If I were to count the years, they would be relatively long and somewhat meaningless in sum. Yet they all add up to tell the story of my academic life.
Let’s start at the beginning. My first university degree was by no means a guaranteed pathway from high school, though I consider it fondly as a privileged time of life that fuelled discovery, cultivated curiosity, and carved out space where I could dare to try and fail. I learned as much in those four years about what I liked as what I didn’t, which, decades later, I still consider as a valuable life lesson. I’m lucky to have had the chance to experience it. Those were formative years in life and maturity as well as in education.
At the time, I didn’t know where it was taking me. But I was enjoying the ride and not thinking much about it.
Enter the world of graduate studies, which was less forgiving. In most cases, a PhD serves as your final, qualifying credential. It’s the degree that makes you competitive on the job market – the parchment that’s meant to indicate the depth of your training in a particular field of scholarly study. It can also be an extremely painful experience that requires significant emotional investment.
By leaning into the commitment, at some point you become fully committed. That’s how it was for me. Without any notice, I was on the path I’d chosen without giving sufficient thought to my overall direction and purpose. I suppose I was young and spirited. The irony isn’t lost on me today: I chose the vocation that I’m struggling to leave behind. I invested heavily in it because I was free to follow my curiosity. And now, as I write this blog entry, I’m contemplating giving it all up.
Looking back on those years, I scarcely remember the details. But the emotional struggle stays with me. It wasn’t easy. It often wasn’t enjoyable. I questioned my purpose throughout. I questioned my worth and my place. I struggled with the systems and the people. I worried about employment and job security. Being, at the time, in a different country, I also questioned my skills and competency, my ability to adopt and fit into a culture. I failed to understand the impact I was trying to make, even as I was doing it. And yet, perhaps sadistically, I stayed with it. I figured out the algorithm and cracked the code, enough to get better and succeed in the proscribed tasks.
I knew the statistics well enough. I knew the likelihood of landing an academic job was scarce. I was completely naive to the struggles of publishing my work, to the tedium of teaching, to the expectations of professional service – essentially, the principal components that comprise the average university job. Like many people that I know, and that I now hire into the profession, I held an imperfect understanding when the whole journey of my academic life began.
But I’m one of the lucky ones. Or so I’m told. With some awkward transitions, I more-or-less moved from study to career inside the university, from being a student over many years to becoming a professor. It wasn’t seamless, but I’ve made it work for over twenty years, moving up through the ranks into a position of leadership. Where I now find myself questioning my very existence!
Despite my achievements and successes, I still question my role in the system, my ability to make a difference. I’m on the inside, but there’s a growing part of me that wants out – as though I’ve been trapped all these years and am only just being awakened to that reality. My mind tells me one thing, my heart another.
It’s not an imposter syndrome. It’s something more complex than feelings of inadequacy or belonging. It’s more about identity, which is to say that I’ve struggled – and continue to struggle – with equating work with the person. I don’t subscribe to the view that my vocation defines who I am. In saying that, though, it’s clear to me that what I’ve done for work over the past two decades has certainly shaped me. It’s provided the bulk of my experiences, which in turn have informed my inner being. For better or worse, it’s a part of me. But, at the same time, I am more than the sum of its parts.
This is the point I’m trying to make: the emotional investment anchors you. It risks sinking you, if you’re not mindful.
I can be both critical and grateful of my chosen profession at the same time. I realize almost every day how unlike my colleagues I really am. How I don’t ‘fit’. That I don’t share their stringent belief in the importance of work, of teaching, of research. How my passion manifests or doesn’t. It’s clear to me now, if I open myself to the very notion, that my heart’s been sending me this message for years. I’ve tried to ignore it, managing to progress in my career with a modicum of success. But, as I’ll be sharing throughout this blog series, I’m no longer blind or unfeeling to the message; the potency of its words is much stronger and clearer. And as I gain greater recognition of this change, I’m compelled to act. It’s time to do something about it. To root for myself, to lean into my intuition, to plunge into the vast experiences which I’ve not yet had the pleasure of knowing or living.
This first blog entry, dear reader, is a mere glimpse into the transformation. Where I find myself presently. One stage along a much longer process. Something so strong within me that I felt, beyond all reason and fear, to share it with you. I’ll do my best to entertain and not to bore, as there are many tales to tell which have brought me to this precipice. And there are many yet to come as part of the ongoing process. I feel the need to record them here, if only for my sake or sanity. But something tells me, as someone who continually searches widely for wisdom and answers, that there’s a venue and receptive audience out there willing to entertain my thoughts. More to follow in the coming weeks and months.