The Many Reasons Academics Work So Much

This week, Philip Guo, an assistant professor at the University of Rochester, wrote an article for Inside Higher Ed on why academics feel overworked. This is certainly not the only piece about how much academics work, or the only piece debating the appropriateness of professors feeling overwhelmed by the numerous demands on their time. The nature of work in faculty life is practically its own genre. Guo's contribution to the conversation is the argument that academics don't have a boss and their work comes from multiple, independent sources that have no knowledge of one another.

Reflecting on this argument, it strikes me as reasonable and probably part of the equation. Professorial work comes from many places, and we academics are largely responsible for filtering what we decide to do each day. As a freshly minted PhD in my first semester as an assistant professor, I've had a fair amount of time to think about (and complain about) my job. In so doing, I've identified a few other reasons why academics work so much. Although we often complain about external pressures to perform, most of these reasons are internally generated.

1. The lines between work and non-work are fuzzy.

Academic jobs require a high degree of passion. Many of us elected to go to graduate school and pursue intellectual work because we derive immense satisfaction from exploring questions, discussing issues, and sharing our expertise. Honestly, sometimes our work doesn't feel like work. I've been known to read a book about my research area in bed before calling it a night. For my wife, this is completely bizarre and further evidence that I'm the nerdiest person she knows. Those moments feel leisurely, but they are also scholarly. So, we sometimes work too much because we love what we do and don't always recognize it as work.

2. We are our own arbiters of "enough."

There are certain lower limits on academic work. We often have determined teaching loads. Tenure criteria sometimes spell out a minimum amount of research activity to achieve promotion. However, there are no upper limits: more of everything is always seen as better. As Guo pointed out, we don't have a "boss" and don't really have a great sense of our performance until periodic reviews roll around. Like most salaried jobs, professors must regularly have internal conversations about whether or not they have accomplished their goals or "done enough." Because there is no external or contractual yardstick of "enough," we decide for ourselves. And the result of this deliberation, I believe, is a perpetual sense that we haven't done enough, even when we recognize that we are working ourselves to exhaustion.

3. Academics are prone--really prone--to competitive comparison.

I have yet to meet a professor who isn't in some way motivated by prestige. We are swayed by a narrative that we work in meritocratic institutions in which the best and brightest are rewarded for their efforts. In order to establish we are among the best and brightest, we compete. Sure, there is a fair amount of collaboration and collegiality in academic work. But for anyone who thinks the life of a professor is that of an isolated, contemplative hermit, let me enlighten you: it can be cut-throat and brutal race with no clear end game. And the race is rigged in ways that benefit certain individuals over others. Moreover, we often judge our success through reference to successful peers. "If I want to be known," we say, "I need to do work like so-an-so (high profile academic) who publishes a book a year." Of course, there some folks who are less influenced by competitive comparison. They march to their own beat, and I commend them for that. However, they seem to be the exception to the rule.

A quick anecdote on competitive comparison before moving on with the list. I was recently at a workshop for new faculty in my field. Over dinner, conversation shifted and several people began discussing the ways in which they were positioning to move to a better institution. We've only been on the job for a few months! The pull of prestige can be remarkably strong.

4. We are increasingly subject to productivity management.

Yes, many of the things driving faculty to work so much are internally generated. However, there are a few that are not. Increasingly, the expectation is that faculty demonstrate, through measurable outcomes, their productivity. This means documenting virtually every detail of our jobs. I worked in university administration at a public research university for seven years. We are talking the height of bureaucracy here. Not once did I have to record my activities as I do as a faculty member. To some extent, the notion that faculty members enjoy extreme autonomy is a myth. Our time is becoming managed in order to satisfy the whims of administrators and legislators. The ability of faculty to challenge this process is compromised due to the steady erosion of shared governance.

5. There is a norm of overwork.

One result of so many articles being published about academics working so much is that it creates a norm. Faculty, in their day-to-day interactions, help to create and perpetuate this norm. Conversations about how much we work, how little we get paid, and how frustrated we are with the system are so ubiquitous it's jarring when we come across someone who seems to actually have balance in their life. As a new faculty member, when you enter a space where everyone talks about how behind they are in grading, how huge their inbox is, or how many meetings they have to attend, you start to wonder if your time should be similarly taxed. You start to question, "Have I really done enough today?" And so the cycle begins anew.

