PhD and me – foolhardy

I doubt my doubt is more doubtful than yours

This is a blog for anyone suffering a moment of doubt with their PhD.

Firstly, I am fine. Slowly making progress. Quickly approaching a deadline. These two factors are on track to converge.

Secondly, it is also fine to not be fine. And if in doubt about that, the network you are part of within the PhD community is a good place to straighten yourself out.

The foolhardy measure

As a pretty outwardly relaxed person, and exceptional at masking whatever is going on within (especially to myself) I regularly consider my foolhardiness based on those above two possibilities. This is important for my mental well-being. In essence, it goes something like this.

foolhardiness:

#1 Be hardy: reading, writing, and revisiting.

#2 Don’t be the fool: know when to reach out.

A practical example

This is fresh in mind – because this week I had a few doubts to unravel. It is normal, but this one was big enough to prompt this reflection – my way of writing my way clear – until the next.

My latest example

The big doubt mid-week ended well. So I thought perhaps an example will help you work out your current flavour of doubt – i.e., whether it is one that is fine, or the one where you need to reach out. This is my foolhardy – always partly hardy, and partly fool – this is reflecting upon which better had my measure.

Background

No two PhD journeys are the same. I suspect no two transfer processes are either. Indeed, if you are not in the UK – this whole process may be alien to your own PhD journey.

The PhD status: The first draft of my Transfer Report will be with my supervisors by the end of this month (June 2023). This is a big deal – because the Transfer Report feeds into the transfer decision. The transfer decision is a go / no go. If you are “no go” – you go no further.

My PhD status: I am now deeply invested in my specific research focus. Three key examples of how that starts to look.

[1] My research problem is clearly outlined, researched and supported robustly with literature evidence. Robust enough to have been accepted as a development paper at the British Academy of Management conference in September.

[2] My research question is most clear. “How can differences in intentions inform governance frameworks and reduce threat of conflict in inter-organisational projects?” – supported by six objective which each link tightly to aspects of this one research question. These are hard won over several months of iterative challenge and reworking. My supervisors pushed me really hard on this – thanks to them for that. Both question and objectives have also now been aired with my peers within the Leeds Centre for Projects – and faced their friendly critique.

[3] A significant review of literature; a focus of methodology and supporting worldview; and an outline of a research plan are well researched, extensively written (a vast text – vast) but a long way from being written succinctly (a long way). The literature review, methodology, and plan form the backbone of the transfer report.

Hardy or fool?

There is nothing in that last paragraph to indicate excessive doubt. So far, so normal. But I can assure you that there is lingering doubt living still through every stage up to and including this point – even now it still does. Never prolonged. Never unduly critical. Just a constant edging towards more progress, and new doubt – all of that is more hardy than fool.

Last week’s doubt was a little deeper than most I have had in this first year of my PhD. The hard stop deadline adding a little more bite. This too, I concluded to be more hardy than fool. Situationally, that extra bite would have been stoking up my inner chemistry to make my brain’s amygdala pump out more angst (and with it more self-doubt); and with that more inner chemistry comes a repeating spiral that adds a little more. My advice (and all advice others have given me) is just keep reading, writing, and revisiting. Still more hardy than fool.

However, I think there is a point where that self-diagnosis and the safe return may not so easily be read towards. And if that is you, it really does pay to talk it through. Supervisors do this for a living. Peers go through it, too. Do not allow yourself to sit and stew. Don’t be the fool, being hardy.

I repeat the following to ensure it is noted. Situationally, that extra bite would have been stoking up my inner chemistry to make my brain’s amygdala pump out more angst (and with it more self-doubt); and with that more inner chemistry comes a repeating spiral that adds a little more. This is situational, it is not the normal. If this is the normal, you are spiralling the wrong way. I am not at the deadline yet for my transfer. But I am past that block to clarity that was building my doubt. I just kept reading, writing, and revisiting.

Know thyself

It also pays to know yourself well. That was a lesson I found out the hard way. I doubt very much I would have had the means to do this most hard thing I now do (this hard PhD thing), if I had not. Much like PhD journeys however, I think the individual path to know oneself is uniquely ones own. I will offer a glimpse here of each, as they relate to me. Firstly, it was therapy, a deeper understanding of psychology, repositioning my empathy that helped me. My wider blog deals with aspects of that.

