Part 1 is here.
23 August 2022
I wrote a post on January 17 about how I felt immediately after I launched my study. On reflection and re-reading of that lament, here are some things I’ve noticed.
1. Of course people were going to share it on Twitter*.
I have a very modest following on Twitter, nearly all of whom are academics in fields near mine. I research sexual violence, so my feed is full of researchers doing great work on domestic violence, child sexual abuse, and how to best amplify and value survivors’ voices. As a person interested in these areas, I’m excited to see new work being done and I want to help however I can. I retweet participant callouts when I see them. I comment on articles I feel add value to the literature.
The idea that folks would feel this way about my research felt foreign, which is weird. If I happily share work and ideas from people I see doing great work, why wouldn’t others do the same for me? I think this feeling arose from two factors.
1.1 I was unfamiliar with Twitter’s culture.
Simple lack of familiarity with the platform meant I was not experienced enough to anticipate how my “This study is open!” post would be received. Every social media platform, just like every physical space, operates with an underlying system of norms. They each have a culture, and the behaviour and language chosen by participants in those spaces are informed by that culture. It’s taken me a while to get a handle on the culture of Twitter. I’m not there yet, but I’m certainly better informed than I was.
1.2 I have imposter syndrome.
I may write a proper post on this another day, but I walk around with imposter syndrome, the sneaking suspicion that I’ve lucked into my achievements (rather than earned them) and that I’m going to be found out any day now. It’s basically a fear of the “fraud police“, as Amanda Palmer puts it. Imposter syndrome makes it hard to imagine why anyone might help me, since I’m obviously (in my self-perception) not good enough to warrant the assistance of others on my endeavours.
Rough.
2. Just because they share, doesn’t mean they find me credible.
In that original post, I suggested that because people shared my recruitment flyer on Twitter and participated in the survey, it must imply something about my trustworthiness or credibility as a researcher.
I don’t really think that any more.
I get the feeling there is a credibility bar, but I think it’s low and I clear it with basic stuff. I have no swear words, peach/eggplant emojis, or spicy personal opinions in my Twitter bio. My recruitment flyer graphic is neat and presentable. The link to my study opens with a page free of ads/popups/porn, and the opening pages of my study are full of ethics language and institutional contact details. It’s a low bar, but I know for myself I would probably fill out a survey if it ticked those boxes.
3. Instead of feeling afraid, I now feel responsible.
In the time since writing that post, I have collected hundreds of survey responses and interviewed a small group of women about their experiences around sex and consent. I knew that engaging with this project was potentially re-triggering and traumatic for participants, which brought up a lot of fear in me – what if I really hurt someone?
In my ethics application, I outlined several steps I would take to try to minimise the negative impacts on my participants, but I worried about whether these steps would work in practice. On reflection, I think they worked quite well (and I remain open to feedback on that). Most of my oh god this is scary feelings have since evolved into this is a risk I must manage well feelings. I now feel responsible rather than afraid.
I have also realised the important role of accountability in this project. The risk of fucking it up feels scary, but if something goes wrong, the only thing to do is acknowledge it, apologise, try to fix it, and take steps to avoid it happening in future. Throughout the data collection process, I have tried my best to anticipate and avoid hazards, and remain accountable when things go wrong. Knowing that I’m doing my best, that’s all I can do, is weirdly calming.
4. My confidence has grown.
The phrase from Part 1 that most affected me on reread was this:
I am used to feeling unimportant.
Me from six months ago
Hot damn.
I think I wrote this with no follow-up because I wanted it be impactful, but I also wanted to drive home the following: PhD students often feel unimportant in a stark and serious way.
After the years I spent in undergrad and honours, I was instilled with the intuition that my work was only as good as the grade it was awarded. This oriented me (and I think orients many students) to try to say the “right answer” rather than saying what I think is right.
I am used to feeling unimportant expresses the feeling that I’m here to cite the work of others (as I was asked to do in most of my uni assignments), not produce my own. My voice is only important for repeating the words of other, smarter people.
As an undergrad, this is reasonable because you don’t know very much. Reading, understanding and citing the work of others is critical at that stage. By the time you reach the PhD, you should still be reading and citing the others’ work, but you need to lean into trusting and using your voice too.
Which is really hard.
As students, many of us aren’t confident that we have anything valuable of our own to say. We are used to being the least knowledgeable, least experienced people in the room.
Obviously these doubts have their benefits. Trying to find the “right answer” and the self-doubt that comes with it has sparked an unending desire in me to check and double-check my work. This is a good impulse. Before I post here, or on Twitter, or say something in the office, I think about the validity and value of my contribution. Is it true? Is it useful? Am I actually communicating the central idea and avoiding unnecessary waffle? Healthy skepticism is beneficial; it helps protect me from saying untrue or unhelpful things in public.
Being the least knowledgeable, least experienced person in the room – which, as a student, I often am – is great. You’re in a great position to ask questions. You may be low on credibility and authority, but you have great opportunities to learn and grow. Being in those spaces is also a super effective antidote for arrogance (if you’re ready to value the expertise of others). Once you’ve decided you have nothing to learn from anyone, arrogance and certainty – the opposites of healthy skepticism – are liable to set in. Then you’re in trouble.
While I don’t think I’ve acquired much arrogance in the time since launching my study, my feelings of unimportance have subsided a bit. In researcher spaces, I still feel like I’m surrounded by smarter and more experienced people (because I am), but I’m also starting to feel like a peer. I can speak to my own research with more confidence and I can engage with other academics on their research with less fear. I feel like I can comment on others’ without being slapped down. More than that – I feel like when I comment on others’ work, I might be adding something valuable to the conversation. That my interpretation might be valid.
Stepping into one’s confidence can be scary. For me, I often manage this fear by walking softly. I don’t need to come out swinging. I don’t need to be aggressive in my critiques, and I don’t need to be stern or absolute in my writing. I can propose, suggest, argue. I can explain how the data are consistent with my interpretation. I remain open to criticism and welcome feedback (though understanding when and how to take feedback on board is a topic for another time).
I keep hearing that a PhD is an apprenticeship in research. I assumed this would focus on skill development, but I think the confidence that comes with training and practice is just as important.
*This was before Twitter exploded.
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