Learning to Lean into Discomfort

Introduction

As long-time graduate professors and program directors (Becky for the MA program in Rhetoric and Composition at Texas State University and Deb for the University Writing Center), we’ve been privileged to work with, mentor, and guide graduate students as they become part of the academic community. Truth be told, however, we were never really taught in any kind of formal way how to mentor and guide. When one of the editors of Xchanges reached out and asked us to write a short piece on what we wish graduate students knew, we began to reflect on how we’d be mentored—what worked and what didn’t, actions and advice with positive impacts versus those with neutral or negative. We also thought carefully about what graduate students had shared with us over the years, including their fears, challenges, and triumphs and the often-damaging narratives they carried with them into the graduate school experience. When we merged these two domains—what we’d experienced ourselves and what we’ve since learned from our own graduate students—we decided that what we really want graduate students to know and learn is this: how to be okay with “not knowing” or understanding, and how to use that “not knowing” to lean productively into discomfort.

I (Becky) often tell graduate students about a formative experience I had in my own first days as a graduate student when, anxious about not understanding much of anything in my French feminist theory class, I received guidance I think they might also benefit from. I was terrified to talk to my professor about how little I understood when I read Derrida or Kristeva or Lacan. But I somehow knew I had to tell her how lost I felt, how the words blurred on the page when I tried to comprehend them, and why I never talked in our class of MA and PhD students who all seemed to grasp the material so well. Now, this professor was a well-known published scholar in French feminist theory, so I prepared myself to hear her tell me I wasn’t cut out for graduate school, one of my biggest fears. Instead, she explained that knowing where to start a class is always difficult and the professor does so knowing that some are going to fall right in (e.g. PhD students who’ve studied theory before), while others, understandably, will be reading specific theories for the first time. The key was to know that I was learning, even when it didn’t feel that way. She explained that one of these days after I’d done more and different kinds of reading and writing and when I’d experienced the world in different ways, the pieces would fall together and ideas that seemed impossible to grasp at one point would be clear. You’re right where you need to be, she said.

I didn’t really believe her, but I continued to read and interact with the material to the best of my ability. On another level, mostly unconscious, I began to change the negative internal narrative I held about myself as a budding academic (I’m an imposter) and learning in general (it’s a one and done, right?). And, lo and behold, a couple of semesters later, the theory picture did become clearer. On one hand, my professor was telling me to be okay with not knowing by having faith in the learning I was doing but couldn’t really see: learning not as a single “event,” but as a life-long process dependent on multiple contexts. But she was also telling me, in not so many words, to lean into my discomfort and to engage with rather than run from it.

Unlike Becky, I (Deb) was told I was subpar—multiple times. After undergraduate graduation, I’d worked as an assistant manager in fast food for about a month when I decided to take my working-class self to a local English department to see if I could enroll in a creative writing class as a non-degree seeking student. The Director of Graduate Studies convinced me to apply for the master’s program even after I detailed reason after reason I was unqualified, despite having a degree in hand. I did and was accepted. Our first assignment in "Foundations of Graduate School" was summarizing a work of Derrida’s in no more than 250 words. Ummm. What am I even reading? Then, I received the paper back with, “This is not graduate student writing!” scrawled in red marker across the front page of my first paper. Clearly, I was accepted just because it had been July and they needed teaching assistants to staff 16 sections of first year writing. I sat completely still as people left the room. I can’t move. On her way out, one of the most impressive classmates stopped, “You should smile more. People think you’re mean.” I began to listen to this playlist–akin to Becky’s narratives–on repeat, adding more messages each day. Who do you think you are? This is what you get for rising above your station.

That playlist made me ill, and I found it increasingly difficult to breathe no less think or do my work. Never mind that my professor was practicing questionable writing pedagogy, such comments mixed into damaging playlists of my own. Still, while I didn’t completely understand this heady world of academe, to survive I had to find a way to lean into who I was—to draw from my so-called “station” in life, despite daily discomforts of feeling my class and of others pointing it out. You see, I am a blue-collar Chicago south(west)sider (suburbanite). When that cold Chicago wind burns, you can’t feel your toes, the pipes freeze, a car breaks down, or the furnace doesn’t work, you keep your head down and you keep going or people are at risk. This disposition already served me academically, and I could call upon it in graduate school. You graduated college despite your HS guidance counselor: “don’t bother applying, you won’t make it past 1.5 years” [based on family income and education]. I began remixing my playlist, sampling in seemingly negative messages as useful bits. Okay, Deb. Become familiar with this new soundscape. By first leaning into me, I was slowly able to depersonalize messages from myself and others, which enabled me to sit in the discomforts of not knowing while I explored and learned.

For both of us, leaning into discomfort requires curiosity and action. For example, we both talk candidly about the discomfort students will probably feel at some point when reading something they don’t understand, that challenges their beliefs or asks them to think about a situation from a new perspective. In such cases, leaning into discomfort means continuing to engage with readings we don’t understand, opening up classroom conversations about our lack of understanding, and actively listening to others who have experiences we don’t have. Leaning into discomfort might also involve participating in or even starting informal learning and support communities with people in and outside of our programs. We understand and talk about the fact that some students will find this counterintuitive or “wrong”—uncomfortable. This isn’t surprising given that so often we experience academia as a solitary endeavor—good students don’t need others or collaboration is cheating—even as we know that learning is inherently social. I (Deb) befriended the classmate who told me to smile, or, rather, I didn’t resist when she befriended me. She loved talking about ideas and theory, which we came to do for hours. She’s so excited! This is interesting—and fun. Another classmate and I discussed potential exam questions, wrote out possible answers, and then reviewed them together. We make each other better thinkers and writers—and we get to hang out all day to do it! I wanted more. The growing mixes of scholars, theories, pedagogies, and all that I could explore were enriched by colleagues and friends coming to share food, walks, parks, compassion, confidences. And as Becky might be able to tell you, I still suffer from awkward discomfort, but I learned I can use it as a starting place when I feel it as a stopping place.

We understand that advice for graduate students is plentiful. Even a quick internet search uncovers the overwhelming number of books, articles, tip sheets, and the like telling graduate students what they need to do to succeed. We wanted to dig a little deeper, to name the kinds of things we believe subsume all the other excellent pieces of advice. Yes, we can tell students how important it is to “keep up with the reading” or “participate in class.” But if we don’t accompany that advice with the equally important understanding that it’s okay, preferable even, that reading and discussion sometimes confounds or causes us anxiety, then we aren’t sharing the most important part of the story. Being a graduate student is challenging for all kinds of reasons. We don’t want to sugarcoat that. But we hope you will take to heart how important it is to have faith in yourself as a learner even when, especially when, you feel lost or uncomfortable.

We hope you will take to heart that learning is a process for every one of us and that it often asks us to lean into discomfort and meet it with curiosity.

We hope you will take to heart that your experiences matter and that you can (and should) use them to develop narratives or playlists that will help you find your place in and reshape the academy.

Because the truth is that you are right where you need to be.