Secondly, and more easily, I can expand on the exit of my doubt this week. For me, I wrote myself out of the trough I was in a few days ago. Others may talk their way through. Or find a way to redraw a diagram. Or perhaps have a plan they just need to stick to. Me, I need to let my brain free to be. That may be a rewriting, or redefining, rework a few smaller parts. That might lead: [i] revealing something new, [ii] reflecting and reshaping what I thought I knew; [iii] or just reclaiming my understanding, the justification, [iv] or reveal the weakness of a claim. It is a plunge into detail, then remove myself from that detail and plunge into something else. From that repositioning I will rewrite some more. And if that fails, I will write to myself. Those notes can be emergently revealing – if that sounds exceptionally odd, I provide an example in the footnote below*.

No doubt: there will be more doubt

That’s all for now. I very nearly did not write this blog. My doubt is still too near. Doubt enough to wonder what this will read like if my go / no go has me the wrong side of that nagging fear. That’s why I also write in reflection. Writing to my future self – whilst I still know last weeks self here. That may help you. It will help my next foolhardy moment – of that I have no doubt.

to be continued…

________________________________

Footnote:

* I woke up and felt this note waiting to be written. That will sound weird, but after a decent sleep my ideas are sometimes clearer before I start thinking of them again. This note turned into an industrious 72 hours: “It’s not about doubt at this point. It’s about refocusing upon the priority. And thereby clearing the fog, to rediscover the clarity. It is horizons that I am seeking to expand. But am I thinking about that too literally? Horizons but not looking out, instead revealing other mountains to look back upon. Or key items on the landscape to descend upon, and if necessary dig a little or ascend and look straight down. I am not describing other mountains that can be seen the same way. I am describing the view of my focal interest, from that found vantage point. My [Hermeneutic] circling claims that vantage point from which to see. To see the same focal point. Just seen differently. That is the object subject, but existentially one in the same. This is asking what we are being, in this PPP World [DN: my object of enquiry is Public Private Partnerships, the World probably Heideggerian – i.e., being-in-the-world]. How we are behaving. Reasoning behaviour based upon the active goal, as understood from that perspective. How these various perspectives relate us: to that world; to each other; and how governing all that is relatable differently. How that is us being in this seen world.”

Happy Birthday, me

50 years of hurt… well, actually I think they have been pretty good to me thus far

“Three Lions on a shirt,
Jules Rimet still gleaming,
[50] years of hurt,
Never stopped me dreaming…”

Three Lions
Song by David Baddiel, Frank Skinner, and The Lightning Seeds

I turn 50 today. 18th December 2022. By coincidence a football World Cup Final plays out today, too: France vs Argentina. As a 50 year old Englishman, that is not my birthday choice of World Cup Final. If I were to dwell upon that English stereotype, my 1980s are well defined by the “Hand of God”. So too is the Falklands War (“guerra de las malvinas“). My father was still in the Royal Navy in 1982 – albeit behind a desk by then. When that first French-made Exocet Missile hit HMS Sheffield on 4th May, a reality of war sank deep into my psyche all the same. On balance – and I am more balanced than to let history define my day – I will lean more towards François Mitterrand than Diego Maradona today. But it is my birthday, so I’ll cry if I want to.

Two topics will be addressed in this blog: three if we are counting football. The other two topics will be less melancholy than may first appear. Please don’t be put off therefore, as I reveal those topics to be [1] suicide, [2] death. Both I and this blog will be more upbeat than these topics suggest.

If you know me at all, you will know why suicide is fitting to mark this birthday {here}. In mid-July 2019 I was not thinking of any future at all. However, life 2.0 has come about by that prompt. I began an MSc within a few months of that lowest day. I graduated with distinction the next year. Another MSc soon followed, and here I am in 2022 turning 50 as a full-time PhD candidate. I am probably as happy as I have ever been. Doing precisely the one thing that I thought beyond me. And all that because of those many challenges over so many years, not despite them. I am now so much better mentally prepared.

The sense of disconnection I felt in 2019 is not unusual. Over 1,000 men aged 45-54 die via suicide year-on-year in England. This is around 20% of all suicides for all age and gender groups (better statistical insight here). I could write for days on this subset of the population who seem set towards self-destruction. However, this wider social crisis is one we all share. Around 1,000,000 people in England remain diagnosed with depression each year. Table 1 below presents the numbers. This table reports the total number of people diagnosed with depression via GPs. The table reflects age and gender. Please note that the age spread, which shows depression effects all ages, hits hardest in the working and family rearing age in life – so most everyone. It can also be noted that for every 5 people depressed, 2 are men but 3 are women. That’s significant, and alarming. So, why do I think we should be more candid in our self-reflections on matters like death? Well, for me at least, it proved invaluable in my return from the brink, and therein finding my better cause.

