Everyone I know in academia is hanging by a thread.
The profession has always been fraught, but in the past few years I’ve sensed an edge of desperation in many of my colleagues, especially those who heavily teach. We have been facing rising student numbers every September, each new term a stress-test of what is theoretically possible. And yet each year, it makes me proud that we give more of ourselves to maintain the excellence we always somehow manage to deliver. Colleagues who both teach and run research teams, and/or have clinical or hefty administrative roles, are even more encumbered.
In theory there might be a tipping point beyond which we simply break, but thus far, most manage to remain resilient.
Or at least I hope so. Thinking about it, it might be difficult, sometimes, to recognise when a colleague is in danger. I think and hope that most of us have a support network to buffer all this, but in my experience, there is a tendency in academia to put on a brave face. Few would like to admit publicly that they are anything but successful, efficient, confident and fearless. Some are happy to confess their difficulties one-on-one over coffee or a quick corridor chat, and I find myself spending a lot of time ministering, because I am a good listener and I genuinely want to help. The truth is, however, that sometimes I struggle to find a listening ear for my own troubles, someone who is going through similar things and can truly relate, unlike a non-academic friend or family member whose support is dearly appreciated, but not always enough.
Or I do identify that specialised sympathetic ear, but end up hesitating: everyone is just so busy; do I really want to make someone else’s load heavier by dumping my issues on them? Isn’t it better for them if I just steer clear?
I have been going back and forth over this dilemma for the past year, as I navigate the choppy waters of my own anxieties. My biggest worries involve lab finances, securing team continuity with sufficient grants, and supporting departing team members to successfully land their next position. But on any given week, there are dozens of other bitty items and snippets of bad news: collectively, they form sizeable waves that threaten to upend my craft.
Like any good scientist, I’ve been experimenting with how best to deal with it. In the past, I seldom shared anything, mostly because my network was paper-thin, the place where I was embedded not being conducive to those sorts of relationships (enough said). And I got pretty good at being self-sufficient: it was lonely at times, but largely effective. But the problem is, those muscles need exercising, so if you start to rely on others, you forgot how to be that tough lone wolf. I visualise these two opposing parameter spaces as ships: one small, claustrophobic and solitary, but perfectly safe; and the other more sprawling, effective and comfortable, but with unreliable decks that might shatter at any time, because they rely on input from, and trust in, others – others who are barely holding their own ships on course. There must be some balance to be struck between these two extremes, but thus far I have not quite managed it.
At the moment, I’m hunkered down in my confined space, hoping that the current storm will blow itself out with minimal damage to my vessel.
Afterwards, maybe I’ll decide to come up on deck and ignite a distress flare.
