This was an exchange from a few years ago:
"So, Hong, what do you think about getting done with our master's [studies]?"
"Oh, I feel a little bit sad. I wish I could've stayed in school longer."
My statement was responded with expressions of surprise. And before long, someone said: "I can't wait to leave." Everyone then went on to talk about how they look forward to their life after school and what they are going to do with their new found financial freedom.
I guess, unlike most people, I am one of those oddballs that that enjoy being in school. What can I say, I value a good education (and a free one on top of it) and I prefer academia over corporation. Setting the trauma of my last stint aside, this is the bigger reason why I chose to come back for a PhD.
Most people who dislike being in academia cite the lack of work-life balance (WLB), but I'm not so sure that's the right way to look at the situation. For example, I had periods of time in my previous jobs where I only worked for less than 4-5 hours a day, and in theory, I should've been happy to have more free time while still making a decent income. But I was just miserable during those hours and the benefits didn't make up for the downsides. A good WLB didn't matter in my case; the poor quality of that smaller chunk of time overshadowed everything else. I prefer being occupied and feeling tired but fulfilled afterwards.
So, let me recount a few observations from my first semester of low WLB PhD life.
Communication skills remain a barrier for most — US locals and internationals alike. It's not just English fluency; most students struggle to talk about their ideas on stage. We were given plenty of opportunities to practice, as several of our first-year courses are loaded with presentations, but I suspect that most students weren't troubled by stage freight as much as they were never taught how to talk to a diverse audience. This is especially true for new foreign students who used to study in wholly lecture-based academic environments. Would it be good to require everyone to take a public speaking course of sort? Perhaps.
(I only lucked out because I have had some years of work experience, much of which had to do with convincing groups people to pay for my work; I wouldn't last long if I didn't keep working on these skills. For those who are looking to build these skills, this lecture by Patrick Winston would be a good place to start.)
Speaking of communication skills, people who specialize in technical research seem to be particularly bounded by the nature of their work. To put it simply: they talk about things in a way that they think their peers would understand, but in reality no one does, because nobody else has spent as much time on reading the paper as the speakers themselves. In our college's case, this is a byproduct of the admins' decision to put students from different tracks into same introductory courses. Students in social science cannot understand the technical jargon from the other side, and the students who do technical work are puzzled when a concept (like literacy or disability) cannot be distilled into numbers and code. I can see why this arrangement can be a good idea in the long run, but I won't lie that the day-to-day friction is quite pronounced.
It also seems that everyone is kind of... in a rush. Professors, students, postdocs — everyone is hurrying towards something, or at least gives off an impression of such. I'm sure people are generally busy, it's grad school after all: Professors have to chase after grants, teach courses, and manage and advise students, whereas students have course assignments to deal with, research or teaching duties to fulfill, and their own research agenda to press forward. But the academic incentive structure apparently has a stronger influence on people's behaviors in grad school than I had anticipated.
One time, I ran into a first-year classmate around the mid-term period. She was visibly frazzled as she paced back and forth in the hallway. I thought she's anxious of upcoming exams, but no. "My advisor isn't pushing me enough," she stammered as she explained herself, "she's really understanding and supportive, but I'm afraid I'm gonna fall behind with my publications if she doesn't push me harder." Mind you, this was about 7 or 8 weeks into our PhD degree (which should be around 190 weeks in total if we go by the average time to graduate), so it's rather early to be panicking about publishing papers. But it's not as if I didn't understand where her anxiety is coming from — and, clearly, it was contagious enough that I also began feeling anxious after I tried to comfort her. Good going, me, task failed successfully.
I suspect the contagious nature of this grindset is what's contributing to the collective stress of everyone in academia.
That brings me to the role of academic advisors. I had written about this elsewhere before, but since I've had some new thoughts. In short, there are three kinds of "bad" advisors from a student's standpoint:
A misalignment of expectations and levels of experience that can be improved within a reasonable time frame, provided that at least one side is aware (the professor, hopefully).
A fundamentally poor match of personality, interests, or principles that cannot be changed.
An individual that's simply too difficult and unpleasant for anyone to work alongside of.
From what I've gathered so far (from stories online and talking to others), the vast majority of negative cases fall under one of the first two. The solution in the initial case, however, does require that the advisor is observant and a good communicator, and that they are willing to accommodate the student. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be the norm — because, again, most people are in a hurry to make progress, and neither the advisor nor the student is likely to take too much time to adapt to the working relationship. If the perceived costs are higher than the potential benefits, oftentimes the first case morphs into the second one, turning an adjustable "bad" match into a definite one.
And it goes without saying that one should never tempt their fate with the last case.