Or, what enrollment communications feel like on the receiving end
Somewhere between the third postcard and the seventh email reminder, it became clear: enrollment marketing feels very different when you’re the one receiving it.
For most of my career, I’ve helped colleges and universities design enrollment communications. I’ve built message maps, reviewed funnels, and debated subject lines late into the evening. Over the past several months, I’ve been on the receiving end of enrollment communications from a range of colleges and universities—without an agenda, without a clipboard, and without a consulting lens.
What emerged wasn’t a critique, but a set of insights about how enrollment marketing lands when it meets real life, particularly when it uses empathetic language that acknowledges families’ emotions and uncertainties.
If you have ever stared at a campaign calendar and wondered whether it actually makes sense to a family living their day-to-day reality, this field report is for you.
This wasn’t a secret shopper exercise or a comparative review of institutions. I wasn’t tracking open rates, scoring creative, or ranking schools against one another. I was simply experiencing the journey the way students and families do—one message at a time, layered onto already busy lives and high-stakes decisions.
That perspective revealed patterns worth paying attention to—not because the work was careless, but because it was often thoughtful, earnest, and still missing the mark in ways that matter.
And I saw it all: visit pieces, viewbooks, postcards in every size imaginable, emails, text messages, and phone calls. Lots and lots of phone calls. From admission counselors to professors to student ambassadors, phone calls and texts rang out from 3-9 p.m. every weekday and many, many Saturday mornings. Schools with larger marketing budgets sent glossy viewbooks on premium paper with professional design; others relied on postcards and letters. Some pieces stood out for their craft or clarity. Others felt like boxes being checked. And from the kitchen table, the difference was noticeable.
Any print piece that arrived at our home landed squarely in the middle of our kitchen table. As a family that still eats dinner together, we passed around pieces and discussed them over chicken alfredo, meatloaf, and bangers and mash (I am blessed with a British husband). With a daughter choosing for next fall, all were quickly placed in one of three categories: YES!, Nope, and Maybe.
Across institutions and formats, five patterns emerged that were less about tactics and more about how enrollment marketing feels when it collides with real questions, real uncertainty, and genuine emotion.
When volume replaces guidance
One of the clearest patterns was volume. Messages arrived frequently and from multiple directions—email, text, phone calls, print, reminders, invitations—often overlapping in tone and intent. Individually, each message made sense. Collectively, they were harder to interpret as a coherent journey, leaving families feeling unsupported and unsure about their next steps.
From the kitchen table, this didn’t feel like momentum. It felt like stepping into the middle of a conversation already underway, trying to determine where I was supposed to be. Was this the stage to explore? To decide? To act?
What appeared to be missing wasn’t care or effort. It was guidance with clear indicators of progress and context for what mattered now versus what could wait. The communications often assumed a familiarity with the enrollment process that many families simply don’t have, particularly those encountering it for the first time. There was also no reassurance that the process itself was understandable and manageable.
In high-stakes decisions like college enrollment, volume does not automatically translate into clarity. Without a visible throughline, frequent communication can increase anxiety rather than confidence.
From the field, one conclusion stood out: calm, contextual guidance matters far more than frequency when communications reach the kitchen table.
When urgency arrives without context
Urgency surfaced early and often with highlighted deadlines, reminders, and calls to action. They were frequently introduced before there was a clear sense of readiness or understanding.
From the receiving end, urgency without context felt less like motivation and more like pressure. Messages asked for action before confidence had been built or clarity had arrived. They assumed readiness that hadn’t yet been earned.
The urgency made sense from an institutional perspective. Enrollment timelines are real, capacity is finite, and momentum matters. But from the kitchen table, layered urgency with clear context can help families feel steadier and more reassured, rather than pressured or overwhelmed.
Without context, urgency signals importance but provides no reassurance. It asks families to move faster without helping them feel steadier.
From the field, the takeaway was clear: urgency is most effective when layered on clarity, not used to compensate for its absence.
When everything sounds important
As messages continued to arrive, another pattern emerged: everything sounded urgent, consequential, and equally important. Each email, postcard, or reminder emphasized the approaching deadlines, opportunities not to be missed, and next steps requiring attention. Over time, those signals began to blur.
From the receiving end, this created a flattening effect. When every message carries the same weight, it becomes difficult to discern priority. What truly required action now? What was informational? What could safely wait? Without clear distinctions and institutional guidance, importance lost its meaning.
Families aren’t just processing information; they’re making sense of it amid uncertainty, comparison, and emotional stakes. When communications don’t clearly differentiate between “good to know” and “critical to do,” the burden of interpretation shifts entirely to the recipient.