There are probably other reasons why academics work so much. Some people are workaholics and just happen to be professors. Some people use work to escape from or compensate for something entirely different. Some people are legit academic rockstars whose work does real good in the world. Some people just do a lot of work and are grateful to have the opportunity.

In my mind, I've stopped paying too much attention to questions of why I'm working so much. Rather, I've started to put real thought into whether I'm using my time in ways that allow me to flourish. Similarly, I've focused my attention on thinking through the question: what kind of academic do I want to be? It's not that thinking through reasons we are overworked is futile. I just don't have the time to over-analyze it because I have a stack of papers to grade.

Guilt and Learning to Own My Academic Job

Eric Anthony Grollman wrote a poignant piece last year for the blog Conditionally Accepted on what he called "graduate school garbage." This garbage consists of complex feelings of anxiety, stress, trauma, and even depression that accompany graduate school, finishing a dissertation, and surviving the highly competitive academic job market. Like any garbage, Grollman argues, we should dispose of these feelings and counter the forces that produce them. I stumbled upon this piece for the first time yesterday, and I appreciate it because it helped me identify one of the feelings with which I have been struggling: guilt. I have come to realize that guilt informs the way I talk about my recent appointment in academe, and it is something on which I'm working to improve.

Grollman cites in his piece an article in The Chronicle that discusses "survivor's guilt" among those who navigated the academic job market and ultimately landed a position. While this article fueled my reflection, I cannot comfortably claim that I am survivor of an arduous process. In truth, as I entered what appeared to be my last year as a graduate student, I did not expect to enter academe as a faculty member. Over the course of five months, I applied for approximately 20 jobs. Only two of them were for assistant professor positions. I simply didn't think I would be competitive enough on the academic job market, and there are many jobs in my field outside of tenure-trackdom. When I received the phone call to schedule a phone interview for an assistant professor gig, I was astounded. I carried that sense of shock as I advanced through the interview stages, and I still feel it as I write this today. However, my experience was not like those who applied for dozens of tenure-track jobs, sometimes over several years. I recognize that I ran a 5k, while they ran a marathon, and we each got the same medal at the end.

That inequality has cooked up a potent stew of guilt, which works its way into my interactions with others. The best example of this is a conversation with a friend last week. We ran into each other for the first time since she returned from West Africa, where she had been collecting data for her dissertation thanks to a Fulbright grant. We talked about how her writing was progressing and when she hoped to finish. (Although we universally hate these questions, graduate students still ask them constantly.) As a political scientist married to a fellow PhD who was taking a post-doc, she was preparing for a difficult job search down the road. The conversation shifted to me, and I shared that I was soon beginning a tenure-track position. Rather than own this and celebrate my success, I elected to completely downplay the whole thing. I framed my job search as low-key and my appointment as mere luck, since I only applied to two academic jobs. As I left, we hugged and she said something that struck me immediately: "I hope you are grateful for all of this. It's really great news."

My mistake was thinking that downplaying my appointment would make my friend feel better. Assuming I had cheated the system, I did not feel like I deserved the job. I felt guilty for securing something that proved elusive for a multitude of very talented people. And so my cavalier attempt at humility backfired. It made me seem pompous--as if this was a fun game that I just happened to play well because of beginner's luck. This was not just insensitive, it was inaccurate. Despite my "graduate school garbage," I had worked tremendously hard to position myself for a good job at the finish line. I applied to a faculty job for which I was qualified in a program looking for someone with my expertise. I prepared like a madman for every interview and received great mentorship from top scholars in my field. My appointment was not just a product of good fortune, it was earned.

