After a drawn-out battle, triumph beckons

Otago Daily Times

7 days ago

The United Kingdom finds itself, once again, in the uncomfortably sweaty embrace of a heatwave.
Edinburgh, a city built for haar, drizzle and existential melancholy, now shimmers with the heat. The grey stones of Leith have acquired a new hue in the golden sunshine.
Pale Edinburgers have shed their woolly layers and have emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. I have no doubt the Meadows is currently a patchwork of charred sausages and sunburned students lazing out on the grass. Alas, I do not have the time to ascertain this myself.
Instead of frolicking by the seaside or lying stretched out under a tree in Pilrig Park, I am trapped inside the cool quiet of my room, hunched over my desk, typing away furiously on my battered laptop.
I am not deranged; I am a university student once again, making a final attempt to finish off a master's thesis I abandoned four years ago.
Four years ago I was desperately depressed, anxiety-ridden, and seriously ill with ME/CFS and Long Covid. I was in the final stretch of my second master's degree — this one in global and imperial history — at the University of Oxford.
The expectation was clear: to produce a well-researched and original thesis of 15,000 words. I was decidedly not capable of this. I was barely capable of showering or feeding myself.
I was, of course, not merely a victim of my circumstances. I certainly could have been a better student; I could have applied myself more, drunk less, spent more time in the library instead of bars.
But my father had just suffered his first heart attack — the second would end his life, two years later — and I was far from home, unable to return to New Zealand because of brutal Covid-19 border restrictions.
Add to this my family's Luddite tendencies (I went several days without receiving news of my dad's health status), and you can perhaps understand why I wasn't best placed to meet the demands of an Oxford thesis.
I can understand why some readers might view my struggles at Oxford as indulgent, ungrateful or pedantic. After all, I was awarded the immense privilege of a Rhodes Scholarship, an opportunity sought after by many but afforded to few.
I am deeply aware of how fortunate I am. I could never have afforded to study overseas, let alone at a university as prestigious as Oxford. But those who are quick to judge often overlook — or choose not to understand — that gratitude and suffering can coexist.
I have struggled with chronic depression for the better part of my life. When I arrived in Oxford, I was also grappling with CPTSD following the death of my brother by suicide only a few years earlier. I was also physically unwell with ME/CFS, battling thick, weighty fatigue.
I could barely stay awake in lectures, and my brain fog made it nigh-impossible to form coherent sentences, let alone write postgraduate essays. My gratitude for the opportunity was — and still is — genuine, but it doesn't negate the deep and debilitating reality I was living through.
After withdrawing from my studies, I felt a complex mix of relief, confusion and freedom. Most of all, I felt like an abject failure.
Up until that point, my sense of self-worth had been almost entirely dictated by my academic and professional successes. And yet here I was, giving up on my Oxford dreams.
I was a flop, a Rhodes Scholar with nothing to show for it but a glut of doctor's notes, joint pain and an unfinished thesis.
In the intervening years I returned to working on the "other side" of academia, in administration, event-planning and communications. I rediscovered how much I enjoyed science communications. Translating complex research into accessible language, telling the human stories behind the data, and building bridges between disciplines has felt like a fresh alternative to the solitary grind of academia.
At times it's been somewhat awkward, having to explain my incomplete degree and the gaps in my CV. But I've also learned to be a bit kinder to myself.
I have learned that rest is not laziness, that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, and that my resumé does not determine my self-worth. I'm 30 now, and I've finally learned that I cannot bully my mind or body into health.
But now, to quote the immortal words of The Human League, I'm coming back — back to my studies, back to Oxford, back to that dratted thesis that has haunted me for so many years. The University of Oxford, Rhodes House, and my wonderful college (Trinity) have graciously allowed me to return to my studies, and for this, I am deeply grateful.
In a nutshell, my thesis is an intellectual history of Sir Frederic Truby King (1858-1938). King, a prominent New Zealand doctor, mental health reformer, and public health campaigner, is primarily remembered for his pioneering work in infant and maternal welfare with the Plunket Society.
I am exploring King's life and legacy, focusing on his time as medical superintendent at Seacliff Asylum, where he developed ideas about moral treatment, environmental determinism and discipline in mental healthcare.
In 2019, I wrote a column mildly questioning the sainthood of Captain Cook, arguing (hardly originally, I might add) that his voyages, whilst remarkable, also helped lay the foundations of a violent colonial order.
A few days later, Emeritus Professor Erik Olssen published a rebuttal, dismissing my claims as "specious" and suggesting that I would surely fail my studies at Oxford. (Spoiler: I did drop out shortly after — but not, alas, for the reasons he thought.)
The funniest thing about returning to my studies is that I am now poring over Olssen's (admittedly excellent) work on Truby King and the Plunket Society. The irony isn't lost on me.
Academia has a long memory, but it also circles back in strange ways. The professor who once prophesied my failure now resides in my footnotes.
The best thing about returning to my academic studies however has been the support of my supervisor. It is a somewhat revelatory experience to realise that a supervisor can actually be a wonderful mentor.
My supervisor is not only brilliant but also kind, offering generous, thoughtful feedback and taking my disability support needs seriously.
I'm now only two weeks away from my submission date, and the pressure is weighing on me once again. But I feel (relatively) calm and steady.
I know that just pressing "submit" will be a personal triumph, even if I receive an abysmal grade. Just having got it done will be enough.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some footnotes to tidy up, and then I might go for a walk in the park.
— Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.