The result isn’t disengagement so much as fatigue. Messages remain unopened, not because families don’t care, but because they can’t tell which ones deserve attention. In trying to emphasize importance across the board, communications can unintentionally dilute the message.
From the field, the insight was straightforward: prioritization is a form of care. A clear hierarchy helps families feel supported, not managed, and confident rather than overwhelmed.
When parents are everywhere (and nowhere)
Throughout the communications, parents were clearly present, but inconsistently acknowledged. Some messages spoke directly to them. Others implied their influence without naming it. Many assumed they were simultaneously deeply involved and entirely invisible.
Enrollment decisions rarely belong to a single person, yet much of the communication felt designed for an individual acting alone. Parents were looped in through parallel messages, copied emails, or separate portals, but were rarely integrated into a shared decision-making narrative.
This split approach made it difficult to understand roles and expectations. Who was being asked to act? Who was being reassured? Who was being informed? Without clarity, families were left to negotiate the process internally, often translating institutional language into something that made sense around the table.
From the field, it was clear that parents aren’t a secondary audience. They’re part of the primary conversation. When communications explicitly acknowledge that reality, they reduce friction and build alignment. When they don’t, they create gaps that families must fill themselves. Which is something to avoid at all costs, as study after study reiterates that parents are the No. 1 influence for their offspring when it comes to college choice
When the invisible family conversation is ignored
The most striking insight was how little enrollment communications addressed conversations happening outside the inbox.
College decisions are discussed late at night, between errands, over text messages, and in moments of quiet uncertainty. They involve questions about finances, distance from home, identity, and readiness—many of which never surface directly in institutional messaging.
Most communications assumed a linear, individual decision-maker moving neatly from inquiry to action. For families, the process is rarely neat. It is deliberative, emotional, and shared.
The absence was noticeable from the kitchen table. Institutions did not avoid complex topics; they simply failed to recognize the emotional labor happening alongside the logistics. Families weren’t just deciding where to enroll; they were also internally negotiating readiness, affordability, and expectations. In a word, they were discussing fit. Fit for the whole family.
When enrollment marketing doesn’t reflect those realities, families are left to bridge the emotional gap on their own. When the communication does address this elephant in the room, even briefly, it signals understanding and builds trust.
When clarity finally shows up
Against this backdrop, moments of clarity felt almost startling, yet sincerely welcome.
Clarity emerged when communications explained not just what to do, but also why it mattered. When timelines were explicit, when the next steps were framed as options rather than ultimatums, and when language was steady, not performative.
These messages didn’t simplify the decision, but they made the process feel navigable. They acknowledged uncertainty without amplifying it. They respected the pace at which families move from consideration to commitment.
From the field, it was clear that clarity is not a single message or moment. It’s an experience built over time and reduces the cognitive and emotional load on families while creating space for confidence to grow.
Clarity doesn’t rush. It reassures. When institutions invest in clarity and allow it to show up consistently, everything is received differently. (NO institutional jail, yay! I look horrible in orange.)
What worked (and why)
Amid the volume and urgency, moments of clarity did appear—and they were unmistakable.
What worked wasn’t louder messaging or more frequent reminders. It was communication that acknowledged where families were, explained what mattered now, and reassured them about what could come later.
The most effective messages earned attention rather than demanding it. They anticipated questions, reduced uncertainty, and reflected the reality that enrollment decisions happen at kitchen tables, in cars, between work shifts, and alongside family responsibilities.
They were steady. And in a process defined by emotion and complexity, steadiness is powerful.
Designing from the kitchen table backward
Experiencing enrollment marketing from the receiving end reframed how I think about the work. Not because the strategies were wrong, but because the context in which they land is far more fragile, and far more human, than we sometimes allow for in planning rooms and campaign calendars.
As enrollment professionals, we have one goal in mind: Making the class. Students and families have quite another. They want to attend an institution where they will be happy and achieve some modicum of success (as defined internally).
So we need to think of our jobs differently. Enrollment marketing doesn’t just deliver information. It shapes confidence. It builds—or erodes—trust.
The takeaway isn’t that institutions should communicate less or abandon urgency. It’s that sequence matters: guidance before volume, understanding before urgency, and priority before persuasion.
You are beginning a lifetime conversation with students and their families. Each communication should build on the one before it, helping to earn trust, provide insight, and allowing families to see the student thrive on campus. Your communications should help them see their student achieve success in the classroom and ultimately walk across the commencement stage.
When enrollment communications are designed from the kitchen table backward—grounded in lived experience rather than internal timelines—they don’t just inform. They steady.
And in moments that ask families to make one of the most significant decisions of their lives, that steadiness may be the most effective strategy of all.
Need help making this a reality? Marketing Works can help. Reach out today and learn how we can help your team make the shift as early as next week.