Inspiration

In many respects, I was an unlikely academic leaver. I had some modest success as a grad student (though no one was going to mistake me for a rock star). I had won a SSHRC scholarship (which, in Canada, is a real feather in your cap) to fund 2 years of my research. I’d won OGS scholarships twice (also quite the feather in your cap in the province of Ontario). I’d had a few publications (though none in major journals). I received strong teaching evaluations from students. I’d had an exceptionally supportive dissertation supervisor. I passed my thesis defence with no revisions. I worked on my entire degree very steadily, completing my coursework, comprehensive exams and dissertation all within the time alloted–5 years and 8 months, total. And I kind of had a bit of a life outside of academia, too, manging to meet and marry a lovely non-academic dude (I’d had a personal rule about never dating academics, which turned out nicely for me).

But, as so many post-academics I’ve spoken to since have testified to, I just wasn’t happy. And this sincerely seemed to me to be a sufficient reason to quit the profession and try something else. So I never went on the academic job market. To me, by the final year (though it had been building up in the years prior to that), I was pretty certain that academia was not the right fit for me.

The thing that scared me most about leaving was the possibility that things would get better if I landed a tenure-track position. This was the thought that vexed me most. What if it was the conditions of grad school itself, or my grad program, that caused so much anxiety, stress and uncertainty? Maybe everything would be better once I got to that hallowed faculty post.

What I know now, though, is that the fantastical academic dream is no longer an option for the average junior faculty member. You know that dream: the one where you get to be the kind of teacher Robin Williams was in Dead Poets Society, and where you get to contribute great scholarship to the world, and where you host incredible dinner parties for the faculty and grad students in your spacious dining room. You know: the life of the mind and all of its pleasures. Of course, Robin Williams never had to deal with piles of marking, extreme self-doubt about his research, the constant cycle of applying for external funding (and academics think they’re not trained in marketing! Ha!), or a hostile work environment.

I knew that I loved writing…but my academic writing voice had choked out my creative voice. I knew that I loved research…but I hated the idea of being boxed in to my one area of specialization, when I so often just wanted to bugger off and explore other, equal fascinating areas of scholarship. I loved teaching (when I knew I was really clicking with the students)…but I disliked the university-as-job-factory mentality that made them look at me in the same way they looked at a person delivering a pizza (which isn’t to disrespect pizza delivery persons–gawd knows how much I rely on them–but it is to say that I was a service-delivery provider to them, rather than a teacher, educator, instructor, or, in some cases, a human being).

What was very difficult for me to cope with was the constant pressure of thinking about my research 24/7. An academic’s job–no matter where you are on the totem pole, from grad student to tenured prof–is never done. I know there are a lot of other jobs where late nights are required, or doing a bit of work on the weekends is an expectation. But those expectations are understood by everyone involved, and usually lead to tangible outcomes (e.g. the LaffItOff report gets written; the big presentation to the Dinglebopper Group is ready to go for Monday). There is something I found about the hamster wheel nature of the academic lifestyle that was just, to me, totally dissatisfying.

But the thing that was the apex of what I could not tolerate was the knowledge that what I was doing was making no positive social contribution at all. It was this, most of all, that led me to ditch academia. The idea that I would be on a hamster wheel of research that was totally irrelevant, that would never be read by the public (let alone have any meaningful impact on the public), was intolerable. That was the opposite of why I had gone into graduate school in the first place.

When you’re thinking of leaving academia, there are a mountain of fears to face: what if I can’t get a job doing something else? I don’t even know what my other options are! What else could I possibly do with my life? What if leaving is a terrible decision that I regret for the rest of my life? Can I come back if I leave? What will my supervisor think? What will my friends think? My parents will be so disappointed! I can’t leave–I’m useless!

But against those fears were, for me, some basic truths: I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t living up to my creative potential. I wasn’t being an agent of change.

So leaving had to happen. And it did. And I am so thankful for it. And the fears? Pish-posh! Suddenly, I was too busy being happy, creative and a change agent to even give them any more mind.

Tagged as: leaving

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