I’m fascinated by people’s journeys through and out of academia. There’s so much written online about this subject to have earned its own categorization of ‘Quit Lit‘ – the literature around leaving the academy. There are many success stories in this canon, of skills adapted and applied to sectors other than higher education. There are personal epiphanies derived from experiences in the ‘real world’, after what’s usually described as voluntary imprisonment in the academic system for many miserable years.
More often than not, the blogs, editorials, and posts comprising academic Quit-Lit capture grief, disillusionment, discontent, disappointment, precarity, and misery. And pointedly, the emotional core underpinning this corpus of writing serves others as a form of self-help literature – a repository of advice, essentially, on how to leave an abusive relationship that is ‘the academy’.
The subject is entirely deserving of its own genre. While acknowledging its central purpose, however, I also find it extremely tiresome. Benefiting and finding inspiration from many authors, I remain critical of the victim mentality which too easily abandons agency and personal responsibility.
Breaking down my comment further, there’s one prevailing trope that I can’t abide: the unadulterated whinging. I hope not to replicate it in my own writing, because I understand from whence it comes. I can relate. But the truth is that I’m approaching my departure from a different angle. I’m trying not to cast blame as someone who has enjoyed many privileges within the traditional university system. I owe much in my life to the chance, the opportunities, and the privileges afforded to me in a teaching and research position. I’ve established a career, travelled and worked in various countries, and – I hope – made some sort of difference along the way.
I nevertheless still want to leave. For reasons that are identical to much of what I’ve read in this literary corpus. Yet I’m not a suffering grad student or a sessional instructor on precarious contracts. I’m not trying and failing to secure full-time employment. I’m not struggling to birth my research into the world to effect social and cultural change.
No. I’m in a position of leadership that is backed by a full-time professorial role. According to some, I’ve won the lottery. And I’m ready to give it all away. That should tell you something.
I’ve sought and found wisdom from the online communities who have collectively shunned academia. I find comfort in their shared experiences, because they’re intimately familiar. I went looking for answers to problems and feelings which many before me have skilfully navigated. The difference is that I’m not in a deficit situation. I’m coming at the principal question from a place of growth and not desperation or incivility. I haven’t been treated unfairly enough to abandon all hope. I’ve benefited from inclusion and opportunities.
Yet none of it means that I’m content or satisfied. That I don’t want more from life and my career. In fact, my general discontent is precisely why I’m forging my own path, trying to create new experiences for myself and my family. And, in full agreement with much of the ‘Quit Lit’ that I’ve read, finding a way out is a tricky thing to navigate.
The whole reason that academic Quit-Lit exists is because of a problem without a clear solution. You might rightly ask: ‘if things are so bad, then why not just leave?’ ‘Why stay in a situation, environment, or working relationship that stifles your true potential, that diminishes your value, that takes so much of your experience and expertise for granted?’
If I had an easy answer, I wouldn’t be writing this post.
There’s definitely a feeling of being trapped. While not unique to universities as organizations, it’s a familiar story within academia. The sense of hopelessness is complex and emotionally charged. There are few solutions to improve the situation, because if there were, then everybody’s suffering would cease to exist.
Or maybe it’s a feeling of being beholden. Of being grateful despite the negative conditions. Knowing that, for the most part, I have a secure job that pays well. It has its perks too.
In truth, the hardest barrier exists in the mind. Leaving is a decision. Yes, it has consequences, but it’s still a decision. Make it or don’t. Saturating oneself in a climate of misery and mental anguish doesn’t strike me as particularly appealing or wise. But it takes time to recognize the signs, which is why the genre of academic Quit-Lit not only has a home, but also a receptive and understanding audience.
One final thought: reading various blogs and editorials on this subject only reinforces my low opinion of universities. As institutions, they have succeeded admirably at fuelling insecurities and complexes. A genre of literature about quitting exists because of the allure and pull – because it’s so hard to leave. It’s not as much about the action of leaving as breaking through the very notion of life outside the university. A literature exists because of people, like myself, seeking some sort of reassurance and hope. Wanting to know that options actually do exist, and that everything will be okay in the end.