I come from an academic family where education has always been valued above all else. I was an absolute swot throughout comprehensive school and upper secondary school. The same was true at vocational college, too (a funny detour I might tell you about another time). After a few twists and turns, I eventually made it to university and got in at the first attempt. I sailed through my courses with top marks and wrote a Master’s thesis graded with the highest possible mark. Naturally, the next step was to become a doctoral researcher, but the timing was not ideal. The national doctoral schools were dismantled, and suddenly everyone doing a PhD on a grant was dependent on foundation funding. I had to put my head down and start writing applications. I applied and received funding, but never for a longer period—only small grants lasting less than a year—which meant applying for every funding opportunity available.
If you have ever applied for a grant, you will know that writing applications takes an almost unimaginable number of working hours. At the same time, you are expected to advance your research, complete postgraduate studies, teach, attend national and international conferences, and publish, publish, publish. If I had previously managed to look after my recovery at least somewhat in the midst of my extreme drive to achieve, over the years it became clear that I was burning the candle at both ends—and burning it hard. I was barely keeping my head above water. My performance did not suffer, but I was irreversibly damaging my health in the process.
I have suffered from migraines all my life, and treating them has always been extremely difficult. Now it became impossible. My migraine became severely chronic. I decided to take a year out, during which I would do something completely different while trying to get my migraines under control with the help of a proper neurologist. Even this idea was driven by a compulsive need to achieve. I was diagnosed with familial hemiplegic migraine, which had become chronic. We started trying different medications, and I was very hopeful. Unfortunately, the medication trials still have not ended, although we have now found some sort of balance in my treatment.
During my year out, I studied photography because I wanted to do something creative—something completely unrelated to research. During that year, I rediscovered a passion I had lost a long time ago and realised with absolute clarity that what I had previously thought I wanted was not at all what I was meant to do. I had found a way to express everything I carried inside me. I had found a way to show how I see the world. I could not have been happier. At last, I had something of my own—something that breathed in time with me.
After that year, I was not quite brave enough to rely on photography alone, so out of old habit I returned to the academic world for a little while longer. Looking back, I can say that this was a mistake. The sense of balance I had found during my photography studies disappeared within a couple of weeks, and I returned to the same vicious cycle of anxiety and constant pain. I finished my article and closed the door on the academic world behind me. I have rarely regretted that decision.
Changing careers as an adult is always frightening. It can feel as though everyone else is light years ahead. Imposter syndrome—which, admittedly, has been a familiar companion since my university days—still raises its head from time to time. But I try to pause and acknowledge the worry, and remind myself that I am both a fast learner and an incredibly intensive researcher. On top of that, I can honestly say that I love photography in a way that truly deserves to be called passion.
— Tinksu