When Your Favorite Airline Stops Feeling Like Itself: A Lesson in Mission Drift for Higher Ed

If you've spent any time with me, you know two things: I'm on a plane a lot, and for years, that plane was almost always flown by Southwest. Living in Chicago, Midway Airport is much closer to me and easier to navigate. So, it made all the sense in the world that I would choose Southwest. Two free checked bags. No seat assignment drama. Transparent pricing. The quiet, reliable understanding that the airline knew exactly who it was built for: everyday travelers who wanted to get from Point A to Point B without a strategy session. I didn’t comparison-shop every trip. I didn’t brace for hidden fees. I didn’t need a spreadsheet just to board a plane. That was the deal. And I loved it.

But recently, Southwest has begun shifting its operational model, introducing assigned seating, changing boarding processes, and exploring structural changes that move it closer to the very carriers it once differentiated itself from. Each change, on its own, might be defensible. But together, they’ve done something that no individual policy change can fully explain: they’ve made a lot of long-time Southwest flyers feel like they’re no longer the target audience.

Not outraged, not hysterical, just…displaced.

And if you work in higher education (or, honestly, even if you don’t), that word should give you pause. Because displacement, the quiet moment when a loyal stakeholder realizes the institution they trusted has quietly stopped being built for them, is one of the most expensive things that can happen to any organization. When an institution fundamentally changes how it operates, it doesn’t just alter policy. It alters trust.

From “Freedom to Fly” to Familiar Territory

Southwest Airlines, like many innovations, was born from irritation.

In 1966, Texas businessman Rollin King was exhausted by the cost and inconvenience of flying between Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio. Week after week, he endured expensive, impractical routes that made regional travel unnecessarily burdensome. So, he met with his attorney Herb Kelleher, and together they sketched a simple idea on a napkin: connect the Texas Triangle with frequent, low-cost flights. No frills. No unnecessary complexity. Just a better way to move people across the state.

After years of legal battles from established carriers determined to keep them grounded, they launched in 1971 with three planes, 195 employees, and $142 in the bank.

Their survival depended on discipline. One aircraft type, point-to-point routes, no assigned seats, no first class. They created a brand that leaned into warmth and humanity. Operating from Love Field in Dallas, they built their identity around “LUV,” calling their planes “love birds” and embedding humor and hospitality into an industry known for rigidity. And remarkably, it worked. By 2017, Southwest had logged 45 consecutive years of profitability.

But scale changes institutions.

Many remember December 2022, when Southwest’s outdated technology and crew scheduling systems failed during a winter storm that left over 2 million passengers stranded when 16,700 flights were cancelled. The board responded by requiring a review of the airline’s infrastructure, cost execution, and customer choice. Reasonable. Responsible, even. But the changes that followed (assigned seating, fare segmentation, restructured boarding) moved Southwest closer to the carriers it had spent decades differentiating itself from. And the people who chose Southwest specifically to avoid all of that started to notice.

Earlier in its history, when Southwest faced financial pressure, their instinct was to sell a plane rather than lay off employees. People over profit. That instinct is a large part of why loyalty ran so deep. When the operational shifts started signaling different priorities, and the communication around "why this is better" was largely aimed at passengers who never understood Southwest’s unique process anyway, the people who did understand it felt like an afterthought.

Sound Familiar? It Should.

Higher education institutions are also born from purpose. Founding documents are full of language about affordability, access, opportunity, workforce mobility, and community transformation. In the early years, there's usually a very clear sense of who the institution exists to serve.

Then the pressures accumulate. Enrollment volatility. Financial strain. Rankings anxiety. Competition from institutions that seem to be doing more, growing faster. And so, one rational decision at a time, the institution begins to evolve:

One new program added because a competitor offers it.
One pricing adjustment to compete in a new market segment.
One operational restructure to manage risk.
One premium offering to increase margins.

None of these decisions on their own are inherently wrong. But together, without a consistent anchor to the mission, they can quietly reshape an institution's identity. Access-focused schools drift toward exclusivity. Student-centered missions get buried under compliance bureaucracy. Affordability commitments morph into pricing models that require more financial commitment or larger than anticipated loans.

And eventually, the students that the institution was built to serve start asking a quiet but powerful question: Is this still for me?

Mission Drift Doesn't Announce Itself

This is what makes mission drift so insidious. It rarely happens in dramatic fashion. It unfolds gradually, through incremental adjustments that prioritize expansion, optimization, or protection over philosophical clarity. You're not making one big wrong decision. You're making a series of defensible small ones.

Southwest’s early success was not simply about low fares. It was about disciplined alignment between mission and operations for the good of the people it was designed to serve. They knew who they were. They knew what they would not become. They expanded deliberately and refused to sacrifice foundational commitments and strengths for short-term growth. They intentionally chose to fly the same airplane across all routes to streamline maintenance and efficiencies.

Higher education faces the same test today.

Growth is not wrong; innovation is necessary and financial sustainability is essential. But institutions must continually ask whether each operational shift strengthens their founding purpose or slowly replaces it. Because the most dangerous drift is not financial. It is philosophical.

When organizations evolve without anchoring change to their mission, they risk becoming indistinguishable from competitors. And indistinguishable institutions struggle to maintain existing and inspire new loyalty, trust, and long-term commitment.

I still fly Southwest occasionally. Old habits. But I'd be lying if I said the experience feels the same. And that's the thing about trust; it's much easier to lose than to rebuild. Once a loyal stakeholder starts wondering whether an institution was really built for them, winning that confidence back costs far more than it would have taken to keep it in the first place. Wave hello if you’re ever traveling through O’Hare, chances are that I will be there at the same time.

If you're not sure whether your institution's recent decisions have been reinforcing or quietly replacing your founding mission, that's probably a conversation worth having, sooner rather than later. We can help you have it.