The Silence Clause: No Permission to Say Goodbye

That was one of the most memorable moments of my career as grand as it was awkward. And it really was awkward.

About ten years ago, I was standing at a lectern in front of an auditorium filled with a hundred pairs of eyes: students, faculty, and university management. It was the end-of-year medal ceremony I had organised to recognise students’ special non-classroom accomplishments - a last-minute initiative to lift morale amid the national economic crisis.

It was another of my one-man projects: I came up with the idea, got it approved, ran the voting, counted the results, ordered and collected the engraved medals from the factory, and invited everyone to attend. Oh, I forgot to mention: I was a vice dean back then, so people more or less had to show up and participate in my shenanigans.

To be precise, this was my last week in the role. All vice-dean positions were being cut for redundancy due to the same economic crisis. I was fortunate to already have another job offer, and I needed to return to my hometown to deal with a failing marriage anyway. So I wasn’t truly upset, just a little melancholic.

But I really liked those students, and I knew this would be the last time I’d see them all together before the summer break. I thought that this might be my last crazy project in this uni (spoiler - it wasn't), and the perfect final moment to remember. So, after the awards were handed out, I thanked them and my colleagues for being wonderful and added, quite naturally, that I would not be there next academic year.

Before I could finish, my line manager, the Dean, a scholar of Japanese studies, a renowned professor, graceful and always composed, suddenly jumped up from her seat, panic in her eyes, and said something confused and half-joking, like, “No, of course you’ll still be seeing him around!”

The room went silent. I smiled, awkwardly, unsure what I had done wrong. 

It turns out even goodbyes need managerial approval.

The Quiet Rule

Much later, I learned that once you enter a grievance, a “mutual agreement,” or a voluntary redundancy, silence becomes part of the paperwork. The language is neat and administrative: “this matter is confidential,” “no public statements,” “both parties agree not to discuss the circumstances.” What it really means is: you can’t tell colleagues what’s happening. You can’t explain to students why you’ve suddenly vanished from their timetable. Sometimes you can’t even admit that you’re leaving.

And the problem here isn't about a blow to your vanity or good manners: when you can’t speak, you also can’t get support. We talk a lot about wellbeing in universities: mental health campaigns, pastoral support, workload charters. But those initiatives feel hollow when, at the moment someone is most vulnerable, they’re told to keep quiet.

The system quietly replaces human conversation with process. In the UK, to deal with the stress of silent exists, the university refers you to Occupational Health, where you’re invited to talk about “stress management.” They listen kindly, nod sympathetically, and remind you to take breaks and breathe deeply (as if the problem were your breathing). The alternative - the Trade union, on the other hand, rallies your fighting spirit, helps you draft formal responses, and tells you not to give up ... right before sending you back into the same silence, still alone, more wind up than before and now armed with paperwork instead of people. Both mean well. Neither fills the gap left when you’re told you can’t simply talk to your colleagues or say goodbye to your students.

When you can’t speak:

• You lose connection: no casual check-ins, no shared understanding.

• You lose identity: you become “the person in dispute,” not a colleague.

• You lose closure: you can’t say thank you, explain your absence, bow out with dignity.

That kind of silence accumulates harm. It transforms conflict and change into secrecy, and keeps pain in the shadows.

Researchers and campaigners are now treating enforced silence as a wellbeing hazard in its own right. Reports suggest that NDAs contribute to anxiety, isolation, and a sense of professional erasure. In institutional reviews, academics have described the process as “professionally disappearing” - losing their community and their voice.

The UK Advisory, Conciliation and Arbitration Service (ACAS) notes that confidentiality clauses can “intensify anxiety and impede recovery,” since they prevent people from seeking informal support. Wellbeing researchers now argue that such policies represent a psychosocial risk, comparable to overwork or bullying, because they isolate individuals when they most need connection.

Across the UK, universities have relied heavily on confidential settlements of all kinds, not just the headline-grabbing misconduct cases. Between 2014 and 2019, 98 universities issued over 10,900 non-disclosure agreements, paying nearly £90 million in settlement and severance arrangements (The Guardian, 2019; Times Higher Education, 2019). Many of those NDAs had nothing to do with scandals. They were simply the quiet paperwork of ordinary exits - the professional equivalent of being asked to disappear politely.

Legal Shifts: Lifting the Silence

Acknowledging these harms, governments and higher education sectors are beginning to act.

In England, from 1 August 2025, higher education providers will be prohibited from using NDAs to prevent individuals from speaking about bullying, harassment, sexual misconduct, or related complaints. This change comes under the Higher Education (Freedom of Speech) Act 2023, which protects staff and students from being silenced by NDAs in these contexts. Additionally, from 1 October 2025, clauses that try to prevent victims of criminal conduct from speaking about their experiences will become legally void under the Victims and Prisoners Act 2024.

These reforms recognise that confidentiality should protect individuals, not institutional silence. Still, the new legal limits are narrow. They mainly cover misconduct, harassment, and criminal wrongdoing. Ordinary redundancies and non-scandal complaints may remain confidential by default.

Universities often speak about compassion, community, and care. But those words ring hollow if honesty becomes a breach of contract.

There are better ways to handle endings. Confidentiality can protect personal data, but it should never forbid dignity or empathy. Staff should be allowed to speak openly with colleagues, to ask for support, and to say farewell without fear. When people are treated like risks to be managed rather than members of a community, something fundamental breaks.

Afterthought

Recently, I spoke with a colleague who told me they can’t officially inform anyone that they’re leaving, even though no misconduct or ethical issues were involved. It genuinely shook me. I felt I now understand academic culture a little better, particularly the uglier side of it.

Give me those chaotic farewell emails from colleagues complaining that no one really liked them. Give me the “F… you all - and your manager especially!” shoutouts that make everyone raise an eyebrow. Tell me you’re in a grievance, so I can tell you you’re not alone. Say that you’re leaving, so the rest of us can make your last days here as good as they can be.

I want it all. Because it beats the sound of people hiding in the bathroom, crying, and having to smile through another “Great, how are you?” when you already know...

When institutions worry about the reputational damage of abrupt staff exits, perhaps this is what they should really be concerned about.