2:00 AM, December 25, 2021. I couldn't sleep.
My insomnia wasn't so much from excitement, wondering what presents awaited me under the tree. It was from the painful, inevitable conclusion that I had reached: I had spent the last decade working towards a career that would never materialize.
A few months prior, I had started the third year of my prestigious NIH T32 postdoctoral fellowship. I was building my independent research program on early childhood emotional development (my 15th first-author paper was in press). I had recently won not one, but two awards for my dissertation. I had done everything right, everything I was told would land a tenure-track faculty job at an R1 university.
Even with all my accomplishments, I knew that my odds of landing a faculty job were mathematically low, especially given the hiring freezes following the pandemic. I also knew that my accomplishments would only take me so far. Academic hiring wasn't a meritocracy.
Still, I felt good about my chances. That fall, I had applied to an open position at one of my "dream" universities: an R1 in a city where I wanted to live. A professor on the search committee encouraged me to apply, someone who would likely advocate for me. I knew what a difference that could make.
After I applied, I waited. That was the worst part.
Every day, I checked the Psych Jobs Wiki - a space for PhDs to anonymously update whether they've received interviews, offers, rejections for faculty positions. On December 8, I saw that someone had received an interview invite for the open position. There was no such invite for me.
Was this a mistake?
I messaged the professor who had encouraged me to apply. They confirmed my suspicions, offering me a consolation prize: out of the nearly 400 applicants, I had made the short list of 40. I didn't feel like a prize so much as a devastating reality check. There were too many PhDs and not enough open faculty positions.
I had always known the math, but now, I was feeling it.
"I hope you will apply again in the future," the professor added.
I traveled home to North Carolina that December, knowing that I would need to stay in my post-doc for at least another year, a fourth year, perhaps longer. I would need to keep living alone in the midwest, away from my entire support system, working in a department that had increasingly turned toxic. Even then, there were no guarantees. A few more publications, another award, or even a major grant wouldn't make a meaningful difference to my already strong CV. I could be in this same position a year from now.
Or three years from now.
Over the next few weeks, I stewed in my feelings: disappointment, sadness, but, above all, anger. Anger that, after working incredibly hard for over a decade, this was the state of my career at age 30. This was what I had to show for all my sacrifices. Still, I couldn't just quit now, not when I was so close. What other choice did I have?
Then, early Christmas morning, I got an idea.
An awful idea. I got a wonderful, awful idea.
I could quit my post-doc.
This wasn't the first time I had thought about leaving academia - I had seriously considered leaving at the end of my PhD, before I won my postdoctoral fellowship. I hadn't felt ready to change careers then. But now, the idea instantly filled me with relief. If I left academia, I could live wherever I chose. I could escape the toxicity and the pressure that constantly hung over me. I could take back control over my career.
I clicked on my bedroom light, picked up my phone, and called my partner.
"I'm sure this time."
Three years later, so much has changed. I've worked in usability research in 5 different roles at 4 different companies, including my own company that I started last year. I've published essays in Science and Nature. I've helped hundreds (likely thousands) of PhDs take the next step in their careers. I've never once regretted leaving academia.
The end of my academic career was the beginning of something greater.
And that's the best gift I've ever given myself.