GenderAge group2017201820192020
Males16 to 24 years51,07756,63662,92245,356
Males25 to 34 years86,25396,432106,73078,825
Males35 to 44 years78,20883,07089,24265,489
Males45 to 54 years81,97683,98085,21658,138
Males55 to 64 years53,81554,94658,93941,757
Males65 to 74 years19,16520,01721,03416,166
Males75 year and over 10,04211,45913,29911,814
Females16 to 24 years98,935109,967119,82599,229
Females25 to 34 years141,516152,384165,591136,739
Females35 to 44 years125,347124,836130,572103,990
Females45 to 54 years128,280122,479123,63987,887
Females55 to 64 years82,58883,99187,38865,650
Females65 to 74 years37,31137,55438,27528,208
Females75 year and over 25,55326,42429,13224,330
Table 1: Year-on-year clinical depression numbers in England by age group and gender 2017-2020 (Source: Office for National Statistics, General Practice Extraction Service Data for Pandemic Planning and Research (GDPPR), NHS Digital)

Finding purpose is a core theme of existential philosophy. Albert Camus describes the absurdity and meaninglessness that can arise in the face of life’s challenges and hardships. He argued that individuals must find their own meaning, rather than relying on external sources or guidance. Martin Heidegger’s concept of authenticity, or “being-toward-death,” is closely related to this too. We are each “thrown” into the world, and we must confront our own mortality if we are to be authentic and true to ourselves. The Frenchman, Albert Camus perhaps followed the Friedrich Nietzsche concerns for finding meaning despite the absurdity and meaningless. Whereas the Frenchman Jean-Paul Sartre was perhaps more aligned to Martin Heidegger in seeking the meaning that is there to be found. Other philosophers who guide such thought include Søren Kierkegaard, Karl Jaspers, Martin Buber, and Paul Tillich. Each of these philosophers approached the question of meaning in life in a somewhat different way. All have helped me. From 2019 to now, I have been retraining and learning anew, taking responsibility for creating new meaning for myself and what new possibility that can thereafter reveal. Whenever I am unsure, I just think on what I will look back upon with pride or regret, and that helps shine a light upon my path.

This blog, marking my 50th birthday, therefore faces both of these topics in good cheer. In my first 50 years I have served, I have consumed, I have built and I have experienced. I am fortunate that my love is reciprocated and continues to be cherished and nurtured. The second half of life will involve more loss, and who knows how many more years that represents. But whatever that count, these are years left to become more than I am today. What I do know is that I need less going forward than I did in the first fifty years. I now have pretty much all that I need. I have a handle on my wants and know them all to be near. Any more wants than that are increasingly labelled as unnecessary greed. My platform is built, so it is contribution that comes next. And that possibility is good enough for me.

Back therefore to the world, and to cups only one can own, and other such zero-sum games. It is right to remember football is not life or death. Both Argentina and France may be permitted to misquote Bill Shankly today, and say that football is more important than that. Philosophically, I find myself existentially supporting individual meaning. My personal raison d’être, but perhaps beyond the purity and chastity reflected in the fleur-de-lis. I can muster more French than I can Argentinian it would seem. Argentina have other philosophy and culture to admire. They do claim a hand of God, and are blessed indeed by the feet of Lionel Messi. But on this, the first day of my 50th year, I am responsible for my own goals: so don’t cry for me, Argentina.

Psycho-analytics

Too much, too Jung

I had a therapy session today. First for a while. A tough week prompted a revisit with someone who knows my psychology well. All is fine, just a mental MOT.

Plenty in the news to take in. All testing my resolve as I approach two years in full lockdown. My psychology MSc also made for some interesting things to discuss. Exams passed – a few challenges to the academic process – all ending in smiles.

Principally, the therapy discussion enabled a comparison of teaching vs practice. The psychology I am studying almost completely ignores psycho-analytics, and the works of the likes of Jung and Freud. They will feature at some point, but they have historical interest rather than contemporary lessons to teach. Yet as soon as I need to reset and relate, these are the taught lessons and schema that help me the most. I see commonality between some of the analysis and explanations, for example Jungian archetypes have some level of connection to the typology of brain types currently being argued by the likes of Simon Baron-Cohen. Not that he will thank me for connecting the two.

