A complicated loss

In December 2022, three months into my PhD, I dropped out. It was objectively the right decision, but that doesn’t mean that thinking about it isn’t painful. I had applied for my PhD at a time when life seemed if not simple, then like it was heading in the direction I wanted it to. I was half-way through my masters at a university that I adored, I had made wonderful friends in Leeds, my mum was in recovery from cancer, and I was happy, oh, so happy.

Then my mum died. Two months later, my retired guide dog died. I crumbled to pieces and could not find a way to put myself back together. The bigger problem was that although I logically knew I was grieving, I did not understand the magnitude of my grief and how it had irrevocably changed me. I deferred my masters dissertation and somehow managed to complete it in time for the extended deadline. I thought that by deferring my PhD start date by six months, I would be giving myself enough time to be ready for it when it came around. I found a part-time job and told myself that this meant I was getting better.

Almost a year after she died, I started a PhD in law. My two supervisors were wonderful and I still feel an enormous amount of gratitude whenever I think about them. They were kind to me at a time when I was not coping at all, and when I did make the decision to leave, they showed me understanding rather than judgement.

I dropped out because I didn’t know where to start. It’s the curse of all PhD candidates of course, but there were deeper problems. I would never know where to start, because I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what my future was anymore. I felt like I had been cut loose from everything that had been giving me stability. Looking back, I probably could have tried pausing my studies. I could have asked about another deferral and holding off on my scholarship for longer. Perhaps the university wouldn’t have agreed, but it would have given me time. Time, at the end of the day, was the only thing that was going to help. But like I said, I didn’t really understand the magnitude of what was happening to me, and so I convinced myself that doing a PhD wasn’t really what I wanted.

Every time I think about what my life could have been, I feel a deep sense of anguish. I do want to study. I think my project had value. I regret dropping out, but I’m also so relieved that I did because it gave me the time I needed. I have discovered so much about myself during these last couple of years, and I feel a deep sense of joy in my own existence, something I have never really been able to say before now.

I wish I had the courage to try again. I wish I could email my supervisor and say sorry for not staying in touch. That I wanted to, but that I was also really sad and ashamed, even though I knew I was doing something I needed to do. I wish I could step back on the campus that I loved so much and be part of it again. I am finding ways to study. Ways to explore interests and keep on expanding my mind. I am so glad to live at a time where it is possible to take a class alongside working. Where I can choose to study for no other reason than because learning is a joyous experience.

Yet, there is something missing. Always a not so little part of me that wishes that it is possible to take that other path.