I was driving when my phone alerted me to a new email. Filled with eager anticipation, I pulled over, turned on my hazard lights, and opened it. My emotions quickly changed as I learned, for the sixth and final time, that I had been denied a promotion to full professor. I was devastated that my institution didn’t seem to value what I brought to the table. But when I told my family that night, my children offered a surprisingly upbeat response. They were excited to see what I was going to do next, they said. They apparently knew long before I did that losing my bid for a promotion would turn out to be the best thing that could have happened for me.
This had been the final step in a long, arduous process spanning 15 months. I had started by studying successful promotion bids and asking senior scholars for frank discussions about my readiness. I had meticulously prepared my application packet, summarizing everything I had accomplished in my career. But after I submitted my application, every few months I heard the same thing: The votes were not in my favor. After each “no” I could have withdrawn my case, reading the writing on the wall that it was unlikely to be successful, but I refused to back down. So, despite the negative votes, my case proceeded up through the university’s bureaucracy, ending with a failed appeal.
To my surprise, having a final answer brought a welcome sense of closure. Once it was all over, I realized how debilitating the process had been. For more than a year, I had spent hours every day trying to prove my worth to my university. I was exasperated. I was underweight. My self-worth was at an all-time low. I just wanted to regain my health and happiness.
I thought about looking for a job elsewhere at an institution that would appreciate me. But I was so exhausted from trying to convince the institution I had served for nearly 9 years of my merit that I could not muster the energy. As a first step toward healing, I wrote a letter of resignation—but instead of sending it, I saved it on my desktop, ready to attach to an email at any moment. I also kept a journal to process my feelings and plan my next steps. In doing so, I realized I love working in academia too much to quietly quit. Instead, I decided to carry on in my existing position for a while. I vowed to prioritize my own values, regardless of what my department or institution expected of me. After all, I had spent years allowing those expectations to guide me and ended up frustrated—so I might as well follow my own internal compass instead.
I began to say no to work that wasn’t personally rewarding so I would have more time to spend with my children, exercise, eat well, and sleep more. I learned how to meditate. I disconnected from people in my life who violated my values, and cultivated my relationships with those who share my priorities and bring out the best in me. I founded a nonprofit that helps first-generation and low-income students and young professionals advance in the workforce while serving their community. The initiative had long been a dream of mine, but I never pursued it because typical academic hiring and promotion rubrics don’t reward such efforts. Now, such considerations were no longer my North Star. I felt liberated to redefine success as something more than a title, rank, or salary.
As my mental health improved thanks to these changes, I plunged back into my academic work. I ramped up projects that aligned with my values. I reassessed my institution for fit with my career goals and concluded it was no longer serving me well. I tapped my network of friends and academic contacts, who gave me a place to vent, helped me strategize an exit plan, and offered to write letters of recommendation for other jobs.
Read this and more articles on the Science Careers website – https://www.science.org/content/article/how-i-turned-my-biggest-career-setback-great-opportunity
doi: 10.1126/science.caredit.adk9637