I am delighted I get to think in such diverse terms. And that my reading invites wider perspective beyond. It is my moments of greatest inner dissonance that I find myself thinking with the most lateral connection. Offering my greatest challenge to whatever system of cognitive schema I am temporarily most reliant upon. It is also when my reading becomes most diverse. All aligning to a questioning of everything. Thankfully, that is no longer a source of self-doubt.

My learning advises me that people who regularly manage depression are amongst those most able to rebuild mental schema. With the most desire to challenge what may otherwise be accepted as true. This is primarily because a depressed state requires heightened awareness of what may not quite be so. Whether that is true or not, I find myself grateful of these moments. It means I get to regularly revisit, reform, and refine.

World Mental Health Day

WARNING : this is an emotional read

World Mental Health Day 10th October 2021. A day to raise profile of mental health issues. A day we are all encouraged to check in on each other and reflect upon ourselves.

I present my lowest day in the short-story below. The person described is gone – I stand in his place. I therefore share this as a moment long past. A little piece of my history now at peace.

Take care of yourselves. Look out for those you love. Those who may act fine. Those too proud – too unworthy – or too sunken to care – prepared to do anything but raise a hand and instead determined to be alone with their despair.

Final WARNING! – this was my lowest moment of despair

—//—

A bridge too far

A fun day.  A relived Friday to follow the last three with same upbeat revelry.  But these events, this last months’ worth, had been the first in a while.  And this one only a few days since doctors had confirmed what had been suspected.  Exogeneous depression.  A diagnosis that surprised no one when thought of retrospectively.  Circumstances made this diagnosis easy to accept in hindsight, but the demeanour of the man (me) was such that surprise to many it still was.  A stubborn resilience, at least on the surface. Typical of middle-aged men – hiding all until eventually broken – revealed.  Unavoidably, it was forced into view.

This trip along the Thames walkway had been made hundreds of times.  It was a commuting option often taken in the summer, from the insurance district of EC3 to London Bridge.  This evening however, drunken euphoria and prolonged endorphin rushes of laughter, were all too quickly being replaced with the sobering melancholy of life and challenge.  I stopped at the railings of the tow path.  There was estuary salt, diesel, and demons in the air.  A blanket of gloom descending like the pea-souper smog of London’s distant industrial past.  A thick imagined smog, now resting upon my shoulders, pushing my head forward and all hope back.

Onward a few paces and I am surprised to be looking into eddying waters below.  The steps leading back up to London Bridge pass over a narrow inlet, where the river draft was deeper.  The clop-clop sound echoed below. The ozone heavy air lifting a faint smell of urine into the nostrils of unsuspecting tourists and absent minded commuters alike. Keeping good cheer subdued.  I leaned over the metal banister. A cold imprint upon my shirt clad chest quickly prompting hands to take some weight.  The water was churning below, mesmerising, hypnotising, an anaesthetic to sombre mood.  The urine smell however was overpowering, and reason enough to walk on.

Crossing London Bridge could present challenge or wonderment in equal measure.  There was a rush north in the morning, and a rush south at 6pm.  At these moments you walk against the flowing stream with care or impudence, but either way can be assured of a healthy shoulder charge somewhere along the way.  This time of night however was easier to navigate – other than the odd meandering homebound reveller or two to second guess and steer clear.  These are the moments for a wonderment. A look over to the left offers a reward that many forget to claim.  For Tower Bridge with a moon behind, or just lit up by standard lights, is a view many pay to see just the once.  I typically took this in, but today was not one of those moments.  My mind was awash with devilry, hopelessness, and despair.  I halted short of the far end.  I was still on the bridge. I had not yet past the crowd control barriers and concrete blocks – state paid vandalism now littering many of London’s streets – the new anti-terrorism norm.  I was leaning over the thick wall, hoping to once again be swept into the hypnosis of eddying waters below.  No such luck this time though, for low tide on this side of the bank meant mud flats, and ebbing waves.  “No matter”, I thought as a I maintained a downward glare. 

Except it did matter for some reason.  I took several sideways steps along to where the water was imagined to be still, and black, and undoubtedly cold directly below.  I leaned over and stayed starring into the black.  The mesmerising eddies were what I had hoped to see, but instead the blackness, the stillness, held all my thoughts in suspended moment.  There was a stillness that appealed.  A silent emptiness. No feelings of duty, obligation, or expectation.  It was intoxicating against the drunken ramblings in my head. The replayed discussion being reworked, rephrased, in the echo chambers in my mind.  All had quietened. All was still. No thoughts of deadlines. No concerns for what medical need awaited at home. No to-do-list of pointless chores.  It was a peace.  It was my sweet silent siren to the fallen.