Disposing of my garbage, then, means realizing that downplaying this exciting new career phase does not help my friends who are looking for academic positions. They don't want to hear the guilt-inflected version of my job search. They know this system isn't all apple pie and butterflies. It is extremely hard, and everyone struggles to run their individual race. There is a way for me to own and share my appointment without rubbing it in their faces. If I want to help my friends, I should confidently work to correct all of the sources of fear and anxiety in graduate school and beyond that infect academe, from bigotry to mistreatment of academic labor (and, yes, labor is the right word for many reasons, including those David Perry eloquently expressed). I should use my position to rid the path of unwarranted pot holes for the others hot on my heels. As I strive to shed feelings of guilt, I should also work in my small way to chip away at the bigger issues in the academic profession.

The Humanities Filter Bubble?

Not long ago, I posted an innocent question to Twitter about "alternative academics."

Wondering if #altac is most relevant to humanities PhDs. In many other fields, these are simply jobs, not alternatives to something.
— Kevin R. McClure (@kevinrmcclure) May 30, 2014

I have continued to think about this question, particularly in the context of online writing on the academic job market and higher education journalism more generally.

There has been an efflorescence of online writing, it seems, about the academic job market, especially since The Chronicle of Higher Education launched their new jobs site, Vitae. The news and advice columns in Vitae represent but one part of a large body of journalistic work related to the state of higher education. Many journalists are tackling tuition increases that outpace inflation and skyrocketing student loan debt. They are taking on President Obama's proposed rating system and sexual assaults on campus. In general, all of this writing is a good thing. It demystifies, at least to some extent, the academic job market and highlights crucial issues that demand public attention and conversation.

Not all of these articles are written by "traditional" journalists. Many of them, in fact, are PhDs who have found a way to cobble together a paying gig out of their highly developed analysis skills and experiences in higher education. Based on a remarkably unscientific scan, many of these writers come from the humanities. There are several reasons this could be the case. First, the humanities prioritize the ability to craft strong narratives, meaning those trained as scholars in these fields are more than capable of churning out cohesive, well-articulated essays. Second, I have gathered that there are more humanities PhD graduates than available academic jobs, creating a pool of people seeking work outside of academe that recognizes their unique skills.

Many of these writers have strong opinions about academe. This is refreshing in most cases, as many people working in higher education need a wake up call. I love reading the pieces they produce because they often have a deep-rooted sense of social justice. However, their writing also raises questions about the existence of a humanities filter bubble, of sorts. (I qualify this because the original concept of a filter bubble was based upon a computer algorithm that cuts out of view disagreeable things. I recognize it's an imperfect concept for what I'm arguing here). A filter bubble in which the major issues of higher education are described and assessed through the lens of humanists. If a large amount of writing about finding a professorship comes from humanists who struggled on the job market, for example, is the picture unduly informed by their discipline-based experience? Are certain issues ignored and others given greater attention simply because they are most related to the humanities? Are we missing important voices and perspectives?

I don't have answers to these questions. Thus, this post is largely speculative. I may not be tapped into circles of writers coming from other disciplines. I'm not at all suggesting here that humanists stop writing about higher education issues. I hope they continue their good work. Rather, for the sake of balance, I would like to see more writing from people in other fields. More scientists, clinicians, educationists, engineers, and artists.

I would love to hear from writers about this idea. Is there a humanities filter bubble in online writing on the academic job market and higher education?

What Not to Do As a Graduate Student

Graduate students tend to be a desperate lot. We crave advice on a range of issues and seemingly devour any guidance the web has to offer. Thankfully, there is an ample supply of "to-do" lists produced by fellow graduate students and wise professors. Wondering how to make your summer productive? There's a list for that. Thinking about items to pack for an on-campus interview? There's a list for that. Looking to actually graduate without completely losing touch with reality? There's a list for that. Increasingly, there are consultants you can pay for advice, if simply reading a list won't calm your nerves.

I have found several advice columns for graduate students helpful, especially when navigating the ridiculously complex academic job market. Nevertheless, I find many lists vague or common sense. The ones that I have read effectively boil down to four points: figure out what you are doing, get your shit organized, do the work, and don't forget to take care of yourself. As far as it goes, this isn't advice so much as a description of life. So, I thought I would pass along some specific tidbits that I have learned along the way in the form of a "don't do" list. This wisdom has developed over my seven years as an on-again, off-again graduate student. Since I just officially ended my graduate student era last Friday, this feels like an appropriate closure.

