There’s a moment most students know well: study for the exam, show up on time, answer every question, and still get a grade that makes you wince.
You immediately think:
- The professor must’ve graded unfairly.
- The questions weren’t clear.
- The curve was messed up.
And maybe all of that is true. But maybe there’s something else worth noticing too. When something goes wrong, where do you go to place blame first: outside yourself or inside?
That’s locus of control, and it plays a huge role in how people make decisions about integrity.
What is Locus of Control?
Locus of control is a psychological concept that describes whether you believe the outcomes in your life are controlled by external forces (professors, companies, luck, systems) or internal ones (your effort, values, decisions).
Neither is inherently bad. In fact, being aware of real constraints, like systemic bias or structural disadvantage, is part of integrity too. But when the balance skews too far to the external, people start saying things like:
- "Everyone cheats on this assignment, it’s just how it works."
- "What’s the point of reporting that? Nothing will change."
- "I didn’t have a choice. It’s what the system required."
That shift from agency to external resignation marks the beginning of the integrity gap.
The Academic Example: "Collaboration" or Cheating?
Imagine a group of students working on a take-home exam. The instructions say: Do this individually. But there’s a long-standing culture in the class where everyone “checks answers” together in a group chat.
Some students feel uncomfortable. Others justify it: "This class is impossible, and the professor doesn’t teach well. You either share or you fail."
That’s an external locus of control in action. It doesn’t mean those students are unethical: it means they’ve learned to outsource the responsibility to the professor, the culture, the structure. Over time, this learned behavior erodes the muscle that says: What do I believe is right even if no one else is doing it?
And the integrity issue is rarely about one decision. It’s the accumulation:
- You do it once and feel nervous.
- You do it again and justify it.
- Then you do it again and forget it ever felt wrong at all.
This is how norms are built. Not from intent, but from repetition.
Faculty Face It Too
Professors aren’t immune. Ever adjusted a grade to avoid a conflict with a high-maintenance student? Avoided reporting a plagiarism case because it wasn’t worth the hassle?
These are locus-of-control moments. And every time we make decisions based on what we think the system will or won’t support, we train ourselves to believe we’re not really in charge.
That’s the integrity gap. And it shows up everywhere: in committee decisions, in how flexible we are with certain students, in whether we hold our peers accountable for questionable conduct. The more we defer to the institution—its policies, its politics, its perceived consequences—the less we feel able to act in alignment with our own judgment.
So, What Can We Do?
The point isn’t to shame people into never feeling externally pressured. It’s to reclaim agency in the small moments, so the big ones don’t catch us off guard.
Good integrity leadership doesn’t ask: Was this within policy? It asks:
- What part of this decision was mine to own?
- Where did I let the system decide for me?
- What am I reinforcing by doing it this way?
- Who am I becoming in the process?
Because locus of control isn’t fixed. It’s learned, and it’s practiced one choice at a time, even when it feels like no one’s watching.
For Classrooms, Not Just Corporations
These dynamics don’t begin in boardrooms. They start in syllabi, study groups, and office hours.
That’s why leadership in academic spaces matters. Students don’t just learn content; they learn how decisions get made, how power is distributed, and what it looks like to act on principle. And often, what they learn there becomes their default when the stakes are much higher.
Students watch what happens when others cheat and succeed, when faculty stay silent, and when the administration shrugs. Those moments are recorded. And when those same students step into jobs, leadership roles, or high-pressure ethical dilemmas, those old recordings can still play in the background:
- "If no one else speaks up, maybe I shouldn't either."
- "It’s not my responsibility to fix this."
- "The system will never change, so why bother?"
But we can offer a different model. We can make room in our classrooms, faculty lounges, and committee rooms for this question:
What are we teaching—explicitly or implicitly—about who has control, and what it means to act with integrity?
Because every act of integrity, whether quiet or loud, teaches someone else what’s possible. So, next time a decision point comes up on a test, in a classroom, or on a committee pause and ask: What am I telling myself I can’t control?
That’s probably the exact place where your integrity is being shaped.
