Muddling My Way Through Grad School

I wasn’t a very good student. I haven’t forgotten that fact. I did okay at school but held no strong ambitions for higher education. How I found myself at university was both haphazard and serendipitous. Growing up in a small city with a small university, the opportunity presented itself one day in twelfth grade. The entry percentage was low enough, which definitely helped. My choice was also made easier by the admissions counsellor who visited our school, asking me simply what I liked. My only answer centred more around what I didn’t hate, which at the time was social studies.

And that’s how I came to major in History. An affinity for one subject led me down the path of professional practice. After numerous years of university training, I eventually became qualified in the field of medieval history and religion. But I digress…

The first couple of years of university were definitely challenging. They’re supposed to be in many ways; there’s always discomfort in new learning. It comes with the territory. I was also figuring out my work ethic. Fortunately, my curiosity and passion were kindled by subject material and some inspiring professors. I’ve come to learn that this is a familiar story amongst academics. I liked what I liked, and I couldn’t explain the reason – I didn’t need to. The deeper I got into my studies, the more I knew what I wanted to do. To become a ‘medievalist’.

Grad school came calling. Not loudly at first. I still needed to narrow down my particular interest. Once I figured out the general field, I applied to a number of schools in Canada and overseas, and was rejected from most. In those days, the thin envelopes arrived by mail. Thanks to some encouragement, though, I didn’t give up, and I was eventually accepted to a reputable institution. The first door opened, and I knew enough at the time to walk through it.

I studied overseas for my second and third degrees. Decades later, I still remember fondly the international experience. Less so the direct academic training and day-to-day existence, which was miserable most days. I recall bouts of extreme loneliness, amplified by my chosen field, which was predicated on autonomous and monotonous archival and library work. It was a monk’s life.

The day-to-day was a grind. There were very few moments that inspired me, aside from the people I met along the way. Those who remain friends to this day sustained me throughout my Master’s journey, helped me find purpose in darker times. In terms of support, it wasn’t an institutional or supervisory obligation. I leaned on my new friends, many of whom found themselves in similar predicaments. In the end, I did what I had to do, as a foundation for my career that began years later, in yet another country.

I learned the requisite languages. I finished my coursework. I researched and wrote my thesis. My Master’s level experience was intensive, having barely started when applications to doctoral studies began. I didn’t know exactly what I was doing, in a system that asked for more and more; to focus on the next step, practically disabling me from experiencing the present.

I struggled with the coursework. It was all new to me. It was all challenging. Neither is a bad thing. But I was crippled by a lack of self-confidence, which made me feel inadequate next to my co-learners. And while I also struggled with being far from home for the first sustained period in my life, I had to figure out how to overcome new pressures and adversities in order to make things work in life. In short, I grew up and grew up fast.

Over the course of my year in Scotland, I travelled by train to meet a prospective supervisor in the south of England. This was somebody with whom I’d corresponded by email, and who seemed genuinely interested in taking me under his wing for doctoral work. We met in a local pub, eating hamburgers and sharing a few pints, where he smoked between bites and sips. It was an inspiring conversation that ultimately set me on the path to continue my studies.

I went back to Scotland to finish my school year. Sharing a house with friends over the summer, I squirrelled away and completed my thesis, returning to Canada for a short reprieve before commencing my next dissertation. Memorably, I even managed to squeeze a two-week backpacking trip through parts of Ireland, creating memories of a beautiful country that have stayed with me.

When I arrived in England again, I matriculated as a PhD student. Cue the misery. Trigger the boredom. These were lonely days for me, part of an education system that in many ways provided little more than a library card. I had no formal classes or routine to start, very little interaction with others, let alone those pursuing the same degree. I worked daily on my own thesis, with infrequent supervisory meetings. I craved something more. I was borderline depressive, living at the time in basic university accommodation. On the surface, nothing was overly terrible. But I didn’t last more than one semester. When I went home for Christmas, I had to summon the courage to return. When I did, I only lasted one month before calling it quits.

This is an important part of my academic life – the quitting. It was new experience to me, guilt-ridden for a host of reasons. Having never done it before on this scale, with these stakes, it didn’t happen gracefully. But it happened eventually, and I returned to Canada with little life direction or plan. A sobering moment that represents a real turning point in my life and career.

More than one year passed before I reconsidered the past. I planned my return to England, to pick up where I’d left off. After some initial correspondence, my supervisor suddenly stopped responding to emails. A quick internet search discovered, to my deep regret, that he’d passed away suddenly from a brain aneurism. I found this out by reading his obituary, which was a disheartening way to learn of someone’s passing.

My late supervisor was a deeply-respected scholar and man. In the short time that I knew him, I could see that he wasn’t your average academic either. He truly cared, and with me he had been willing to take a chance on a young historian trying to find his way. A good friend of his took me under her wing. Months later, I resumed my PhD under her guidance, at a different institution, in a different city.

The whole experience was not altogether positive. I finished my PhD quickly. The same struggles described above remained throughout the course of my degree. The same insecurities and feelings of doubt. I had new experiences. I met people who became good friends. But the fundamental point is this: I never really found my purpose. I completed a degree, not a life’s task. I learned to exist in a niche. I searched for more during the course of my studies – a yearning which I feel daily in my current occupation inside the university. I bear the letters of my credentials next to my name, but they don’t define me. I don’t call myself ‘professor’, and I actively disuse the ‘doctor’ before my name. I am here, having gained some success inside the system, as I continue to justify my place. I’ve never been entirely comfortable, unable to embrace the self-importance assumed by so many others.

The pathway to where I currently stand was traditional. There were many milestones and hoops to pass through. The experience I’ve just described certainly isn’t shared by everyone, but it’s familiar.

I muddled my way through graduate school. I attribute my success to hard work alone. I developed a routine, a strong set of habits. I didn’t and don’t have the same knowledge that I admire in many of peers. But I’ve always had the discipline. And if there’s one shining light which I can credit to my PhD experience, it’s the time and space to test and gain the work ethic that has been the mainstay of my success for years. I learned to plug away. To be resilient. To overcome adversity. To recover from disappointments. To re-focus and re-frame. I had to. I was trying to survive in a system whose historic foundations force individuals to prove themselves time and again. I had to play the game in order to succeed.

I was fortunate to attend some good schools. But I don’t feel that they gave me anything directly, not in any institutional or moral sense. They are soul-less organisations in some respects. I don’t owe them anything, especially my loyalty. Our connection was purely transactional. I profited by affiliation – the ultimate parchment being some measurement of my success.

I think we can assign too much power and prestige to universities, elevating them to positions of authority which are sometimes undeserving. Having studied and worked at a variety of institutions, across different countries, this is my experience and perspective. It’s the people inside that matter. And when it comes to my graduate training, where I might hold the organizations in contempt for their failure to provide a duty of care, I will always praise the people who continually prop them up. While I struggle with relating to their passion on the same level, their self-belief and blind faith in tradition, I still admire what fundamentally motivates them. And one thing we share in common is the trajectory which led us here.