What We Miss When We Only Measure GEDs
Good morning Sunday Morning Coffee-ites! I hope you’’re relaxing with your favorite morning beverage and have just a few minutes for reflection. I won’t keep you long….
Let’s start with this: I love a good GED graduation.
There’s nothing quite like watching a student walk across that stage—cap and gown over state-issued khakis—holding a diploma that says, I did it. It’s a beautiful moment. And in correctional education, it’s often the primary metric we use to show success.
GEDs, TABE scores, HSE completions, certification exams—those numbers matter. They help us keep programs funded. They give our students something tangible. They look great on paper.
But here’s the thing: if we only measure GEDs, we’re missing the deeper, quieter, harder-won successes.
We’re missing the student who didn’t read out loud for two months because of trauma and shame—but finally found the courage to do so.
We’re missing the learner who, after years of fighting authority, respectfully asked for help instead of shutting down.
We’re missing the one who wrote a letter to his child, telling her for the first time, “I’m proud of you.”
We’re missing the student who came to school angry and belligerent every day—until one day, he didn’t.
Where do we track that?
Correctional education is more than a test-prep factory. It’s a place where people—many of whom failed at or were failed by the education system the first time around—get another chance not just at academics, but at becoming someone different.
Sometimes the biggest win isn’t a diploma—it’s a mindset shift. A moment of ownership. A crack in the wall of self-doubt or defiance. Sometimes success looks like a student saying, “I was wrong.” Or, “Can I try again?”
But our data systems don’t capture that. Our grant reports don’t ask about it. And so we risk designing programs around the numbers, instead of the people.
What if we measured:
Emotional regulation (how often does a student manage frustration without acting out?)
Persistence (how many times did they come back after failing?)
Leadership and service (how often do students help each other succeed?)
Self-advocacy (are they able to ask for what they need, constructively?)
This isn’t about replacing academic benchmarks—it’s about expanding what we celebrate.
When we only reward the finish line, we ignore the entire race. And in correctional spaces, the race is full of hurdles: trauma, addiction, mental health, stigma, grief, interrupted learning, and survival strategies that don’t always serve them in a classroom. And, as those of us who work in correctional spaces know all too well, we don’t always see our students ‘graduate,’ because they get transferred, sentenced and moved, or released before we have time to get them across that particular finish line.
Educators in these settings see the invisible wins every day. We know when a student is making progress, even if no test score shows it yet. But we don’t always have the language—or permission—to name that growth as “success.”
So maybe it’s time we start.
Let’s keep pushing for diplomas. But let’s also honor the courage it takes just to show up. Let’s tell the stories that don't fit in spreadsheets. Let’s name the healing, the learning, the trying again.
Because sometimes, the most important learning isn’t found on a scantron. It’s found in a changed heart.
☕ Until next Sunday,
Amy
PS: Need some help identifying and creating data points for your program? I can help with that. :) Contact me here.
