What did I expect from my PhD when I started? I can answer that question - looking back - but it’s easier for me to say what I actually gained in the end. My expectations changed over the years, influenced above all by the people I met along the way. I’ve decided, however, to write about my experience in these pages for the first time - partly as a writing exercise, and partly because I believe it’s important to share one’s own experience.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that different people, from different socio-cultural backgrounds, decide to embark on this journey for a wide variety of reasons. I’ve met people who chose to follow the ‘natural’ academic path, convinced that this was the only way to make a name for themselves. I’ve met people who were unsure of what they wanted to be in life, seeing this path as a sort of panacea for their doubts. I’ve met just as many people driven by the purest of curiosity, almost as if the very definition of a PhD entailed having to, or being able to, come to know everything. In short, I’ve met all sorts of people, but I still haven’t really come up with a proper answer to that question. This is because, at least in my view, there is no single ‘right’ answer.

If I were to say that I decided to apply for a PhD in the natural sciences simply because I was curious about what happens on the planet, I’d probably be lying. It’s certainly my main motivation, but I don’t think it’s the only one.

In some countries, including Italy, a PhD is seen as the only path to follow after a degree in biology - whether in marine biology or similar - and like so many other degree courses. Having lived in Germany for a while, I’ve learnt that the pressure is slightly reduced here. I don’t think it’s a question of the academic system, because despite greater investment, the flaws that make research a poorly-oiled machine remain unchanged. However, this is a totally different topic.

Personally, one of my motivations was also the desire to reach a certain point - I didn’t know where it would lead me, but in my mind it would have sounded like: ‘Hey, if you do this, you can say you’ve made it.’ In short, what I’m trying to say is that before making a choice - whether it’s about what to expect from the path you take or what might happen if you don’t choose it - nothing is really clear.

I’ve always been very determined about what I wanted to do in life: study biology, particularly the sea and all those things I’d grown up with as a child. Like pretty much everyone who grows up by the sea, let’s be honest. That’s to be expected, I’d say. I was truly convinced of this, however, and just as convinced that I had to embark on a research career. When I decided to move abroad, to Germany, I was captivated by the myriad possibilities that a country which invests seriously in research could offer someone just starting out in this world. At the same time, I was somewhat blinded by the prospect of doing so at a highly prestigious institution. I can’t say I was wrong, nor can I say I made the wrong choices. But there’s something I want to say, so I’ll write it down here; whether you read it or not, it will remain hidden on this little blog until the moment I leave academia or until I get fed up with keeping these thoughts in order.

Personally, I expected my PhD to lead to a major discovery, to write the story of a lifetime and to explore remote places that few people in the world have seen. These expectations were partly driven by the fact that you don’t really have a proper idea of what doing research means until you actually start doing it. Who among us hasn’t thought, “Right, I’ll go off and have a bit of a look around, finish up the lab work, wrap up the computer analyses, and tomorrow I’ll write a story that’ll make the papers”? Well, if you’re reading this and thinking ‘no’, well done. People often have a distorted view of research. At least, that’s been my experience in Italy: research is pioneering work. It’s pioneering not because those who do it find themselves travelling to the moon, but because it’s done in silence, under appalling conditions, and with only the end result – the ‘Eureka’ moment – on display. But guys, that ‘Eureka’ moment doesn’t really exist. What does exist is a constant and deep commitment to a subject that you nurture patiently and explore until it turns against you in the darkest moments, when you wonder whether it’s really worth carrying on, and which gives you the deepest reasons to keep digging in the most positive moments. Curiosity - even though everyone says I’ve always been a curious person - is that thing which didn’t feature in my expectations for this journey, and yet which I’ve rediscovered to my great delight. It’s not an overly romanticised view of things, or perhaps it might be. I believe, in my own small way and after a few experiences, that without this you can’t get very far. You have to be curious.

Let’s return to the spectacle.

I was expecting to travel around the world. Fantastic - and I did just that: I visited islands, remote spots in the ocean kilometres and kilometres from the coast. Underwater volcanoes, stormy oceans and, soon, the Arctic too. Nobody prepares you for all this beauty, nor for what it entails or the sacrifices it demands of you. I was expecting nothing but beauty - a bit naively, I’d say. What I gained was a sense of responsibility, less time for my personal life, and an understanding of how the world works and of bureaucracy, certificates and setbacks. To think that you can ever really be ready for all this is a mistake. Privilege always comes hand in hand with so much else. In fact, the thing that unexpectedly changed my expectations the most was understanding the systems within which all these wonderful things operate. Once again, doing research isn’t a lovely fairy tale with a happy ending, but a process of trial and error punctuated by failures and good days, tiring days, days outdoors and days in the office or laboratory. It may seem a trivial thing to say, or to realise, but these are things that strike you suddenly and when you least expect them. I’d like to emphasise, in particular, the failures. This is because there can be many failures along a scientific path, but nobody talks about them.

Failures shape our expectations. Sometimes, they lead to isolation or the desire to give it all up. Generally speaking, once you’ve come to terms with it, if all goes well, things are back to normal. But generally, the journey is made up of ups and downs, just like so many other journeys. All of this is taken for granted, and that’s wrong. We should pay more attention to all this, showing that it is right to start with high hopes, but also that it is just as important to pick yourself up and start again.

Having almost reached the end of the journey, I think my expectations have changed, and I’m glad they have. It will certainly be just the beginning of my academic journey, but for now I carry with me the lessons I’ve learnt from my travels, my failures and my experiences over time. Tomorrow they may change, but for now I’m content simply to sail the Arctic.