Who Supports the Supporters in Higher Education? - Article One

Over the past decade, student mental health has become one of the defining issues of higher education. What was once a relatively contained area of student services has expanded into a core institutional responsibility, shaping policy, governance, funding decisions, and public accountability. Universities are now expected to intervene earlier, respond more rapidly to crisis, and provide meaningful, compassionate support to students experiencing psychological distress. This shift has been both necessary and morally compelling. At the same time, it has fundamentally altered the nature of work for those delivering mental health provision inside universities.

Much of the national conversation has understandably centred on students: their rising levels of anxiety and depression, their access to support, and the pressures they face in a changing world. Yet in focusing so heavily on student need, a quieter but equally important question has received far less attention: what does this transformation mean for the people delivering mental health support? Who looks after the wellbeing of the clinicians, advisers, and practitioners who are themselves exposed daily to distress, risk, and emotional labour?

These questions sat at the heart of my own research. Although my usual work focuses on leadership, human psychology, and how organisations function under pressure, I had the opportunity last year to work closely with a university mental health team as part of a qualitative research project exploring staff experience and wellbeing. That collaboration offered a different context from my usual domain, but raised very familiar leadership questions about responsibility, systems, and how institutions care for those on the frontline.

This first article in a four-part series draws directly on that research. Its purpose is not to criticise universities, nor to claim that institutions are failing their staff. Instead, it sets out a clear, grounded picture of what support currently exists for mental health teams in higher education, based on in-depth interviews with practitioners. Only by understanding this landscape can we meaningfully evaluate what works, what does not, and what might need to change.

Mental health professionals in universities occupy a complex professional position. They are not fully embedded in a healthcare system with its long-established clinical governance frameworks, yet neither are they simply pastoral staff within an educational institution. Their work sits in the uneasy space between education and healthcare. On any given day, they may be assessing risk, supporting students in acute distress, liaising with external NHS services, navigating safeguarding concerns, and making difficult judgements about safety and intervention.

This is not routine administrative work. It involves sustained emotional labour, high levels of professional judgement, and regular exposure to student trauma, crisis, and vulnerability. Research on compassion fatigue consistently shows that repeated exposure to others’ distress can take a cumulative toll on practitioners, particularly when support structures are inconsistent or unreliable. For this reason, understanding how support is organised for these teams is not simply a staff wellbeing issue. It is directly connected to the sustainability of mental health provision and, ultimately, the quality-of-care students receive.

Within the university I studied, formal support for mental health staff centred primarily on regular line management supervision. Practitioners typically met with their managers every two weeks to discuss complex or high-risk cases, seek guidance, and ensure that risk was being managed appropriately. Managers were widely described as accessible and responsive, particularly when urgent situations arose. Staff valued being able to reach out quickly when they felt uncertain or overwhelmed by a case.

However, what became clear through the interviews was that this supervision was largely framed around student need rather than staff wellbeing. Conversations tended to focus on what should happen next with a particular case, rather than how the work was affecting the practitioner emotionally. This did not reflect a lack of care from managers, but it did reveal something important about how support was structured. Formal supervision was primarily designed as a risk management tool, not as a dedicated space for processing emotional labour.

Alongside line management, the university funded external clinical supervision for mental health practitioners. This was linked to professional registration requirements and the institution’s membership of UHMAN, a national network that sets standards for mental health work in higher education. Participants consistently described this as one of the most valuable supports available to them. Because it sat outside the institution’s managerial structures, it offered confidentiality, professional validation, and a deeper space for reflection on practice. In principle, this functioned as a crucial safeguard against burnout and professional isolation.

Weekly high-risk case meetings formed another central pillar of formal support. These multi-disciplinary discussions brought together mental health practitioners, university GPs, and wellbeing managers to collectively manage complex cases. Staff valued these meetings because they distributed responsibility across a team and reduced the sense of carrying risk alone. They created a shared professional space where difficult decisions could be made collaboratively rather than individually.

