In academia, we often follow the mainstream to “build our brand,” “climb the ivory tower,” or “follow the norms.” However, for many of us, it’s hard to know what we truly want. This isn’t a failure of self-awareness or ambition; it’s a quiet, structural confusion woven into the fabric of our academic lives—every single day. We shift between competing dominant logics—be strategic, be authentic, publish more, but only where it ‘counts,’ collaborate, and co-create. In doing so, we define ourselves by outputs, yet we are told our worth lies in impact. We are encouraged to be curious, but only within fundable and fashionable boundaries. So, when someone asks, “What do you want for your career?”—how can we answer? Maybe we don’t know because what we want has been constructed and siloed within the underlying fabric of our academic lives, and sometimes even overruled by the institution itself.
Academia often praises and rewards the image of scholars who are knowledgeable—the experts, the visionaries, and those who have found their niche and built a legacy. However, behind this image lies also uncertainty, doubt, and personal and/or professional compromises. I argue that the myth of the ‘knowing academic’ creates a subtle pressure to always appear confident and purposeful, even when decisions are mostly influenced by the various contexts we are facing. We start with curiosity, a wish to understand and contribute. Over time, this desire becomes intertwined with institutional structures—the next job, the next REF cycle, and the next grant. We start optimizing rather than (re)imagining. And when we pause – during still moments between, for instance, marking and meetings – we might find ourselves wondering: Is it really what I wanted? Or just what I was expected to do? Therefore, knowing what we want is not just a matter of introspection but a politically constructed act that requires us to critically reflect on what the institution and community have told us matters, what is valued, and what is recognized.
Academic cultures have a hidden curriculum that impacts on our desires. We learn to want recognition (e.g., citations, rankings). We also learn to want scarcity—a belief that success is limited and that one person’s gain is another’s loss. Additionally, we learn to want efficiency, which leads to hyperproduction and making ourselves faster and cheaper. I call these ‘the desires of performative logics’ that sustain neoliberal academia, where success is individual, measurable, and market-driven. Over time, these logics start to overshadow our intrinsic motivations. The joy of discovery becomes a KPI. The excitement of collaboration becomes just a networking chore. Even our curiosity gets monetized—shaped by what will be recognized or attract external funding. So, when we ask what we truly want, we’re not just facing personal indecisions but also confronting the institutional logics behind our desires.
What does it mean to want differently? It means desiring slowness and stillness in a system that promotes hyper-speed. It involves seeking depth when surface-level outputs are more valued than what truly brings meaning and purpose. It also includes caring about collective achievements when individuality is key to success. These desires may often seem naive or even self-sabotaging, but they can also be the seeds of change. Wanting differently doesn’t mean rejecting ambition; it means redefining it. It’s about reclaiming the right to build a career that feels meaningful, ethical, and purposeful. For some, that might involve prioritizing care and mentorship over churning out mass outputs. For others, it may mean saying no to extractive collaborations and purposefully setting aside time for public scholarship that won’t ‘count’. It could mean choosing institutional citizenship, creative pedagogy, or interdisciplinary exploration—all of which are often unseen acts of contribution. The courage to want differently, therefore, starts with curiosity, not with external opportunities, but with our own internal compass that guides our academic lives.
Possibly, not knowing exactly what we want is not a flaw but a form of freedom. Certainty is overrated in a system that thrives on control. Ambiguity allows for openness to new directions, collaborations, and identities we have not yet imagined. In a world that measures worth through individual clarity of vision and strategic alignment, embracing uncertainty can be an act of resistance. I argue, not knowing can be a site of possibility, a gentle reminder that our careers – like our research and teaching – are experiments. We test, we adapt, and we learn. Sometimes, what emerges, therefore, is more interesting than what we originally planned.
Wanting is not just a solitary act of will, but a collective act of (self)care.
We learn what to want through the systems and stories around us. This helps us build cultures in our schools, departments, research communities, and classrooms—where it is hopefully safe to ask, “What do you really want?” Not the performative or strategic answer, but the one that ignites curiosity, care, and the courage to be imaginative. The point is not always to know, but to stay curious enough to keep critically reflecting and asking ourselves.
If it is difficult to know what we want, then perhaps the goal is not just clarity but practicing a dynamic rhythm of returning to ourselves amid competing demands.