It’s 1:39 a.m., and I’m scrolling through apartment listings like it’s TikTok. Only instead of videos, it’s dimly lit kitchens, crumbling bathroom tiles, and listings titled things like “Cozy Garden Unit” (read: basement). My roommates are asleep two feet away. The hum of the mini-fridge is louder than it should be and I keep thinking—why is having a normal place to live a luxury nowadays?
Emerson College offers guaranteed housing for five to six semesters. But when the “guarantee” comes with lack of affordability, zero personal space, and minimal control over your environment, is it actually something to feel secure about? They describe it as “a haven for rest and camaraderie.” But as a first-year student, you are assigned to a 200-square-foot bedroom, usually shared with a stranger you were matched with based on an algorithm more vague than “getting to know me” questions on dating apps. You use communal showers for the entire floor, with curtains barely covering half of your body. And you pay roughly $20,000 a year. That includes a mandatory meal plan, but it doesn’t include privacy, rest, or the dignity of having your own space.
We’re told it’s part of the college experience, that “the most memorable moments of college life occur in the residence halls”, but what it really is—at its core—is the normalization of housing insecurity. This isn’t just about bad roommates or overpriced dorms. It’s about a system that asks students to tolerate discomfort, financial strain, and instability as a rite of passage.
To be fair, this isn’t just an Emerson issue. Housing costs are about the same at Boston College, Boston University, Suffolk University and other colleges in Boston. This is a Boston-wide—and nationwide—pattern of overpricing and under delivering when it comes to student housing. Cost alone isn’t the issue. It’s what that cost gets you.
On average, college students in the United States pay $12,896 annually for room and board. For the 10 month period of the academic year, that is $1,289.60 rent per month. That’s not for a private apartment or even a guaranteed bathroom. That’s for shared dorm rooms with minimal furniture and communal showers.
When I was applying to colleges, one of the places I was considering was the United Kingdom but since it’s known for its expensive education, I expected to be taken aback by housing costs. However, my knowledge of the U.S. student housing costs made me immune to that shock. For the U.K., I saw options for a private bedroom, private bathroom, and a shared living room and kitchen with six to seven other students. Including utilities, that cost was roughly half of what I pay for a triple at Emerson.
I soon came to learn that the U.S. student housing system is fundamentally different. Many European countries offer simpler, more humane alternatives—at a fraction of the cost. Students in Germany typically pay $325 to $540 a month. In France, it costs an average $160 a month. In Italy and Spain, housing ranges between $215 and $325 a month. These accommodation options always include private bedrooms with common spaces shared by a reasonable amount of people. It’s true that student housing isn’t always guaranteed outside the U.S., but where it isn’t, universities regularly partner with nonprofit housing organizations to ensure students can still access affordable off-campus accommodations. For example, Germany’s Studierendenwerk and France’s CROUS are publicly funded systems built to help students navigate housing markets—not profit from them.
Many American colleges require students to live on campus for social reasons. It’s easier to socialize when you’re forced into a room with complete strangers you have to interact with. But do we really have to give up every fraction of our personal space to make friends? And if our college experience is so crucial to universities, why don’t they satisfy our simple housing needs? Should we really be paying this much for much less?
Maybe the question isn’t why housing here is so bad. Maybe it’s why we keep pretending it’s normal.
Truth is, housing isn’t just a problem for college students. The housing crisis affects the broader community of Boston. As of January 2025, the average rent for a one-bedroom apartment here is approximately $3,438 per month. These figures highlight the city’s position as one of the most expensive rental markets in the U.S.
To put this in perspective of a college student, let’s consider a scenario. Most college students usually rent with roommates. You cannot have more than four undergraduate students living together in the city. From my personal experience, finding a four-bedroom apartment is extremely difficult. So if we assume that most college students would go for three-bedroom apartments, charging $5,928 per month, each student pays approximately the same rent they would for a dorm—around $2,000. So if dorms are supposed to be a less costly and a more secure option for college-aged youth, why do they cost the same as rent in one of the most expensive cities in the country, and offer less access to utilities?
Although living in a dorm comes with some clear advantages—you get security, a meal plan, walking distance to class, and you’re surrounded by peers navigating the same chaos—it’s not exactly luxury. Off-campus, you trade proximity for privacy. You might get more space, a real kitchen, and fewer rules. But you also inherit bills, broker fees, sketchy landlords, noisy neighbors, and the pressure of managing a household while still trying to pass your classes.
So while the setup might change, the stress doesn’t. You’re still paying close to $2,000 a month. The question is: Are you paying for comfort—or just a different kind of survival?
There are 64 colleges and universities in Metropolitan Boston. This includes a student population of about 250,000. That’s nearly half the population of the entire city of Boston itself. These students fuel the economy: They rent apartments, buy transit passes, keep local businesses alive, and pay sky-high tuition to institutions that rely on their presence to thrive. And yet, when it comes to housing, they’re treated like a logistical headache instead of a core part of the city’s fabric.
The reality is, housing is more than just a roof. It’s the foundation for everything else—sleep, study, safety, and mental health. This isn’t an issue that can be solved by a single person, a single institution, or a single city. But the normalized instability, the illusion of support, and profiting off of students who barely make minimum wage leaves me asking: In a city that profits off students, why does it treat them like an afterthought?
