Joyful Scholarship: Reclaiming Pleasure to Inspire Change in Academia

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.—T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock 5 o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Raining outside. And here I am, scribbling a footnote to my application for another tenured position: ‘Dear colleagues, these are publications in journals one could describe as (ahem…) ‘modestly ranked’. Yet, what a thrill it has been to conduct this fieldwork, investigate with subtlety, write with passion, and share the results with all my colleagues! Isn’t the pleasure of research worth all the stars in the world?’ The short answer is no. But the longer answer draws us deep into the fabric of this joyless scholarship and its consequences. As scholars, pleasure sounds like a dirty secret. Whisper it between corridors, or better: keep it for yourself. If you are lucky enough to enjoy your work on top of our achievements – bravo. But collectively, pleasure is our taboo. Of course, as scholars, we want to be credible, so we base our work on facts, objectivity, and rigour. Bragging about stars, publications and gruelling efforts? Sure you can (although not too much). But telling your colleagues about how much you enjoy your work? Reactions would range from ‘meh’ to ‘Yeah, no wonder he enjoys his work: he is not working at all’. Yet, three years into academia, I realize that this hustle, publication-driven culture that dismisses pleasure only leads us into the dire situation we are stuck in. When academic institutions hinge on the ‘coffee spoons’ of narrow metrics, they suffocate pleasure; this breeds conformist research and strains scholars to the point of exhaustion. Our toxic culture does not reflect joyless scholarship; it grows from it. Pleasure is therefore not a ‘nice-to-have’ for academia, but a crucial spark to challenge our practices and institutions. By pleasure, I mean more than ephemeral enjoyment but the intrinsic satisfaction we find in values that make our work meaningful (Schueller and Seligman, 2010). This intrinsic pleasure carries us through all our mundane and more ambitious tasks: chatting with colleagues, attending conferences, supervising students, advancing scientific knowledge, discussing at lab meetings. Pleasure is the powerhouse of academia: we need to reconnect with it. Reflecting on my journey as a young scholar, I will first delve into the manufacture of this joyless scholarship – where we trade ‘achievement coupons’ and neat articles for pleasure. I will then trace how reclaiming pleasure can inspire lasting change in academia. For young scholars, pleasure serves as a compass to find a voice amidst diverse pressures; collectively, pleasure builds belonging by fostering authenticity and cultivating positive feelings; institutionally, pleasure provides Deans and journal editors a path to champion a more inclusive academia. These three levels – individual, collective, and institutional – can build upon one another to trigger a positive snowball effect in academia. Ultimately, a more joyful scholarship energizes us to weave the desirable futures we long to inspire. Entering academia looks a bit like your first day of Fight Club. The first rule you learn about pleasure in academia is: you do not talk about pleasure. This makes for a hazy start, when you consider that the initial impulse to begin our academic journey is often framed by passion and intrinsic motivation. I remember the first years of my PhD programme; I used to look at my role models and wonder: are they really human? I was deluding myself about these angel-like figures serenely sitting on the Mount Olympus of social science, deprived of the pleasures and pains that afflict us mere mortals. But then I thought – ok, this is the way Gabriel, let’s play ball; immerse yourself in scientific rigour to the point of self-effacement. And as I moved forward, I truly came to believe that selflessness equates with objectivity or scientific rigour. Yet, these deluded ideals only saddle us with standards that prepare us for a further deprivation of enjoyment. Beware: this is only the initiation before spiralling into the actual cogs and wheels of the system. So I went from idealizing those selfless standards to a monk-like training in asceticism, where we trade ‘achievement coupons’ for actual pleasure. I learned stylistic asceticism, to standardize publication formats and writing styles; theoretical asceticism, to conform our results to existing theories and mainstream topics; quantitative asceticism, to ensure the number of words stays below a certain threshold; and finally, intellectual asceticism, to state one and only one idea – the very definition of the mainstream research paper. You learn straight away that you are better off talking to colleagues about methodological rigour (thanks, Reviewer 2), your ‘contribution to the literature’ (Oops! Mind the gap), editorial diplomacy (Of course, dear reviewer, this n-th bibliographical reference, though quite far removed from my theoretical framework, seems entirely relevant), or even the accuracy of your bibliography (disclaimer: all credit to my friend Zotero). The crux is that along this journey, not only do we miss out on pleasure, but on a more crucial path to our own individuality. My first encounter with peer review can serve as a cautionary tale of how dismissing pleasure is detrimental to your development as a scholar and a person. At the time, I had just defended my PhD thesis. I had worked for several months on the affective experiences of nurses in emergency services in French hospitals; these stories were at times poignant or surprisingly fun, but most often dealt with violence or even death. At a certain point, I felt ready to take a leap of faith to send my work to a peer-reviewed journal. So I did. Several months later, the reviewers replied: I needed to strengthen the methodology, explain the data collection more clearly, and (perhaps more surprisingly) adopt a ‘less critical’ perspective. Fair enough, I thought, nothing I had not