When I received a job offer for a tenure track position during my final year of graduate school, I was floored. My expectation was to teach on the adjunct circuit, publish, and try my best to land something more permanent within 2-3 years. If not, I’d have to consider other options.
So when I received an interview, then a job offer, I was thrilled. Yet, one year before I would have gone up for tenure, I found myself handing in my resignation and moving into a new career. Read on for some of the reasons why I left academia.
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Job Training vs. Job Function
As a graduate student, most of my time was spent reading and writing. Of course, there was graduate teaching and assisting, but this was on the level of 1-2 classes per day.
I knew in theory that there would be other job duties when I started working full time. But as the duties piled up, I noticed a pattern that I was finally able to name when I started applying for corporate jobs. Being a professor involved much more customer service and marketing than I’d anticipated. I spent hours advertising for my own courses to fill seats and repping our department at the Majors Fair and high school visit days. My email inbox piled up with student requests for information and advice on a variety of topics. And while I was devoted to my students, and eager to help, I was spread thin.
Growing class sizes meant that I could have hundreds of students per semester. And each new semester brought hundreds more. I thought ahead to the prospect of decades of students now in my orbit, and the many requests that would continue to roll in. Letters of recommendation. References. Advising on senior projects. Club sponsorships. Again, I enjoyed this work, but not on the scale that was necessary within a mid-size teaching focused university.
Filling the Gaps
Looking back at my graduate school experience, I can see gaps in the program. We had pedagogy classes specific to our discipline, yes. But there was no specific preparation for the many issues we face in the modern classroom. Universal design for learning and accessibility; mental health issues among college students; veterans and adult learners who felt out of place among their peers.
I remember passing a poster in the library that showed the cost of one course’s books in terms of the meals that it could cover for a student. Why should the university be asking students to choose between books and food in the first place, with tuition rates skyrocketing? Was it reasonable to place the responsibility on professors to donate to the food banks on campus and cut costs on books? Why time tuition refunds to partway through the semester, leaving students without enough money for books during the first weeks of class?
Problem Solving
I accepted the responsibility of solving these issues for my own students, even as I disagreed with the structure that created them in the first place. Most of my courses made use of books available for free as EPubs from the campus library. I’d carefully plan ahead and order unlimited access to works from my syllabus as part of the budget we had each semester for departmental library purchases. And I moved to open source versions of Latin texts when available. But the higher level courses demanded more specialized materials, and I worried about the cost for my students vs. the quality of free, unedited, or older versions.
From the university’s perspective, these were all crucial issues for retention. For me, it was a matter of doing the right thing and supporting my students. So I met each new challenge with stacks of pedagogy books borrowed from the library, and study groups among faculty. And I fought the emotional burnout that I sometimes saw among faculty. I could understand it. It hurt to see students struggle within a structure we had little agency over. As an individual, I did what I could, but no single professor could change the tuition structure or improve the job market for our graduating students.
Work/Life Balance
As the emotions of my work spilled over into my personal life, so too did the actual job duties. I’d be on campus late for events, or on weekends to assist with student activities. Some even stayed on campus overnight for a special 24-hour event featuring a lock-in. Faculty ran reading groups over the summer for students, in spite of our contracts not covering any summer work. We did it for the students, who did not want their language skills to erode over the break.
Untenured faculty often felt pressure to say yes to such opportunities. But there was a tension between the work we took on, and the work that was rewarded in our tenure files. Saying “no” seemed to have a disproportionately negative effect, while saying “yes,” barely moved the meter. We needed to publish. We needed to innovate our course materials, which involved revising and redesigning constantly, even as we took on “new preps,” or courses we had not taught before.
A Labor of Love
Underlying this was a set of messages we’d all been receiving since grad school. “You’re lucky to have this opportunity.” “Not everyone gets to do what they love.” “It’s your specialty, don’t you enjoy working with students on this?” Of course I do! And I was immensely lucky to have the chance. But for every sincere, natural, rewarding student interaction, there was a stack of grading. A spreadsheet to be filled out for the General Education committee detailing student progress across dozens of metrics. A departmental mission statement to bring in line with the new university leadership. “Revenue streams” to brainstorm for our dean to help justify the humanities’ existence.
These were labors of love. Yet the care I brought to my work often seemed to harm me. I couldn’t say no. What kind of an academic would I be if I refused XYZ duty?