Yet, like supervision, these meetings were primarily oriented toward student safety rather than staff wellbeing. They were essential for managing institutional risk, but they did not routinely provide space for practitioners to process the emotional impact of their work. The focus remained on “what to do next,” rather than “how this is affecting you.”

A duty system for urgent cases provided an additional layer of formal support. Staff rotated responsibility for responding to immediate concerns such as safeguarding issues, hospital discharge notifications, or crisis referrals from security or academic departments. Crucially, practitioners reported that a manager was usually available to consult during these shifts, which created an important safety net. They were rarely left entirely alone when high-stakes decisions were required.

Beyond role-specific supports, participants also pointed to broader university wellbeing initiatives: staff apps, flexible working policies, cycle-to-work schemes, and annual wellbeing events. These were generally appreciated but seen as generic benefits rather than tailored support for the unique pressures of mental health work. They contributed to a general culture of wellbeing but did not directly address the emotional realities of the role.

If formal structures provided an essential foundation, what emerged most strongly from the interviews was that the support practitioners relied on most did not come from institutional systems at all. It came from their colleagues.

Informal peer support was repeatedly described as indispensable. Practitioners spoke about debriefing with each other after difficult sessions, sharing concerns about challenging students, and normalising emotional reactions that might otherwise feel isolating. Much of this support happened spontaneously in shared office spaces: a quick conversation in a corridor, a quiet check-in after a tough meeting, or simply sitting alongside someone who understood the work.

These interactions created a sense of collective resilience that no formal policy could replicate. Participants emphasised that only their peers truly understood the emotional complexity of their roles. While managers could offer guidance, it was colleagues who provided the day-to-day sense of being understood, seen, and supported.

Team size played a significant role in shaping these experiences. Larger mental health teams tended to feel more supportive because there were more colleagues who understood the work and could share the emotional load. By contrast, practitioners in smaller or more isolated roles described feeling more vulnerable and professionally alone. This suggests that institutional decisions about staffing and team configuration have a direct impact on staff wellbeing, even when this is not explicitly recognised.

Hybrid working has further complicated this dynamic. While remote work offered welcome flexibility, it also reduced opportunities for the kinds of informal conversations practitioners relied upon. Participants consistently reported feeling more isolated on days they worked from home, particularly after emotionally demanding sessions. In the office, they could seek immediate reassurance or talk through a difficult case. At home, those supports were far less accessible.

Some teams attempted to replace this with online peer meetings, but participants felt these interactions were less natural and less emotionally effective than face-to-face conversations. Digital platforms were useful for coordination, but they did not replicate the sense of shared presence that many practitioners valued.

This raises a difficult question for universities. How can institutions preserve the benefits of hybrid working while protecting the relational supports that mental health teams depend upon? Flexibility is important, but so too is connection, particularly in emotionally demanding roles.

What this first article makes clear is that support for mental health teams in higher education is neither absent nor entirely sufficient. Universities have clearly put in place meaningful formal structures: regular supervision, multi-disciplinary case meetings, external clinical oversight, and crisis arrangements. These are important foundations that practitioners recognise and value.

At the same time, much of what sustains mental health staff day to day sits outside these formal systems. Informal peer relationships, shared office space, and spontaneous debriefing carry a substantial portion of the emotional weight of the role. Because these supports are relational rather than procedural, experiences of support vary considerably depending on team size, managerial style, and working patterns such as hybrid arrangements.

The central point of this article is not that universities are failing their staff. Rather, it is that support exists, but it is not consistently structured around the emotional realities of mental health work. Formal mechanisms are largely designed around risk management and operational need, while informal peer networks shoulder much of the emotional burden.

In next week’s article, I will move from description to evaluation. I will examine when these supports work well in practice, when they begin to break down, and why practitioners often experience support as dependent on individual managers rather than reliable institutional systems.

For now, I would be interested to hear whether this picture resonates with your own experience.

Do the formal supports in your institution feel consistently reliable, and how much do your teams rely on informal peer relationships to get through difficult work?