It’s one of those days when the reality of academic loneliness hits hard.
Sometimes, you can be lulled into a false sense of complacency. It’s a peaceful period, your colleagues are available, you’re part of an amazing team. Projects steam-roll ahead because everyone is pulling the same way. You feel like you’re striding triumphantly down one of those long, bouncy pedestrian conveyor belts at an airport, superhumanly fast. The gates fly by on the left and right, clogged with sluggish crowds of mere mortals.
But of course, everyone is busy, the protagonist of their own private universe. This time of year, teaching is like a massive suck hole, stripping away your time, energy and will to live. Every time I step onto the podium, I give it my million-dollar all, and the students seem appreciative, even queue up afterwards to shyly introduce themselves and ask questions or seek advice. But the moment they filter out of the room and I switch off the AV, I feel like it’s me who’s been shut down.
Of course this is happening to my teammates as well, each of whom also has crucial deadlines that must sit front and centre of their attention. And this is when they go silent.
No matter how many times you’ve been there, it always feels like the first time. You have to remind yourself: it’s really just me on this team. It’s only ever been me. Anything else is just a passing, illusionary bonus.
We academics – at least in my field – are lone wolves. Sure, we meet up occasionally to run with the pack or crouch in a circle howling at the moon, but ultimately, we lope through the darkened forest and lick our wounds alone.
