Stepping into a C2 elevator feels like being swallowed by Times Square, only without the Broadway shows. They are covered entirely with posters. Every inch of the walls becomes an announcement board.

Workshops, club events, service programs, research opportunities, career fair, meditation sessions, auditions, study away information, mental health support, leadership trainings, and calls for volunteers. Everything is stuck and layered together. Sometimes, the bottom left corner of a poster from two months ago is still visible under the fresh ones that will be forgotten at the next print cycle.

I know these posters are supposed to help us stay connected. They are there to support student engagement and help us know what is happening on campus. In theory, this is a thoughtful communication strategy. We are a community filled with creativity and activity. Every day on campus sees a new idea transforming into an initiative. It feels like a place where everyone is building something. So, it makes complete sense that we want to share all of that.

But there is a moment when communication turns into noise. Instead of informing me, the posters OVERWHELM. Instead of becoming a welcoming invitation into campus life, they become something I instinctively avoid. The design principles disappear under sheer quantity. The intention is good, but the impact feels like the opposite of what was planned.

For me, that moment happens almost every morning. I walk into the elevator with a coffee in one hand, my bag falling off my shoulder, half awake and already thinking about the day ahead. The elevator is a tiny space with no mirror. There is no escape from the walls. The posters feel like they are closing in. Bright colors. Too much text. Too many acronyms. Too many exclamation points telling me I need to care. The more I feel like I am being demanded to pay attention, the more my attention runs away. My eyes look for a blank space just to rest. There is none.

I do not want to admit how often I have stepped into an elevator where someone points to a poster excitedly saying they will sign up for something. I smile politely while realizing I did not even see it. My brain decided to block everything at once. It did not matter if that event could have changed my life or led to a professional connection or simply brought joy to my week. My instinct was to shut down. So I leave the elevator and then later scroll through social media, seeing photos from that same event, feeling frustrated because I did not even know it existed.

The truth is that printed posters in elevators unintentionally reward the students who are comfortable absorbing a lot of information at once. For the students who get easily overwhelmed, the ones who are already struggling with time management or burnout, or the ones balancing jobs and internships and a heavy load of expectations, this method can feel almost punishing. Important opportunities can become invisible simply because they were delivered in a way that is mentally exhausting.

Self advocacy is always promoted in our community. We are told to take initiative and participate. But sometimes the design of these communication channels sets us up to fail. Students who want to be engaged find themselves missing out. Then we blame ourselves for it. We think we are not organized enough or are not paying attention. We blame our own capacity instead of understanding that the communication environment is part of the problem.

I even know people who actively avoid elevators because of this overload. They take the stairs, or choose a different elevator in another building, or they just escape quickly as if the posters are contagious. It is almost humorous, but it also says something important. The place that should allow us a moment to breathe between classes has turned into a billboard we do not want to look at.

This is not a complaint for the sake of complaining. It is a call to imagine a better approach. This campus is full of design students, communication interns, creative thinkers, and problem solvers. We can do better. What if we shifted towards something more structured and inviting? What if we created a weekly student newsletter that feels like something you actually enjoy opening? Something fun, visual, and easy to navigate. Something that celebrates the creativity of our community while organizing information in a way that does not overwhelm. Sections could be clear and thematic. Events could be listed by category with readable dates and short descriptions. Opportunities that are truly important can be highlighted with visual priority. And the best part is that everyone can access it anywhere. In bed before class. On the highline with friends. While waiting in a dining hall line. No one is forced to take in information when they are mentally unable to process it.

There could even be rotating student designers, allowing different aesthetic voices to shape it. It could become something students look forward to because it feels like it belongs to all of us. It could show personality and community identity without needing to fill every physical space with flyers. Posters can still exist, of course. There are times when seeing something physically does remind us. But they should be complementary rather than the main channel. And they should be limited and intentionally placed. Quality should guide quantity. A single well designed poster has more impact than twenty layered ones.

Good communication is not about shouting. It is about being heard, being clear and caring. When we design communication around that idea, the whole campus benefits. Students feel more included. Engagement becomes easier. The elevator becomes a place to breathe again.

We pride ourselves on being a global campus that cares about mental health, innovation, and inclusion. A more thoughtful communication approach inside our elevators could truly reflect those values. It would remind us that opportunities should feel exciting, not exhausting. And that the simplest design changes can lead to a much stronger sense of belonging.

*Batool Altameemi is an Illustrator and a Contributing Writer. Email them at feedback@thegazelle.org