expected. Still, why did I feel a growing sense of unease and disappointment? I was puzzled at first: where had all this ‘impure’ material gone in all these methodologically impeccable articles I had been reading lately? Maybe my research was not good enough? But then from puzzled, I became wary. Only months later did I realize – the personal journey of my work had been shredded in the machinery of joyless scholarship. From blankly staring at my feet in dismay, I took a glance around. A coherent pattern emerged: I was not alone. By losing sight of pleasure, we become just another cog in this machinery of joyless scholarship. The roadmap is all too well known: upstream, we capitalize on mainstream topics to minimize the risk of desk rejection; downstream, even business schools double down on narrow metrics like the h-index. Sure, this can result in lots of articles – some of them really good. Yet, is it sustainable? Only three years into academia, I have grappled many times with mixed feelings about this process. An article is published, fine. But then I do not have the time to enjoy it, and as I envision the next piles of articles to read and write, the snarky little voice in my head goes: ‘Yep, good job, another item on the factory line’. Beyond collective frustration, this academic ‘show-jumping’ corrodes relationships and results in a culture of comparison, imposter syndrome, and loneliness. When academia pursues productivity at the cost of pleasure, it jeopardizes not only scholars’ mental health but spirals down to endanger the entire scientific process. This is the reason we need to make pleasure not only an individual wish but an imperative for our entire academic culture. Having descended into the limbo of joyless scholarship, we now face a pivotal moment. Pleasure, much like a snowball gathering momentum, can become our fuel to move together from lament to ascent: it is a path to reclaiming our identity as scholars, building more inclusive collective practices, and inspiring institutional leaders to support lasting change in our academic culture. Are we academics or are we people who work in academia? I asked myself this question all through my PhD training – and the truth is, I am still confused about the answer. Jumping into academia, we often lose sight of the person behind the scholar as we comply with multiple demands: publish in the ‘right’ journals, mentor students, adapt your teaching, go to the best conferences, and so on (oh, and did I mention applying to grants too?). But amidst those rough seas, pleasure can become a compass for navigating with confidence and finding our own voice and identity. However, this shift is far from easy. First, we need to distance ourselves from unrealistic academic ideals that demand sacrifice and detachment. This leads to a further complication: when we let those ideals go, we discover a more painful truth – the fears that lie behind them. True, the pressures of academia present powerful obstacles, and even taking a sabbatical can be seen as a career-hindering decision (Fewer, 2025). Yet, we collectively contribute to this problem when we allow deep-seated anxieties to dictate our choices. As our fears dissipate, we realize a more fundamental question lies beneath: What do I genuinely enjoy in my research? Although painful, this introspection leads us to enhanced self-awareness. I went through such a moment after I had defended my PhD. It was not the future I had envisioned; there I was, almost 30, with no idea where I was going or even if I still had the energy to pursue a career in academia. Meanwhile, my friends were entering more successful and lucrative professions (or, to be fair, they seemed to be from my bitter perspective back then). I considered my entire PhD journey to be a waste of time. But from this, bitterness emerged a moment of insight. I had to face the discrepancy between my initial enjoyment and the institutional pressures to conform. I was the one in a position to make choices not only for my future career but for my future self, based on what I enjoyed or not. Beyond self-awareness, following what we enjoy can benefit our field by leading to more interesting science. Indeed, we are told that discoveries in science involve risk-taking and fearless venturing into uncharted territory. Yet, this path is not always welcomed – let alone taught. It requires us to stay resilient and assertive amidst adversity; and while a more joyful scholarship may pull us away from the rat race, it empowers us to build more authentic connections beyond the instrumental expectations of publications and careers. Look, I won’t lie: a colleague or two mocked my publications in ‘low-tier’ journals or my peripheral interests, like psychoanalysis or art history. But guess what? The joke is on them. Because ultimately, what you enjoy became a stronger inner compass for cultivating more meaningful connections with colleagues. However, your individual compass will only lead you so far; no matter how motivated you are, only sound collective practices can support lasting change. As we harness and build on what we enjoy personally, we are in a better position to design new rituals and practices in academia. The fabric of joyless scholarship did not appear out of thin air. Although systemic pressures matter, we – through our collective habits and practices – are also a part of it. Here is how we can follow what we enjoy to build and expand ‘pockets of enjoyment’ in academia. First things first, let’s make the PhD journey more growth-oriented. Current conventional objectives fall short of capturing the personal journey that comes with your training. So, besides more classical academic milestones, we need to design specific ‘growth goals’ that include the more personalized objectives built on what we enjoy as people. These goals can vary among individuals, and we need to stay flexible, but they could guide advisory meetings. For some, it could mean maintaining a better work–life balance; for others, it might be volunteering or leading consulting missions. For me, it was temporarily