1. Don't spend too much personal money on conferences.

There is enormous pressure to present at academic conferences when you are in graduate school. Your advisers likely travel to several conferences per year, and they encourage you to attend as well. This can be a great way to get feedback on your research, meet other graduate students, and network. If your department is willing to pay for a good chunk of the conference, or if the personal costs would be minimal, by all means attend and make the most of it. However, if you department provides little to no funding, I would not waste your own money. Depending on the conference, you could be looking at several thousand dollars in airfare, lodging, and food. Conference presentations don't have the same currency as publications or teaching experience when you are job searching. And, let's be real, academic conferences can completely consume your intellectual soul. Every graduate student can attest to this. On some days, conferences can lift your spirits and remind you of the reasons you are pursuing this degree. Most of the time, I found conferences to be remarkably awkward, devoid of true engagement, and tailored to the specifications of senior academics whose research is given top priority. This is my just my experience, of course, and I have a Holden Caulfield-like response to perceived phoniness.

2. Don't take the debates too seriously.

There ares surely a handful of big debates happening in your field right now. People get heated about these things, and for understandable reasons. If you dedicate your life's work to an idea, you will likely strive to defend/promote it. I have learned over time to observe these debates from the sidelines, entering only when it seems appropriate or necessary. Anytime I participate in big intellectual debates in my field, I don't feel a sense of accomplishment. The debates continue, minds remain unchanged, and I spend the next two weeks in an existential tailspin. It can be emotionally draining, and your energy can be better directed. Instead of spending hours in a message board with some anonymous academic, work on research that sustains you or grab coffee with a friend who doesn't give a damn about the debate du jour. The reality is that many issues that are all the rage in our fields are fleeting. Give yourself over to the things that are more lasting and make you happy. Avoid the quicksands of futile battles.

3. Don't expect the world from your adviser.

In some fields, you apply to work with a particular adviser and not a program. For these fields, you perhaps have a good idea of whom your adviser will be and what to expect from them. In all other cases, go in with an open mind. Remember that your adviser is almost assuredly overworked and cannot possibly provide all of the support you need to survive this grind. More than anything, be prepared to build a roster of advisers who help you in different ways. My assigned adviser was wonderful, and we had a great relationship that propelled me to the finish line. However, I developed close relationships with two other faculty members because they were better suited to assisting me through the job search or some other challenge. This network approach, I would guess, is far more common than having one person that embodies everything you could possibly desire in an adviser. And it means you have more people familiar with you, ready to help you overcome difficulties, and prepared to pass along opportunities or write a recommendation.

4. Don't do "throw away" course work.

In all of my courses, there was some culminating project at the end of the semester, usually a 20-25 page paper. I almost always stopped reading for the course about 2/3 of the way through the semester and focused entirely on this paper. I basically treated each of these as an opportunity to write a paper that I could present at a conference or submit to a journal. If nothing else, think about how papers for courses can be used down the road in the literature review or conceptual framework for your dissertation. When I did attend soul-sucking conferences, I presented final course papers. My journal publications as I went on the job market came from final course papers. I wasn't able to use many of these papers in my dissertation because I radically changed topics, but I think the idea is useful. Basically, course assignments do not need to sit in your Dropbox folders collecting virtual dust. Don't simply do the work to finish the course. Use the course to build the foundations of your future career, whatever it may be.

5. Don't forget to put your field in a broader context.

There are some major issues in academe today--issues that absolutely affect your career prospects and post-graduate future. We have a tendency to get so bogged down in the minutiae of making progress in our programs that we fail to see how broader trends in higher education shape our lives. There is a good chance that your university, field, and department will change during your time as a graduate student. Pay attention to the winds of change and be prepared to adapt accordingly.

6. Don't read too many of these lists.

My final piece of advice is to not get enveloped in a blanket of advice from people who don't know you. You know yourself best. One of my advisers is a no-bullshit Basque who told me right before an interview to be myself and trust my instincts. I still think it's fantastic wisdom by which to live. Graduate school is a personal decision, and you will ultimately be the master of your own destiny. Embrace it and ignore all the noise out there.

