Miniature Dreams, Miniature Deaths: Life on the Academic Job Market

By Delaney Couri

A school based on faithful religious values, with a high emphasis on diversity, equity, and inclusion. A school nestled in a suburb of a major Northeastern city, with hiking trails that extend miles around campus and are especially beautiful when the leaves begin to change. A school that is a train ride away from three other major cities that provide weekend getaways for stressed students, faculty, and staff alike. 

A school with a job opening in my field. A school with a job that I applied for. A school with a job that I did not get.

I am currently on the academic job market, slowly filling out applications for jobs all across the country. On the market, most applications require written statements that are specific to each institution. Statements of contribution to mission or values are commonplace and require candidates like myself to learn more about an institution before applying. This learning is important because no one wants to apply for a job that they have no passion for, or at an institution where they would not fit. However, this learning is also dangerous, because it means that every job that I apply for requires me to fall in love with the particular institution and write pages and pages about my daydreams of how I fit within these unique places. I wrote many months ago about the ways that I am prone to daydreaming, imagining lives in cities far away from where I am now. These daydreams used to be harmless. After all, they were just fun diversions from the monotony of another month in College Station. But lately, daydreaming has been painful because my daydreams have begun to be founded in the most exciting, jarring, disorienting feeling: hope.

Every single time that I apply to a job, I fall in love with the school and the place before I hit submit. My mind wanders and I begin to daydream about what my life would look like in these places, and I have hope that my application will stand out and help make my daydream a reality. That is why, every single time that I do not get an email back my heart breaks just a little. No one likes rejection, but rejection is made that much harder when it is not just founded in the current moment, but in hopes of a future moment too. 

When talking to my advisor about the emotional exhaustion I was carrying writing a dissertation and applying for jobs at the same time, I described the process by saying, “It is like mini dreams and mini deaths. All of the times I apply to a job, I dream about my life there. And every time I don’t get a job, that dream dies. It is breaking my heart.” My advisor had warned me about how difficult this process was and so I figured that my lament would not come as a surprise to her, and yet she looked at me and told me that she had never heard the job market described in the way I described it. 

Individuals before me have done their part in demystifying the academic job application process, sharing both tips for writing application materials and honest declarations about the jobs they have applied for and not received. It is becoming more common to write about failure and all of the ways that this makes people feel. However, even in this space there feels like there is a silent undertone of judgment and a suggestion that to be an academic means being resilient and learning to expect rejection. I think the people who have told me to cultivate an attitude of acceptance for these rejections and get comfortable with failure, this discourse leaves out a very important step… grieving. 

Sure, I can shift my attitude to see failure as a stepping stone. I can learn to live with rejection as the way of life of an academic. But it doesn’t mean I have to be numb to it. It doesn’t mean that I have to be so resilient that I lose my connection with my feelings. It is hard to be on the job market and writing a dissertation. It is difficult to have my heart broken each time I put my whole self into an application and envision a future only to have it denied without even receiving a formal rejection letter. When these dreams and imagined lives die, something inside of me does, too. It will regrow and I will be okay, but not without an acknowledgment of this death and a miniature letting go that allows me to move on. 

So, I am using this space to let go of this school, nestled in a suburb of a major Northeastern city, with beautiful walking trails and trains that take people to interesting and beautiful locales. What miniature dreams do you need to let go of? Whatever it is, know that I am there, too, grieving beside you.