Career Agency
We were dropping off a package at FedEx when I spotted a slim blue volume on a shelf next to some Post Its. The Career Manifesto by Mike Steib, read the cover. “Maybe this would be interesting for you as you grow your business?” I said to my partner. He nodded, and I tossed it on the checkout counter. Then promptly read it cover to cover.
I wasn’t ready to admit it, but I was starting to see a misalignment in my life, and the activities in this book were giving them a name. My (at the time, undiagnosed) autistic strengths and challenges didn’t match up well with the actual day-to-day of the career I’d worked so hard to obtain. My values were constantly being challenged as I fought to support my students within the business model of higher ed. Not to mention, we’d moved from our home state away from our families so that I could pursue this opportunity.
It did occur to me: would I be happier at a smaller college? The answer was yes. But the arduous job search and application process and the slim odds involved discouraged me from taking that step. In fact, I felt a surge of nausea when I considered the prospect of re-assembling a portfolio. And in the end, I’d just be rolling the dice again. Would I like my new colleagues? Could my partner be happier in another strange new town? Would the department remain stable long-term?
It would take the pandemic to get me thinking beyond other academic opportunities and towards something entirely new.
Masking and Burnout
One memory stands out in particular from my last year of teaching in person. I was in my office, thinking through some aspect of my mental health that had come up in therapy during that week. As the clock ticked towards my class start time, I felt almost like I was choking. Tears formed in my eyes. How was I going to teach? What if I burst into sobs in front of my class? Maybe then I’d get some support, I thought dimly.
But instead of saying out loud that I was struggling, I checked my appearance in the small mirror placed by the door of my office. I gathered my things. And I went to teach.
It was time to begin, but I couldn’t get myself to start talking. Well, there are a couple empty seats. I’ll start at two minutes after the hour. When clock hands reached their goal, still nothing from me. The students were looking at me. Oh my. Ok, I’ll start at three after.
This was a common occurrence. I’d count down, restart the count, and finally summon a burst of energy and adrenaline to begin.
Super Me
Once I’d started, I felt like a possessed wind-up doll. I’d watch from afar as I discussed the day’s reading and drew out the students who volunteered their thoughts. Go, go, go! I’d think, as this other woman took the stage.
In retrospect, I was masking and dissociating to get through the overwhelm of classroom work. Smaller classes I could teach as myself to some degree, but the large lectures? That was a job for Super Me, the adrenaline and coffee fueled version of myself who gestured, modulated her voice, validated and challenged each contribution to the conversation.
But Super Me took a toll on regular me. I could barely hold a conversation with my partner by the time I got home. Not to mention being laid low by migraine attacks periodically.
Remote Work
I did not fully realize the toll of this until I started teaching online. As many difficulties as that presented, certain aspects of the experience were actually a form of autistic accommodation.
In particular, having a headset allowed me to speak in my natural (quieter) voice. I no longer had to talk so loud it hurt my own ears! And there was no room to pace or gesticulate as I was often doing to enhance the classroom performance. Nor did I have to dress in uncomfortable clothes. A t-shirt with a knit blazer over it would suffice.
Office hours were now remote as well. I didn’t have to worry about being surprised in person by students walking into my office. Now, they booked slots with me on GCal or requested to join a standing video call. Events slowed to a trickle as well, though we did our best to plan at least a few engaging online activities to foster community within our majors.
Yet the pandemic conditions amplified other struggles. My students’ mental health was even more at the forefront of my work. Illness, isolation, and loss pervaded their semesters, and I let empathy take the forefront. In spite of the last minute pileup of submissions that crept into my winter break, I accepted assignments up until grades were due. I didn’t feel I could hold my students to the usual deadlines under these conditions.
A New Path
It was a trip to our hometown during a lull in COVID cases that settled things for me. Even with masks, distancing, and anxiety, it felt like a warm hug to be home. I sat in a park with my friend from middle school and she cried as I told her about teaching that year.
My plan started that summer day. Ultimately, I’d learn to code and land in instructional design. I’d also draft a novel about one of the women I’d researched in my dissertation (which I am currently editing). And while I miss academia in some ways, I’m able to work in a way that’s healthier for me. We were also able to move to a town of our choice, a luxury not given to most academics, and be near our families again.
With some room to recover from burnout, I renewed my commitment to self-study and worked on my relationships. Without that space, I don’t know how long it would have taken for me to realize I was on the spectrum, and that something bigger-picture needed to change. When I look back at why I left academia, I do feel sadness, and sometimes regret. But I also see all the new opportunities and growth that resulted, and would not change my decision in the end.
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Do you have experience with a big career change, or a background in academia? Let me know in the comments!