How I Landed My Faculty Job in Higher Education

I was offered and accepted a tenure-track faculty position, and, almost immediately upon sharing the news, I received several requests from peers for tips. I decided to write a post about my experience, in case it is useful to others. I will warn any readers in the same way that I warned my peers: I’m not an expert on any of this, nor do I have extensive experience. I consulted with colleagues who landed tenure-track jobs before me and largely trusted my instincts throughout the process. Some of them were helpful, others were not. I can't help but believe luck was a major element of the process. Still, several of my tips were validated at a recent workshop for emerging higher education scholars. My comments may also be discipline-specific and not applicable outside of education fields. Lastly, I want to recognize at the outset that my experience on the job market was indelibly shaped by my identification as a white male. For a variety of reason that this post does not adequately address, faculty job searching tips are not universal.

For those of you seeking a quick reference list, I’m sorry to disappoint. This is going to be a long, meandering narrative because it is the only way I can wrap my head around the prolonged dance of landing a faculty job. Because I research higher education, I entered the search process understanding that the odds were against me. I knew that only a few tenure-track jobs would be posted and every single one of those positions would receive obscene numbers of applicants. Let us not forget that there is a whole pipeline of graduated PhDs who are still applying for jobs several years after completing their degree. So, I didn’t apply for many faculty jobs. I applied for administrative jobs, as well as policy analysis jobs. Simply put, I wanted to be employed, and I didn’t (and still don’t) believe that there is a single path to professional fulfillment. Fortunately, PhDs in education have the opportunity to work in a number of settings, making faculty jobs just one of many post-doctorate destinations.

With this in mind, I was selective about the jobs to which I applied. I did not want to work in the middle of nowhere, and I was moving with a spouse who has her own career and needs. This made it easier to focus on putting together strong applications for a few departments. I understand the rationale behind casting a wide net and applying for many jobs, even those that may not appear like a perfect fit. That wasn’t my strategy. In putting together my applications, I tailored everything I submitted to the position description, including my CV. Of course, there is only so much customization that can be done to a CV, and I agree that you shouldn’t pad a CV with pseudo-accomplishments. However, there are ways to make slight tweaks to help you align your background with the expectations of the job. One of the ways I did this was through a listing of research and teaching interests, which I could easily adjust to highlight certain research methodologies or content areas.

Beyond the CV, the cover letter and other documentation is truly where customization came into play. Before writing anything, I spoke with peers who had landed faculty jobs, and one of them was gracious enough to send me a copy of her cover letter, statement of research interests, and teaching philosophy. This was useful to me because I saw that these documents were carefully constructed essays, not generic one-page summaries. For one of the jobs to which I applied, I had to supply all three types of documents. This required a phenomenal amount of time, and it came as I was writing a major chapter of my dissertation. (Side note: don’t forget to plan for both finishing your dissertation and job searching at the same time.) For the job I eventually accepted, they asked for just a cover letter. However, what I produced was not a standard cover letter. I described the ways in which I was prepared to excel in the three pillars of the academic profession: teaching, research, and service.

I started with teaching because the school emphasized teaching over research—at least for the time being. The main idea behind the cover letter was to show how my teaching, research, and service intersect. I also sought to provide a narrative arc, so that the search committee could understand how my experiences and research were part of a bigger story—about the field and about my future. I received feedback from faculty mentors on my cover letter before sending it. They pointed out a few things that may elicit negative reactions, such as name-dropping well-known people with whom I have worked. They all requested to read my cover letter in tandem with the position description, again highlighting the importance of ensuring that your materials are in close conversation with the position as advertised. Once I was more or less happy with my materials, I submitted them, usually in mid-fall.

By December, I had basically given up on the idea of faculty job. I hadn’t heard a peep from a single institution, and I assumed that after three months, they had already made their first cut. I was wrong, to a degree. I never heard back from other institutions, but I received an email from my soon-to-be employer saying that they were still reviewing applications. Sometime in February, I received a phone call asking if I was still interested in the position and if I would interview by phone with the committee. I readily agreed, hung up the phone, then proceeded to panic. Everyone finds phone interviews horribly uncomfortable, and phone interviewing for a faculty job was new territory for me. Once again, I spoke with colleagues and faculty mentors. I also read a few articles about faculty interviews. I was able to put together a list of possible questions through these inquiries, and I wrote out a few ideas in response to each of them. I also spent hours (literally) studying the college and department’s websites. I effectively memorized the curricula for the programs in which I would be teaching and recorded the names and specializations of each faculty member in the department. Because of this research, I took note of a few “buzzwords” that seemed important to the department, such as “community.”

