I knew I wanted to do a PhD by the second year of my undergraduate history degree. I loved researching and writing, and I couldn't believe that people could do these things for a job. I also loved the idea of helping others, sharing knowledge, and debating big ideas that we would never truly know the answer to. However, I quickly learnt the pursuit of an academic job, particularly in history, was not going to be an easy one.
Finding My PathAt the start of my third year, I met with my supervisor and told her about my ambitions. “There's really no point in doing a PhD if you don't get funding,” she said. That comment gave me some pause, but it seemed like an easy solution. All I had to do was secure funding.
After achieving good grades in my undergraduate degree and first semester of my master's degree, I started asking around about doctoral applications again. Some academics were enthusiastic about my desire to pursue a doctorate, while others offered me some hard truths.
I remember one sitting me down and telling me all the reasons why people shouldn't do a PhD. She said that if I still wanted to do one, then that's great—but at least I should know what I was letting myself in for. I soaked in every piece of advice like a sponge, and I was determined not to be swayed from my ambition. However, what I couldn't prepare for was the severe hit that history as an academic field was going to take in the next few years.
I began my PhD in 2019, excited and a little scared. Unfortunately, I hadn't secured funding, but I'd learned there were many successful academics in the field who had self-funded their PhD.
While I was extremely upset to find out I didn't secure any funding, my passion and drive kept me going. Then, COVID-19 hit, and the lockdowns began.
Discovering Another WorldLife was suddenly a lot more isolated. I knew that studying for a PhD could be lonely but I had also heard that many students form a tight community of support.
By the time the lockdowns were over, people in my department had grown a lot more accustomed to working from home. The halls remained empty. By this time, I had secured myself a part-time writing job to support myself. Although I mainly worked from home, people made the effort to maintain some sort of community. I didn't feel so alone at my job. I regularly received feedback on my work, I was offered guidance on where I could improve without having to ask and people were always keen to chat online. That was a stark contrast to my experience as a doctorate student.
I know many PhD students have a similarly friendly and supportive relationship with their supervisors and I envy that. I, on the other hand, had a very professional relationship. This is not a critique. We met once a month and went over my progress. He was very good at keeping me on track, but I never felt like I could talk about my personal struggles with the degree.
Like many other students, I was very isolated. I also felt like I was wading through mud every time I sat down to write my thesis. Rarely did I think anything I produced was actually good and the best I could hope for was something passable.
The juxtaposition between my supportive job and the challenges of the degree was a major turning point for me. I began to lose faith in becoming an academic and I no longer felt like I belonged.
It wasn't just that I questioned my ability, but I also became genuinely concerned about the impact my doubts were having on my mental health.
Out of ReachWhen the time came to consider post-graduation options, everything pointed away from the academic path I was once so enthusiastic about. The United Kingdom Prime Minister had begun publicizing the concept of ‘high value’ and ‘low value’ degrees. While he was never specific about what a ‘low value’ degree was, history was certainly not considered valuable as it doesn't offer any obvious and direct routes into economic boosting industries.
From being one of the most popular courses at my undergraduate university, history was now in decline. People became more scrutinous of the employment value of arts and humanities degrees and, consequently, academic funding dried up and competition increased.
Alongside these developments, every employment and postdoc event I went to made me question the academic route. I was regularly told that funders prefer applicants who are willing to move around. It was expected that graduates would move cities and even countries to secure fellowships or postdocs until the time came to apply for a permanent position.
Talking to other PhD students who had submitted, I found out that in the last year only around 10 history jobs had been advertised in the UK. The possibility of securing one of these positions seemed minute.
Coupled with my increasing doubt about my abilities as a researcher and concern about having to uproot my life yet again, I finally decided the academic world was not for me. Instead, I decided to follow the path of industry, where I already had a good job, was performing extremely well, and nobody was asking me to give up my home, city, and life.
Making this decision was extremely difficult. I grieved for a long time for the future that I had held so dearly in my heart for the last seven years. I felt like a failure. I was embarrassed to be around other academics and PhD students who might find out that I had given up. Not long after my viva, I went on medication for my mental health as I tried to piece myself together again.
Looking BackI know now that I made the right decision walking away. My experience in a PhD program showed me that academia would not and could not give me what I wanted out of life.
While following my passion seemed like a great idea when I was young, I sorely underestimated the importance of safety and security to me. I'm aware that there are many others who don't share my experience. I also know that there are people who revel in the challenge and can make the sacrifices the academic path demands. I am just not one of those people.
While the PhD disenfranchised me from academia, I was eventually able to reconcile with myself and learn to appreciate all the things the experience taught me.
Currently, I work in student recruitment and as a part-time writer. I see the impact of the global situation on higher education, and I keep an eye on what's happening to my old history department. A part of me still aches when I hear about funding cuts, redundancies, or restructures. History is a beautiful subject that combines the skills of critical researchers with astute story tellers. But she is also a brutal love who sadly fosters a culture of isolation, competition, and self-doubt.
While I thought about ending this article calling for academics to talk more and advise about disenfranchisement, I know that the feeling of failure when you lose your passion is not unique to students. Having recently met up with my PhD supervisor for a coffee, I learnt that he too was losing faith in the academic world. ‘I expect we'll all be keeping an eye on the job board,’ he told me.
If there's one thing that this immensely emotional process taught me, it's that walking away from your dreams doesn't have to be a bad thing. I now have a stable job, helping students make important decisions about their future, and I continue to write on the side.
I was also able to buy a home, settle in the city I love, and my anxiety and self-confidence has drastically improved. Walking away was the right thing to do but nobody told me that when I was finishing the PhD. I learned we can find new dreams that better suit our lives—and that the dreams we've held close for years may not guide us to happy lives.
I hope that by talking about disenfranchisement as a normal thing, and not a feeling that separates the weak from the strong, we can all find more value in our studies and come together as a supportive, individualistic, community.
Hannah Slack is a freelance writer from Sheffield, United Kingdom. She began writing professionally about higher education while completing her PhD in History and now works in student recruitment and marketing.