I enter a new season in my career and continue expanding the work of HBC&U Legacies, UNCF UNITE reminded me that my voice matters.

My perspective matters.

My experience matters.

My presence matters.

Looking back, I don’t think UNCF UNITE simply gave me a seat at the cool kids’ table. It reminded me that I’ve spent the last 28 years building tables where students can discover they belong. And somewhere between the shared stories, the new friendships and the unwavering commitment to student success, I realized something else: I was never trying to become one of the cool kids. I already belonged.

Now comes the greater responsibility. To keep building tables. To keep pulling up chairs. To keep creating pathways. To keep telling the story of HBCUs with the same passion and enthusiasm they deserve.

To ensure every student can make an informed decision—not because someone told them where to go, but because someone cared enough to show them every possibility. Because every student deserves the opportunity to discover their HBCU story. And every educator has a role in helping them find it.

This is a guest post from Rakiba Mitchell, founder and CEO, HBC&U Legacies.

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