When I sat down for my phone interview, I kept this information in front of me. I was asked a total of about 6 questions. I recall answering the following questions.

1. What courses am I interested in teaching or feel qualified teaching? I answered this question in the context of the program curricula and the strengths of the other faculty, demonstrating the gaps I could fill. I also made clear that I could teach the courses mentioned in the position description.
2. What is my approach to leadership and how would I integrate this in my teaching and service? This question caught me off guard, but I stumbled through it.
3. What is my research agenda or program? This is a basic question that seemingly everyone is asked and every PhD student should be prepared to clearly answer. My answer to this question was long because I have a lot of research interests, and I indicated that I wanted to work with graduate students on several studies.

I walked away from the phone interview, like most people, feeling less than confident about my chances. Nevertheless, I received a phone call a few days later (I was the last to phone interview) asking me to come on campus for the next round of the process.

My on campus visit included a dinner with the search committee, followed by a full day of meetings and a job talk. Interestingly, I didn’t do much additional preparation for the on campus visit. I figured out what to wear by asking colleagues. There are a few blog entries on what women should wear. I wore a jacket and tie for both days of the visit, and although I was overdressed for the dinner with the search committee, I don’t regret it. Be sure to take note of the weather, bring extra clothing in case of disaster, and pack an umbrella. The major preparation for the on campus visit was creating a job talk. I created a PowerPoint and elected to focus on just one aspect of my dissertation research, as I only had 30 minutes to present. As was true in my cover letter, I sought to position my research in a set of bigger questions. I did not narrowly focus on this research project, but demonstrated how this study is part of a series of questions that intrigue me in the political economy and governance of higher education. I practiced my job talk obsessively, until it became second nature. I also practiced my job talk in front of my co-workers and few friends in order to get their feedback. My whole approach to the job talk was to indicate that I’m comfortable and confident talking about scholarly topics to a room full of strangers. I talked about my research like it was vitally important—because it is! One slide in my presentation linked the issues I was talking about to developments at the institution I was visiting. This is probably only possible for fellow higher education PhDs.

What I found most refreshing about the on campus visit is that it was extremely conversational. I was not directly interviewed, per se, at any point during my visit. I met with the search committee, the department chair, the dean, and graduate students. For the most part, it felt like I was talking with other educational scholars about things that interest us. It helped that I knew about many of the people with whom I met because I had read their CVs. I asked as many questions as possible, and I tried to express my enthusiasm for goals that are important to the department and the college, such as internationalization. My one take away from the campus visit is that I was being assessed as a future colleague. My record got me to this point, but I think personality played an important role in landing the job. This is frustrating to think about because it means that landing a faculty job sometimes comes down to factors over which you may have little to no control. The graduate student meeting was the most challenging for me, mainly because the graduate students asked tough questions about my qualifications. It caused imposter syndrome to rear its ugly head.

In case it is useful, here are a few questions that came up during my on campus visit:

1. What are you reading right now? This was apparently a favorite question of the dean. I didn’t mention this, but I actually found and read part of a book he wrote. 
2. What are your experiences with adult learners?
3. What are your experiences with teaching technologies?
4. What are the specific courses you could teach? They actually handed me a list of courses and asked me to identify those I felt comfortable teaching.
5. What were my thoughts on collaborating with other faculty members on research of mutual interest?
6. Does my research require funding, and how do I foresee funding it?

There were a few questions that made me uncomfortable. I was also asked frequently about my personal life. Although a few people told me to not talk about my spouse, it felt disingenuous to leave her out of the conversation entirely. I read the situation and was sensitive with my choice of language, but I wanted to make it clear that my personal life was just as important to me as being an assistant professor.

