I’m writing this tucked in the corner of a little real ale brewery-come-bar. Having rearranged some of the furniture for optimal comfort with minimal discretion, the staff look perplexed that I’ve chosen to home myself here. One damp walk through the autumnal haze, a pint of ruby and a portion of chips later, I feel a little more able to approach this reflection with the clarity it deserves. But first, some context:
Over the past few months, I’ve moved from one precarious situation to another one that feels untenable to remain in. I’ve noticed how unwell I’ve become and I almost (perhaps wrongly) gave myself permission to succumb to the frustrations and pressures outside of my control. A series of disappointing knockbacks and the existential crisis in full swing, I’m faced with a version of a reality that feels impossible to escape: maybe, I’m just not good enough.
I’ve embarked upon a career overhaul which doesn’t seem to be moving anywhere. I feel like a failed teacher. Unable to secure the very few teaching positions in my rapidly declining, niche subject-specialism. I also carry the scars of deeply personal past comments that questioned my capability to cope in the Education sector. In response to this, I re-specialised and taught myself how to academically read and write, knowing that I had more to give and more to become. I’m still querying whether my MA results are an overcompensation for not feeling good enough. Ironically, it now means I’m qualified to receive comments that question my credibility.
Because of this, I often feel like I function purely out of anger and spite. Whilst these can be productive feelings to have if channelled in the correct way, I question how useful they really are. If you are perpetually angry at the world, upset at the lack of support or even the mere recognition that you are deserving of dignity and respect, your existence becomes a fight in itself. You’re fighting to be taken seriously. Fighting for acknowledgement. Fighting for support and care. Fighting to live. With the way the world is in its continual cycle of horror and atrocity, I’ve found that many folks don’t have the bandwidth to help (or perhaps don’t know how to). It’s exhausting and it’s lonely.
Fortunately, my defiant energy has a way of attracting the right people into my inner circle. And whilst they don’t always know how to help when I’ve short circuited, they’re always the first to remind me of the type of person I am when I’ve lost my way. That, even when I want to give up, I’m too stubborn. That whilst one of my biggest weaknesses is to dissect and deconstruct every single little thing, it’s also one of my biggest strengths.
A few months ago, I wrote about the unease upon realising I’d been embracing my authenticity. The doubt would creep in and I’d swing between the contradictions of holy shit, I’m doing it. I’m living it and holy shit, I’m embarrassingly juvenile. I’m pathetic. This is often compounded by the shame of struggling. The shame in knowing that others haven’t always embraced the messiness of being human. The shame relating to the performative sanitisation of mental health rhetoric, and knowing, whether I like it or not, some versions of struggle and strife are more acceptable over others.
So when I’m met with the unashamed embrace of acceptance, and permission is given to be bare-faced and unwell; naturally, I’m dubious. I think this is where I’ve been wobbling as I contend with the identity of being a doctoral student:
I’ve been inducted into a space which directly challenges the critique of my character. Somehow, through the aforementioned anger and spite, I’ve found myself working under deeply respected academics with eclectic and successful careers. I’m convinced I’ve blagged my way into these spaces because I don’t feel like I warrant the acknowledgement of such highly esteemed people. That sounds like a deeply pathetic and pitying statement to make. But, when you’re someone who hasn’t got a decade’s worth of sectorial experience under their belt, I can’t help but wonder what makes me so damn special? Also who the hell do I think I am?!
In a recent supervision, bleary eyed and dry tongued, I tried my best to articulate my biggest worry of all. That in order to do what I wanted and needed to undertake as part of my study, perhaps I’m not emotionally resilient enough. I hate that phrase, but I was echoing the same words I’d received when I’d previously allowed my vulnerability to be seen by those I thought could help. The voices of those that questioned whether I had it in me to teach or whether I’d be able to cope with the pressures of the role. I was half expecting a similar response this time round. Yeah, maybe it’s not the right time for you. Maybe it’ll never be the right time.
I didn’t receive that response at all. It was the complete opposite. That bearing all and attempting to communicate my way through these difficulties was demonstration enough of the reflexivity and resilience it would take to undertake such a study. In so many words. And it’s not as though I question the sincerity of those words, but I do still worry if deep down, people do have their doubts because that’s all I’ve ever known. Hailed as the high-achiever, built up and celebrated; and shot down if I dared to exhibit my deepest insecurities.
Eventually, it occurred to me that the most difficult part of this doctoral journey isn’t going to be the academia and knowledge acquisition, or the research and the write up. It’s going to be the processes that will question and challenge the deepest and darkest parts of myself. Learning to navigate the polarities between pining for validation through my own need to feel good enough and how to trust those who are, without a doubt, sincere in their approach.
Being completely honest, I’m terrified to let myself go and relax into what is likely going to be the most enriching few years of my life.