That’s the moment it appeared. The temptation to make good on promises of recent past.  More spontaneous than a hangman’s rope, I thought.  Less violent than opened veins.  Less fashionable than being ripped up under the wheel sets of a train.

I did not even notice when my feet had left the ground. Leaning over so far that the corners of the thick metal topped wall were pressing hard against my pelvis  I seemed to be allowing the sirens to win this time, and there was nothing within finding means to intervene.

A bus roared past and sounded its horn.  Pulling my mind back from the black and filth below.  Standing back a little from the barrier now.  My adrenaline fuelling a sobering but befuddled and despairing mind. I digested what had just happened.  This one had been different.  This one was not a cry for help, this one was a willingness to maybe just let go.  This realisation made quite the impact.  Not the messy, muddy, emergency services called impact.  A cerebral shock moment. A beacon or alarm that therapy had given warning to.  But only in this moment had my realisation of possibilities of self-harm truly been understood.

My quiet mind began to race again. Can I even get onto a train now without fear of temptation’s return? It’s not even 11pm yet, so maybe I can just get to the station and think it through.  Possible dangers were recalled. Those macabre secretly imagined options – of terminal methods and means – held in mind on those bad mornings as I wrestled to get out of bed. I did have a winner in mind, and knots in old rope lay as evidence of same. Knots learned in my youth, mostly in jest. The other options were all at home too so each was slowly swept away as no threat here and now. The only one of concern was my least likely to enact. Train track death was concluded to be a rotten way to go.  So, my decision to board a train was quite straight-forward. Diving under one had been dismissed in every scenario I had contemplated.

Now however was the bigger question.  For I now had to admit something new to myself.  A questions now answered, or an answer now changed.  Suicidal thoughts had just been scaled up.  Ticks in boxes not ticked before. There were twenty-five minutes of a train journey to debate the next move.  And they were all used with a trembling finger hovering over the Samaritan helpline already logged in my iPhone.

As I pulled up at my station, a decision had been made.  iPhone back in pocket.  It was time to come clean. To make good on better recent promises – those of transparency.  Already a month into therapy, but now a less guarded discussion was going to be had.  And it was going to be had as soon as I got home.

From my journal

—//—

That event was a Friday in July, 2019. Today I am pretty much back to a fully recovered state of mental health. Normal. No easy journey, but the subsequent bounce back reflects the depths of the fall.

Normal – whatever that may mean. I am still on 100mg of Sertraline a day. Those London Bridge beers were my last. I meditate or contemplate every morning. My twice a week therapy is now just once a month. All now just part of life – just like the gym is for some – a place of transformation becoming part of the maintenance routine. I work hard to be fine. I now know how. I have a clarity on my why.

Journaling is also part of my new normal. Blogging a natural progression to take. I have been writing daily for nearly two years. It was late January 2020 that this short-story appeared. It is all true. Detailed to ensure it stays real. It was the first moment I felt bold enough to replay this event in full. To face it. Own it. Understand it. Accept it. Accepting me. And now daily, knowing a little better the best version of that I can be.

Normal blogging resumes again tomorrow. The Samaritans own this story now. I just wanted to give it some World Mental Health Day context and air.

About Me

In psychology we are required to look beneath the mask. This blog series is attempting to unmask some hidden parts of projects to engender a more collaborative way.

Find my professional mask here:

Rolling with the waves

Working with the tide, not against it

Photo by Elina Sazonova on Pexels.com

Not every day has to be the same. Mindsets and moods are like tides of inspiration. Some days the ideas flood in.

Other days they lurk in what is left behind.

Yesterday was a good morning of open slot consulting time with a client. Individuals freely popping on-line for a chat, a coffee, a means to float ideas. A few hours around lunch for me – with the philosophy of Richard Rorty – contingency, irony, and solidarity – his arguments on truth seemingly undermining mine. Then an hour’s chatting to an old mate, before my battery went flat. As did my ‘phone. Then some essay writing for real, reworked, new text to find in some quiet time.

Photo by George Keating on Pexels.com

My honesty with me reveals so much more this way. No building pressures to feel compelled to fight against a tide. Able to predict and understand. Waiting, and choosing my wave.

v | b | t

Which all presents room for needs felt, even if not said. More visibility, making room for behaviours and needs. A trust built back by understanding and responding. Actively permitting and adapting.

Here now free to write uncompromising, unapologetic. Knowing what I feel. Another day with my truth.

Tomorrow is another day…another tide.