When I left the institution, I had a very good sense of the timeline and how an offer might arrive. The dean emailed me about 10 days later asking if I could chat. I knew based upon our conversation that this meant he was offering the position to me. We chatted by phone, and he spelled out the full offer package. He put the offer in writing to me after we spoke and gave me as much time as I needed to think it over. There is some disagreement over how to receive advice on a faculty job offer, but I elected to share it with a few faculty mentors. The consensus was that it was a fair offer for this type of institution. Since it was a public institution, I looked up faculty salaries in my department through a local newspaper database. I knew this information does not always reflect the full compensation of some faculty, but it was enough to see that my offer was comparable to other assistant professors in my department. In the end, I did very little negotiating. There are three reasons for this. First, I found that the offer satisfied my needs. Second, the dean explained to me in detail how he arrived at the offer package, which helped me understand areas that could be negotiated. Third, I had no counter offers and no other promising leads. My one regret is that I should have waited until after my wife had visited the city to accept the job. This is apparently standard practice at many institutions.

Here ends my story. I have no doubt I missed a few details. The important thing that I learned throughout the process was to seek help—this is not like any other job search! Do your homework—being able to understand the department, college, and institution is incredibly useful. It cuts down on surprises and helps you adjust your expectations and interview responses. I also want to stress a piece of advice I received from a senior scholar and tried to follow: be yourself. There was something in your materials that they liked about you, so trust in who you are and what you have to offer.

Anticlimax and Discomfort as Doctor

On Friday, I defended my dissertation. It's the end of a journey, and I've struggled to process it. I'm writing this post to share with you two unexpected feelings in my first days in the liminal space between dissertation and life post-doctorate.

The most frequent question I have received in the past 48 hours is: How do you feel? In truth, I feel rather as I do any other day. Despite the fact that I just reached the summit of a major academic mountain, the whole process has been anticlimactic. When I finished writing a full draft of my manuscript, I took a breath, looked around to see if anyone else was present to share the moment, and, realizing I was alone, closed my laptop and walked away. There were no fireworks and no high-fives. Friends and family members, of course, were fantastically supportive and happy for me, but I didn't feel as though a weight had been lifted or some milestone had been achieved. On that day, just as I had done many of the preceding days, I wrote until I ran out of things to say. I didn't feel different.

My oral defense was similarly mundane. I presented to my committee and sat in front of them as they asked me questions and argued amongst themselves. I answered their questions and, generally, experienced little pressure. It was like a dinner conversation with academics. Though I knew in the back of my mind the full implications of the conversation, there was nothing ceremonious or dramatic about the process. I was in a classroom where just a year ago I had taken a course, not some concert hall in front of demanding audience. After the question and answer period, I waited a few moments in the hallway. My advisor asked me to come back into the room, before congratulating me and shaking my hand. That was it. Years of coursework and hundreds of pages. Sleepless nights and meager paychecks. All to end with a handshake.

I went out to dinner with my family and friends after the defense, and it was a wonderful time. There were a few toasts, and I was glad to share this experience with them. What I did not foresee was how uncomfortable it made me to hear them say they were proud of me. Perhaps because of how anticlimactic the defense was, I didn't feel as though I had done anything special. My response to being called "Doctor" has been even more visceral. Although I have completed all of the requirements of my degree, I have not reached a place where it feels appropriate to be Dr. McClure. Perhaps comfort will come with time. At the moment, I am haunted by an all-to-familiar feeling in academic life: Am I a fraud? What all of this may boil down to is feeling guilty. Guilty for being celebrated, when I'm not convinced yet that what I accomplished merits such praise.

I suppose on some level I wonder if others have likewise had conflicted feelings after reaching the finish line. Happy on the one hand, and relieved to be done, but uncertain of how to digest what it means on the other. I have been striving for so many years, counting the requirements to reach this moment. Now that the moment has come and gone, I have to reorient my life. I need to fill the void left by my finished dissertation. And, by all accounts, I should be happy. Yet what I feel isn't quite happiness. It's something close to happiness, with a twinge.

I don't at all expect that other PhD students out there will feel that same things that I have. However, it's worthwhile to prepare for a rather complex response to completion.

