I recently had three conversations: each was with an academic at different career stages. The first conversation was with someone who is contemplating whether to apply for a recently advertised research position. She was curious about several aspects of the position and wondered if one should have clear answers before sending in her application, ask these questions in the application itself or wait for the application to move forward before these discussions.
The second conversation was with someone who has applied for regular faculty positions and is waiting for an offer. Over the last few years, she has built up a solid research profile, and has obtained several grants. In the wait for a regular position, she was trying to determine why she did not receive certain offers and what would be the outcome of her current applications.
The third conversation was with a few colleagues and friends who are a few years into regular faculty positions, ranging from 1 - 10. Here, the discussion was mutual: we wondered about the correct approach towards receiving feedback, both at individual or departmental levels. This is an extremely important part of our career progression, but sometimes, one receives feedback which may conflict with how we have been trained to view research.
All these conversations somehow brought a sense of deja vu: until a few years ago, I was the younger person in each of these conversations reaching out to seniors for advice and discussion. I could almost hear myself in all of them.
Now, there is a lot to be said on each of these topics and they all deserve separate blog posts (perhaps, multiple posts). But, the pertinent question is if anything that one says is of any help to the other person (especially if they are younger). First, if I share something from my point of view, would it make sense to someone in their position? When I say something like, "don't worry, just keep doing what you can", I genuinely mean to say that after all these years, I have found this to be the best way to cope. But, it may sound inane (or even facetious) to the listener. It certainly would have sounded so to me in their position.
Second, the circumstances for each individual are different. The academic job scene in India when I was applying is completely different from the one today. What if my advice turns out to be wrong? What if I give positive assurances such as, "keep applying, something will work out" without any understanding of the field in which the other person works? What if I take the other approach and give them a long lecture about the current difficulties in an academic job search? Will this help at all? The situations in different fields are different: do I even know enough to say anything correct and meaningful to the other person?
But, most importantly, while reaching out, were these younger people looking for advice, even if they said so? All of them are sharp, independent, confident people: how much can one really say that they won't figure out on their own? Years ago, when I reached out to mentors or older colleagues about similar issues, was it really to get advice? Or was it to share thoughts and anxieties with someone who would simply listen with empathy? Of course, useful advice and inputs about specific concerns (in which the listener had significant expertise and experience) was always welcome, and helpful in taking important decisions. But, in many conversations, the most positive aspect that I remember today is that the person shared their valuable time, and heard me out. Occasionally, they asked a couple of questions which helped me gain more clarity about the issue at hand. But mostly, they just listened.
For example, while applying to positions in India in my final year of postdoc, most of my conversations with my PhD and postdoc advisors were on the lines of the first two conversations mentioned above. My postdoc advisor told me honestly that she was not familiar with job search in India, but provided tremendous support by being a patient and willing listener. My doctoral advisor has close connections with Indian academia and was able to provide concrete inputs over specific questions, but never forced his opinions. In these conversations, it was their supportive and patient listening (over comforting cups of coffee or hot chocolate, no less) that proved to be most invaluable.
Listening is a most underrated skill. Most of us think that giving advice to another person who has reached out to talk is the best way to help them. Perhaps, this comes more naturally to academics as a big chunk of our profession involves teaching and advising students. But, it takes a far higher degree of sensitivity, self-awareness and emotional intelligence to stop and ask the following questions before giving advice.
Do you know enough about the situation and are you in a position to provide informed advice that would be of any value to the other person? If you don't, can you open yourself up to the viewpoint and concerns of a person with different skills and experience without judgement (which is most probably what they are hoping for)?
Do your reactions or suggestions fit into the worldview and the current situation of the other person (which may be vastly different from what you encountered at their stage)?
Do your words have the capacity to even mildly benefit another person? (Honestly, many people overrate this.)
Can your words have a negative impact on someone (even when offered with "the best of intentions")?
Most importantly, do you realize that the conversation is about the other person and not you? Does the other person even need you to say anything? Or do they want a sympathetic listener?
Every once in a while, there is a thread or post on social media which asks the question: "What would you say to your X year old self?" X is mostly 20, and occasionally 30. People then launch into long threads to answer this question, and many more join in with their comments. I feel sorry for this metaphorical younger self, who has to digest all this advice.
I would not say anything to my X year old self. I would just listen to her.
