Vitamine C: on appointments, curricula, and informal power

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For a long time, I assumed that universities put students first. That seems self-evident: without students, a university has no reason to exist. In many places this is fortunately still the case, especially at younger universities and in countries where the traditional authority of professors has largely eroded. That is precisely why I was surprised by how things worked at one of the universities I was employed at. I was used to lengthy discussions about curricula, careful analyses of student evaluations, consultations with student representatives. Everything revolved around one question: how can we improve the educational experience? Not here. The first question I was asked was not what students need, but: “What would   you   like to teach?” I genuinely thought:  Really? I get to decide that myself? At first glance, that sounds appealing. A dream scenario for any professor. But once I saw which courses my colleagues were offering, my surprise turned into discomfort. Litt...
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The accidental academic

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The idea of pursuing a PhD — let alone becoming a professor — was once beyond the realm of my imagination. In my environment, university served a single purpose: training for a solid, practical profession. It was the only path I knew.

I followed it faithfully, earning a degree in a health-related field. Yet a sense of unease persisted. What followed was a ten-year odyssey through various specialisations — working with children, stroke patients, adults with intellectual disabilities — each move an attempt to find a niche that suited me. None ever did.

The outcome was predictable: a severe burnout. A decade in the wrong career is a recipe for collapse. 

I never imagined starting a PhD later in life, after a decade in another profession.

Yet, within that breaking point lay an unexpected gift. The catalyst that forced me to abandon the original path entirely and begin constructing another — one that led, improbably, to where I am now.

I decided to study languages, purely out of interest, with no career in mind. To my surprise, I discovered I had a talent for it — especially when it came to the analytical side. Writing my dissertation was not a chore but an adventure, one that culminated in my first academic conference, where my supervisor encouraged me to present my findings. 

Some conferences are supportive spaces for early-career researchers. Others are not. My introduction to academia was of the latter kind. The academics in the room were loud, confrontational, and impatient. During my presentation, I was interrupted twice by an aggressive academic — something that simply isn’t allowed at a conference. At the time, I was simply humiliated. I called my partner immediately afterwards, in tears, to say I was done with academia.

What puzzled me most was what happened next. That same academic sought me out over lunch and even complimented me on my work. I was bewildered. How could someone humiliate a junior researcher in public and then offer praise minutes later? Is this what academic life is like?

Stranger still, a few months later I received a phone call from an eminent professor collaborating with that same individual. They were looking for a research assistant for a new project and considered me an ideal candidate. Would I accept a two-year position?

 

I did. And that’s how I ended up in academia — and, alongside my work as a research assistant, began my own PhD.

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