"Look Mum, I made it": Redefining success beyond academia

The cosy scent of coffee eased me into the worn sofa at my local café. My mother set our drinks down and moved one of our many shopping bags from beside our feet.

It was around 2014, and I was studying for my A-levels, preparing to apply for university. The trip was a welcome break from the pressure of revision. I pulled one of the books we had bought from the bag; one on pop psychology, filled with stories about the people who shaped the field.

As I flicked through, I landed on a section introducing some of psychology’s famous academic figures. We spent a few moments looking through the names before my mother set down her cup, turned to me and asked: “You’re going to be one of those names one day…right?”

On the surface, it was an encouraging question. But my chest tightened.

I grew up in a rural village where going to university was not the norm. I remember hearing people react almost triumphantly when someone with a degree was now “stacking shelves in Tesco”, as though it proved going to university had been a fool’s errand.

So, when my mother asked whether I would be named alongside the great figures of psychology, I think I heard another message underneath it: if you’re going to go, you better make sure it’s worth it.

University was not just a chance to explore an intellectual interest. It became tied to proving I could become someone whose achievements mattered. To that end, I went on to complete an undergraduate degree, then a Masters and a PhD, before eventually becoming a postdoctoral researcher in a university.

A formula for success

Unfortunately for my younger self, there was no step-by-step guide to becoming a renowned academic waiting on the shelves of my local newsagents. The trouble is, uncertainty is difficult, especially when we’re teenagers expected to have our whole future figured out.

Perhaps this is why, when one of my university lecturers described the three key components of an academic career, I hung on every word like a lifeline. In her view, a lecturer’s role could be divided into three areas: research, teaching, and service to the academic community, such as committee work.

In my eagerness to find a path to my dream job, my brain translated this description into a rule. If I could build a strong publication record, gain extensive teaching experience, and demonstrate commitment to the academic community, then an academic career would surely follow. Finally, I had a plan.

I held onto that plan throughout my studies and postdoctoral role. However, as reassuring as it was in its simplicity, it also came with a problem: there was no finish line. There was always another paper to write, another committee to join, another opportunity that might strengthen my CV. I felt pressure to say yes to almost everything.

Even within my postdoctoral role, I often felt pressure to be many things at once: project manager, administrator, data analyst, PPI (public and patient involvement) coordinator. Some of this reflected working in a small research team, but some came from my own belief that taking on more proved I belonged.

Before long, working evenings and weekends felt normal, and I often found myself thinking about project details at 2am. As I became increasingly focused on proving myself across all three domains, my self-worth became closely tied to outputs. Every rejection or missed opportunity felt like a personal failure, even when the outcome was outside my control.

None of this is to say I regret my time as a postdoc. Despite the challenges, it pushed me to develop skills I never imagined I could. The role focused on a different research area to my PhD and methods I’d only encountered when I read the job advert two weeks earlier. I remember asking my bedroom ceiling how on Earth I was going to pull this off. Three years later, I’d done exactly that.

When the plan fell apart

My fixed-term postdoctoral contract came to an end in December 2025. Before it had finished, I had begun the process that almost every early career researcher dreads: job hunting.

I went into it with confidence. After all, I’d spent years working towards the formula I’d created. I had built up a strong publication record, gained teaching experience, and thrown myself into academic service roles. Surely this was the moment all that hard work would pay off.

…I rarely even made the shortlist.

Eventually, I broadened my search beyond academia, applying for data analyst roles in universities and charities. There, I encountered a different challenge: the statistical language I’d spent years using didn’t always translate outside academia, and I needed to learn new ways to describe my skills.

Somewhere between not having the experience expected for academia and being too academic for other sectors, I found myself wondering where I belonged. It felt ironic. My postdoctoral research had explored what shaped university students’ sense of belonging. Now, I felt as though I had lost my own.

Searching for the missing piece

It had become clear that my formula for an academic career wasn’t working. So, naturally, I did what researchers do and began searching for the missing piece. If publications, teaching, and academic service weren’t enough, perhaps the missing piece was the ability to secure research funding. Alongside job applications, I began applying for fellowships.

After several unsuccessful applications, I received an interview invitation. It was the notification I’d been praying for and dreading in equal measure. The invitation arrived as my postdoctoral contract ended.

Three months later, I would be sitting in front of the interview panel while starting a new role in the charity sector. I felt I was standing in the doorway between two careers, unable to feel settled in either one. Evenings and weekends became dedicated to preparation; for months, almost everything else was put on hold.

Despite my fears and all the time spent agonising over every possible question they could ask, I felt the interview had gone well. However, two months later, I received an incredibly brief email containing the sentence: “Your project has not been recommended for funding.”

When we are younger, we’re often told if we work hard enough towards our goals, we will succeed. The problem is that when things don’t work out, it can be difficult not to interpret that as a personal failure. Perhaps we said the wrong thing. Perhaps we should have worked harder. Perhaps we simply were not good enough.

Rejection is often treated as unavoidable in academic life. I recently heard a professor suggest researchers should aim to fill every wall of their home with rejection letters. There’s some truth in the idea that persistence matters. But for researchers on fixed-term contracts, I wonder whether the financial and emotional costs of repeatedly putting yourself through rejection are sustainable.

What good is collecting rejection letters if you can’t afford the walls to hang them on?

Finding a different path

Over time, it became clear I was leaving academia. Yet, unlike many stories I had heard from people who left, I never had a moment where I decided, ‘this isn’t for me’. I enjoyed teaching, research, and being part of the academic community. Instead, I found myself having to renegotiate the identity I had spent years building.

In January 2026, I joined McPin as a Research and Involvement Manager. The transition to the charity sector was challenging at first. It was difficult not to wonder whether all that effort had been for nothing.

At the same time, I was stepping into a managerial role where I was expected to contribute strategically while learning the language and processes of an unfamiliar sector. I felt something akin to a toddler wearing a business suit.

Looking back, I feared leaving academia would mean my career had stalled. It didn’t. If anything, it expanded in ways I hadn’t expected. I’m still connected to research, while developing skills in PPI, grant development, and line management.

Perhaps the biggest change has been learning that my value does not come from being able to do every part of a project myself. Working alongside people with expertise across different areas has shown me how freeing being part of a wider team can be.

I’m learning that work does not have to consume my life. I’m rediscovering who I am outside of work, returning to hobbies I’d neglected for years. I’m writing a book, something that was my dream long before I knew what going to university even meant. And even if I never become a bestselling author, that’s okay. I’m having fun, and God, how I’ve missed that.

Recently, I attended an event surrounded by current postdocs. Throughout the day, I heard reflections like: “I should have run another study”, or “I should have written another paper”- always followed by “but life got in the way.” Each time, the room nodded in agreement. Less than a year earlier, I would have nodded too.

Instead, I found myself thinking, “But isn’t life the whole point of living?”.

Why must friends, family, and hobbies be positioned as inconveniences and obstacles that pull us away from our one true goal… more work?

Redefining success

I started this journey with a narrow definition of success. I believed that if I achieved enough across the different domains of academia, I would eventually become someone I could be proud of. But I have learned success is not something you reach by completing enough steps.

This doesn’t mean I would never return to academia. I am grateful for everything academia taught me, and I still value research and many aspects of academic life. But I now have a much clearer understanding of what I need from work and what I am no longer willing to give up.

For a long time, I felt that being seen as “smart” was almost a life sentence. If I wasn’t constantly pushing myself to my limits, I felt I was wasting my potential. I don’t believe that anymore.

I refuse to sacrifice who I am on the altar of who I thought I had to become.