10 Years in Academia: From Passion to Profession
February 24th marked the 10th anniversary of my PhD defense. YAY! 🥳
I just figured it out as I was driving back home after the Carnival break, while the kids were sleeping in the back seat, and the silence inside the car allowed my mind to wander far and wide.
I remembered my slide presentation, the time it took to refine it, the presentation itself, the committe (composed of a few of my academic idols (such as Paulo Borba, Marco Tulio Valente, Marcelo d'Amorim and Fernando Quintão), a few questions of the committee, my advisor Fernando Castor with his usual morning cold, and my family in the audience..
Although the committee was well-prepared with thought-provoking questions (Quintão even asked if he could use the whiteboard to write down some equations he was thinking about), overall, I’d say that morning felt more like a celebration than a defense itself. I really enjoyed discussing open questions, hidden problems, and potential ideas for future work.
Then I remembered why I started doing research.
Research: the good parts
Indeed, experiencing the depth of those discussions was something that attracted me to research. During my professional experiences before my PhD, I remember that most discussions were shallow, decisions were made by whoever was the most convincing, and very few people questioned them.
On the other hand, in the research seminars I attended, I discovered that questioning is common and very much welcomed. Actually, it is the researcher's job to question everything, all the time. By that time, I already knew that is no such thing as an absolute truth. What I didn't know is that we can and should question anything that seems like the truth. We walk on a quicksand floor of not-extensively-questioned-yet truths.
I then learned that the questions are more important than the answers.
I also learned that there are methods and tools to confront questions.
If you use one of these tools to question an important belief, you maybe can write a scientific paper about it. Imagine yourself, an young boy from the countryside of Amazon rainforest, writing a scientific piece, explaining that what people think is true, may not hold under certain circumstances. In a perfect word, it would be analogous of Paul Mccartney writing Yesterday. All my problems seem so far away.. 🎶
This was all new to me, and I was super impressed by all of it.
I then started to have my own papers being accepted for publication. This raised me emotions that I hardly felt in a work environment. Being able to present my own ideas, to world experts, receiving feedback, sometimes even congratulations, was so intellectually stimulating. Conversely, having my ideas rejected was like a punch in the face, which really hurt me. Unlike other kind of work, in this academic work I felt many different emotions.
I was so grateful to be part of it, and I want to participate more, much more.
Then something happened.
Research: the bad parts
Fast-forward a few years down the road, and I found myself caught in the academic trap: writing as many papers as I could, accepting every invitation to any kind of academic service, advising dozens of students, applying for every possible form of funding, and trying to do a decent job at teaching — just like any other researcher out there.
At some point, reviewing papers was no longer enjoyable, and I started thinking about declining service invitations. But how could I decline a review invitation if I planned to submit papers to the same conference? The community remains healthy only if everyone fulfills their duties. Let’s try our best to push through.
By writing a lot, I also discovered that there is a writing algorithm. The more I wrote, the more I observed common patterns in scientific reports. On the one hand, understanding these patterns helped me structure papers in the expected “shape.” On the other hand, following these structures stripped away all the glamour and creativity from writing. There is nothing exciting about writing papers. Paul McCartney, you are unique.
Moreover, since a large portion of my work was devoted to writing, I gradually stopped doing things like programming. That wouldn’t have been a big deal — except for the fact that a significant part of my research agenda was programming-related. How could I conduct programming-related research if I no longer program myself? Sure, we can always do user studies on programming languages and frameworks, but this started to feel strange to me.
And suddenly, traveling became a burden. In the beginning, traveling was exciting and fun. Meeting new people, having drinks and laughs with old friends — it was always nice. But eventually, I found myself visiting cities where the only things I remembered were the airport, the conference hotel, and the closest restaurant. For those who don’t know, traveling to a conference is an immersive and mentally exhausting experience. Activities start in the morning and go on until the end of the day. If you’re also under time and budget pressure, you may not have the chance to enjoy what else the city has to offer — which was often my case.
Finally, I realized that academia is more like a game. And like any game, it has rules — rules that, in this case, revolve around metrics. What’s frustrating is that many people seem more interested in playing by the rules than in the actual discussions and discoveries. In the end, it’s not about uncovering the unknown; it’s about mastering the system.
Research: it is just work
In the beginning of my career, I had a more romantic view of research, but that faded over the decade.
Now, I see research purely as work — just another task I have to do, whether I like it or not. Obviously, there are still research topics I enjoy working on, but that doesn’t happen as often.
Research is not a toy for adults to play with; it’s a job with its ups and downs. But it took me 10 years to understand that.
