What I’ve Learnt In The First Year Of My PhD
When you tell people you want to do a PhD, the most common response is “why on earth would you want to do that?”, frequently followed by “oh, I could never”. Those who have been through the PhD trenches themselves warn you that it’s tough, competitive, so much harder to get funding than it was in their day. They warn you of precarious jobs and immense workloads, decimated pension schemes. And you, if you’re like me, tell yourself that you are walking into this with your eyes wide open.
My eyes stayed open. Framed with rose-coloured glasses, but open nonetheless. On every bad day, I tell myself “I signed up for this”, and recite a litany of gratitude inside my mind. I signed up for this, and I would choose it again and again and again. Academia cracked me open; it reminded me who I am and what motivates me. I met likeminded people who chose the same path I did. I get to spend the next few years of my life researching a topic I care deeply about, and I get the freedom to shape my own daily life rather than adhering to an employers’ schedule.
I’m eight months into my PhD now, and the rose-coloured glasses are gone. They are replaced by a deeper love, a deeper frustration, and a complex kind of hope.
The process of applying for a PhD is shrouded in mystery. If you are in the humanities or social sciences, you apply to your university department of choice, and apply for funding separately. You do not find out whether you will receive said funding until late spring or summer. Depending how interdisciplinary your research topic is, there are maybe three funding schemes you will be eligible for. Some of these have one place available, others have multiple places across a number of universities and subject areas.
I did not get full funding. Last year I received rejection after rejection. For me, funding was the only option, because I could not afford to move from Glasgow to London without it. I am lucky to be the recipient of a Ukrainian Studies scholarship that is worth nearly a third of full funding. Between this and a student loan, I was able to move to London and start my PhD. I am immensely grateful for my scholarship, and after seeing how many of my friends are doing this with no funding at all, I know how privileged I am to have any financial support.
I applied to one funding scheme this year, and was unsuccessful. There was less riding on it for me than last year. It would have been the difference between financial stability during the most crucial year of my PhD, versus having to balance research and work and teaching and trying to avoid burnout. I am used to doing things the hard way, and I know I’ll be fine. I know that I am in a better position than my friends are, and there’s only so much frustration I can feel about my own circumstances without a little voice in my head reminding me that other people have it worse. So I direct my frustration towards the systemic problems of academia instead.
I was determined to do a PhD for so long that I gladly jumped through all the hoops. It’s a choice of playing by the rules or being out of the game. But when you think too deeply about those rules, you see just how absurd they are. Why do universities let us in when we have no guarantee of funding? Why do research councils wait until so late in the year to allocate funding? Why is academia in such a dire financial position? I know the answers. Neoliberalism, commodification of academia, etc, etc. I didn’t watch UCU strike for 5 years straight without learning a thing or two about the perils of this industry.
I have spent all of my adult life in a university, whether as student or staff or researcher. I am intimately familiar with academia’s good and bad sides, and I knew what I was choosing for myself. My eyes are open, and there is no green envy or rosy haze. I see where I am, and I gather up the lessons I’ve learnt and hold them close to my chest for safekeeping.
So what have I learnt, in the first two terms of my PhD? What wisdom do I have to share with the uninitiated?
It’s lonely, and we need each other. You need academic friends, and even then, you’ll still feel lonely. Maybe your research topic is so niche that you have no one else to talk to about it. Maybe you’re still learning how to connect with new people. No matter how many amazing friends you have before starting your PhD, you will need your PhD friends. We are all facing the same challenges, and it’s so affirming to know that you’re not alone. It takes time to build up the trust and emotional intimacy to tell people when you’re struggling, especially when these people were strangers only a few months ago. But when you look at the years ahead of you and know that these people will be going through the exact same struggles as you are, you realise how much you need them, and how much they will need you too.
A lot of people disappear. Not like missing person level disappear, but just never seem to be on campus. Especially in an Area Studies programme where most people spend months doing fieldwork abroad. The people who don’t disappear become your people, but only if you put in the effort.
That said, it’s important to connect with people in different stages of their PhD. Your supervisors will help you with the academic side of things, but fellow PhD students have the day-to-day knowledge that will save you. This applies to you, too. If you know Master’s or undergrad students, be the person you needed when you were in their position. Lend them a helping hand – proofread their drafts or give them reading recommendations. There is so little clarity throughout the academic journey, and you never know how much someone could use your guidance.
The people you spend time around will influence you. This is true of your supervisors and other academics you connect with, but it’s also true of your friends and colleagues. When you spend a lot of time around someone, you pick up their traits. Your routines start to sync up with the people around you, and if you’re lucky, they will make you better. I haven’t drunk coffee in two weeks and keep eating lunch at 3pm, which is deeply unlike me. If you told me that I would survive academia on nothing but Earl Grey tea, I would have laughed. But stranger things have happened this year.
The people you meet will play many different roles. Friends, allies, colleagues, mirrors. The most important part is showing up, allowing yourself to be seen. If you are there, day-in day-out, you will form meaningful connections. Academia is incredibly stressful, and there will be times where you’re tired or grumpy or annoying, where you feel a little too needy or a little too much. Show up on those days too. The right people will see that you are so much more than your off days.
This is 3+ years of your life. You will face so many personal challenges that you never saw coming, but this is part of your self-actualisation. You have chosen a path that requires intense focus, attention to detail, a depth of critical thinking skills. You can’t switch that off at the end of your work day, it will spill out into your life. You will see yourself in a new light, become a person you didn’t know you could be. It will cut you wide open, and you will make it out the other side. I promise.
Everything feels impossible until you’re doing it. The first year of a PhD is mostly just reading and writing, and even that feels tough at times. My research is about the experiences of Ukrainian refugees in the UK, which means that next year I will be interviewing Ukrainian refugees. This year, when I’ve had a bad day or haven’t been able to give a hundred percent to my research, the only person it’s impacted is me. I am conscious that next year my research is no longer just mine, it will belong to my participants’ too. I will be holding people’s most vulnerable moments in my hands, and that is a huge responsibility. It is a responsibility I chose willingly, but I am still stunned by the enormity of it. I want to do right by them, I want to show up as the best version of myself, and do justice to their stories and experiences.
There is a gap between who people are when they make a decision and who they are when they live that decision. When I applied for this PhD, I believed in a future version of myself who would be competent and capable. I believed in her wholeheartedly, and now I have to become her. Not just for myself, but for my research participants. What was once a hard-won goal is now my daily life. I couldn’t have imagined how this year would go, the depths of myself that academia would unearth. But everything feels impossible until you’re doing it.
Academia is intense and brutal, and it attracts a certain kind of person. There is so much comfort in the knowledge that we’ve all made the same questionable choices, all forsaken financial security and a steady job for this specific lifestyle. When you start a PhD, it’s easy to look at the people around you and think they’re so smart and accomplished and intimidating. They are smart, they are accomplished. But one day, when you know them a little better, you’ll realise that every single one of these people is a massive nerd, and they’re not intimidating at all.