The Suffering PhD: Should We Care?

*Note: Upon further reflection, I realized that I failed to make a distinction in this post. There is a difference between mental illness during doctoral training and emotional issues as a result of doctoral training. I'm referring to the latter in this post, and my thinking remains under construction.*

A recent article in The Guardian called completing a PhD "one of the toughest tests anyone can face in academic life." It noted that several countries are more closely monitoring the experience of PhD students, and raised important issues that merit consideration, including widespread feelings of isolation, perfectionism, stress, and imposter syndrome (or fear of being a fraud).

It is important to pay attention to these issues and talk about them openly. Too often, PhD students compete against one another and avoid (or feel uncomfortable) sharing their personal struggles with anyone. As a graduating PhD student, I appreciate the concern for how my peers and I are faring. Nevertheless, I can't help but ask whether the plight of PhD students really matters. Should we care that some PhD students are suffering? For me, the answer is: it depends.

On a personal level, we should care anytime someone is dealing with emotional distress. Even if depression comes about due to choices freely made, and even if feelings of anxiety and inadequacy have become normalized in the doctoral process, we should not simply accept suffering as natural and unquestioned. Cynics of the academic enterprise will say, "If you feel so lousy, why don't you just quit?" The reality to which many PhD students may attest is that we think about it regularly, but find the decision to be much more complicated. We may have already invested heavily in this path, in time, money, and energy. It is also true for some PhD students that they have trained to be academic researchers, and while I would certainly argue that these skills are broadly transferable, the prospect of finding a job outside of academe can be daunting. So, one answer to my question is, yes, on a personal level we should care if PhDs are suffering.

We should also care on the level of policy-making. PhD students and graduates are vitally important to the global research enterprise. Many labs and research projects are possible only because of PhD students who work hard at extremely demanding intellectual problems for reasonable pay. The work of these teams contributes in substantial ways to economic growth and job creation. Thus, every country and every institution should strive to create an environment where talented people see pursuing doctoral work as rewarding. We should send the message that PhD students will be adequately supported and that failure is not only tolerated, but viewed as essential to the discovery process. Simply put, we want smart people developing their skill set, and we want some of them to remain in academe to train the next generation. Otherwise, we risk alienating our brightest minds. It is smart public policy to pay attention to the experience of PhD students and to cultivate their success.

At the same time, there a few compelling reasons to not pay heed to the suffering PhD. One of these reasons is that, as far as educational issues go, the emotional problems of PhD students probably falls to the bottom of the list. And for good reason. We should recognize that a minuscule percentage of the global population receives a terminal degree. Our attention is more appropriately directed to ensuring that each individual has access to basic education as a human right. A bigger educational issue than PhD anxiety or even PhDs dropping out is persistent inequities by class, gender, and race. It's not that PhD inner turmoil is insignificant. Rather, it is just not as important as other educational issues that I believe warrant greater resources and media spotlight.

And one last point on this: we may elect not to care about PhD emotional health because, in truth, no one needs a doctorate to live a healthy, fulfilling life. In fact, some would argue that if completing a doctorate simply leads to a low-paying adjunct job, there's reason to leave before getting in too deep. While I acknowledge how difficult and potentially devastating the decision to end one's studies could be, there are still many opportunities for a former PhD student to find employment and thrive. In other words, the ramifications of PhD student suffering are not nearly as dire as they are at lower levels of education, where, depending on location, the ability to endure can result in substantial socioeconomic improvements. If we don't care about PhD student suffering, it's possible the world will be perfectly fine.

If all goes well, I will be officially finished with my PhD on Friday. There were many moments when I struggled with perfectionism, isolation, and anxiety. I flirted with quiting many times. I'm happy there were people in my life who cared enough to listen and encouraged me to push through. I'm glad also that my institution prioritized graduate student mental health and provided many reminders of support groups and counseling. However, I don't think my moments of panic and fear deserve more attention than reaching gender parity in basic education. I also know that, if I chose to walk away from it all, I was still far more privileged than many for even having the opportunity to try. Life would be fine if I wasn't Dr. McClure. Should we care about suffering PhDs? It depends.