pursuing, alongside my PhD, my long-standing passion for acting. I know, these might look like diversions – and that is fine if for some colleagues the path was more straightforward. But what seem like side tracks are actually the essential, although overlooked, engines of our PhD training. Lasting enjoyment can mean the difference between people who flourish and those who falter. In the end, we need to make sure that during academic training, PhD programmes are designed for actual people with desires and aspirations for growth. Yet, nurturing better PhD practices would feel like growing a plant in sterile soil without a change in our collective rituals. My call here is to preserve, build, and expand ‘pockets of enjoyment’ within our current academic practices. Conferences and lab meetings are the cornerstones of our academic life; yet, we never explicitly take time to collectively celebrate pleasure. We could, therefore, dedicate a moment – let’s say at the start of every lab meeting – where we share a surprise or a delight from our recent work. It could be a work-related achievement, but also a more personal anecdote. On a lighter note, I remember that during an online department meeting, where it is particularly difficult to foster a good mood, we spent the first few minutes with a colleague cracking every possible ‘The Office’ joke and reference to Steve Carell’s character. Even those who did not know the show found it silly enough to have a good (online) laugh. The Office jokes aside, imagine we extend more enjoyable practices to another pivotal moment in our work: research seminars. Alongside the classical Q now I would like to know: what did you enjoy most while doing your research?’ A simple question, yet it makes all the difference. It would reconcile pleasure with the actual production of science. Sure, we could object: how would all of this rein in the academic hydra of systemic pressures and its all-too-many heads? Well, first, pleasure need not be about bursts of laughter and self-serving cheers. Sharing with others what we enjoy in our work also means opening up more vulnerably about who we are as individuals, and that would make a difference in building trust and more authentic relations among us in academia. In these troubled times, we might not vanquish the ‘publish-or-perish’ monster right away, but we might be more collectively ready to face it as a unified team. Yet, I admit: there’s a hitch here. Even the best-performing team cannot outrun self-defeating rules. For ‘pockets of enjoyment’ to achieve systemic change, institutional leaders must build on that momentum. So, in this last step of our ascension towards joyful scholarship, I urge Deans and journal editors to make pleasure an institutional priority. Pleasure, if preserved and championed, will be a powerful tool to create not only more robust institutions, but more interesting and relevant science. Pleasure is like a fine meal: you cannot prescribe it by decree, nor can enjoyment be mandated. Instead, we must focus on preserving and nurturing the conditions to let it shine. While Deans face immense pressure to deliver on metrics, they nonetheless remain uniquely positioned to become guardians of these ‘pockets of enjoyment’ in academia. As Bartunek (2019) argues, ‘contemplation’ makes academic life meaningful only when it is ‘particular’ and ‘real’ – this is true also for pleasure. So a first action from Deans would be to formally acknowledge what we collectively enjoy, for instance during faculty meetings. Institutional milestones are one thing, but leaders can take time to commend colleagues for non-traditional and less visible contributions, such as student mentorship, sharing research with a wider audience, maintaining a healthy work–life balance within a team, or leading a transdisciplinary project. As Deans put pleasure under the institutional spotlight, they send a strong signal favouring further autonomy and faculty involvement. Beyond visibility, Deans could also experiment with making these same contributions legitimate for career progression and tenure to expand the conditions for pleasure in academia. We should move with caution here, to avoid adding another bureaucratic layer that would burden both Deans and faculty. Still, this is not science-fiction: some academic institutions, like Utrecht University, are already pioneering this shift to metrics, like the intrinsic of academic work By those ‘pockets of Deans do not only scholars’ mental health but also a more inclusive academia for a new of and If Deans can the conditions for a more joyful scholarship, journal editors at the of the institutional First, to let pleasure in research and ensure it present the entire editors could create a specific at the of an of it as between the intellectual of an and the of a to your In about you would us about your journey in your It could range from simple – a sense of wonder with our team as we went through data – to about how leading this our as is but it would be by the time they your journey has and So a would be to take into the enjoyment – of both and reviewers – the review process. could include a specific in the review where reviewers are asked to one specific of the intellectual or that they enjoyed or found and build on it. This is not only a for more when reviewers discover what they enjoy in own research and let it in the we are more to up with and Reflecting on my journey as a young scholar, I to a crucial yet of our work: pleasure. A culture of enjoyment in academia does not mean in – quite the It is a that mental health and research are of joyless scholarship. enjoyment us find our voice as young scholars, build collective and inspire that systemic even beyond academia, it has the to the next to pursue the futures as scholars, long to inspire and So, the next time you are asked to your academic life in ‘coffee spoons’ of narrow metrics, remember to for a of enjoyment I would like to thank and for editorial support and I am also to for his and for reading and on of this and for our the for and pleasure in academic