I’ve always struggled with words. Growing up as a typical dyslexic student, reading and writing felt like enemy number one. Letters danced on the page, words seemed to rearrange themselves just to taunt me, and spelling (re)tests were a weekly ordeal.

By the time I hit secondary school, the label of “too stupid” seemed permanently stuck to my back. Teachers, even the well-meaning ones, advised me to temper my expectations. They said my inability to spell or string together a coherent essay would hold me back in life, as though the occasional “i” before “e” slip were a harbinger of doom. Words felt alien, and I felt unwelcome in their world.

Yet here I am, sitting in my cozy studio flat in Scotland, waiting out the relentless winds of Storm Eowyn. Not only am I writing, an activity younger me could scarcely imagine voluntarily choosing to do, but I’m somehow also a PhD student. I’m studying, researching, and preparing to present my findings in academic journals, environments I once assumed were as closed off to me as professional ballet.

How did I get here? A little self-belief, a lot of determination, and, I’ll admit, a very helpful Grammarly subscription. My saving grace was an addictive curiosity to understand how things work, finding the hidden patterns and solving the puzzles. Reading and writing still don’t come easy but they are the tools to understanding the inner workings of society, the cheat codes and formulas written over generations to understand the problems of today.

Goals for Writing

The truth is, I’m not here because I’ve magically become a perfect writer. I’m here because I’ve finally realized that writing isn’t about perfection. It’s about connection. Writing is about sharing your story, your perspective, and your ideas with the world. It’s about reaching out to others and saying, “This is what I’ve seen. This is what I’ve felt. Does it resonate with you?”

So, what are my goals for writing here? They’re twofold:

1. To practice my writing. Writing is a skill, and like any skill, it gets better with practice. This blog is my space to experiment, to stumble, to learn, and, hopefully, to grow.
2. To share the stories and research I believe are too important to stay hidden in academic journals.

For years, I’ve avoided identifying as a writer because I equated writing with flawless grammar, elegant phrasing, and effortless wit. Those were the benchmarks I thought writers had to meet, and I was convinced I could never reach them. Over time, though, I’ve come to understand that writing is less about grammar and more about authenticity. It’s about finding your voice and using it to say something meaningful.

Blogging, for me, is the perfect medium for this. It’s informal enough to feel approachable yet structured enough to encourage thoughtful communication. More than that, it’s a platform for amplifying stories that matter, stories that might otherwise remain buried under the avalanche of academic jargon and paywalled research papers (the irony of some of these blogs being paywalled is not lost on me).

Research: Uncovering Hidden Stories

One of the most incredible aspects of pursuing a PhD is the opportunity to dive deep into stories that often go unnoticed. These are stories of resilience, creativity, and adaptability — stories that challenge our assumptions and expand our understanding of the human experience. Yet so many of these narratives remain hidden in the dusty corners of academic journals, accessible only to a select few.

My research focuses on placemaking within refugee camps. In essence, I study how displaced people transform top-down emergency shelters, initially designed for short-term use, into spaces that reflect the reality of protracted displacement. Refugee camps are often portrayed as transient — a temporary fix for an immediate crisis. But the truth is, many camps exist for decades, becoming semi-permanent cities in their own right.

What fascinates me is how people adapt to these circumstances. They turn cookie-cutter shelters into homes. They set up shops, schools, and places of worship. They plant gardens and paint murals. They create communities in the most unlikely of places. This process of placemaking, of turning spaces into places, is a testament to the resilience and creativity of the human spirit.

Unfortunately, these stories often get lost in the noise. The world today feels inundated with hateful rhetoric. Social media amplifies negativity, drowning out voices of hope and innovation. It’s easy to become cynical, to assume the world is irreparably broken. But my research, and the stories I’ve encountered through it, reminds me that hope is never entirely extinguished. People adapt. They find ways to thrive, even in the most difficult circumstances.

Through writing, I hope to amplify these untold stories of hope and humanity. I want to shine a light on the incredible ways people navigate and redefine their realities, not just as a testament to their resilience but as a reminder of what’s possible when we refuse to give up.

Finding My Voice as a Writer

Admittedly, I’m still finding my voice as a writer. This blog is a big part of that journey. Writing is like stepping into a conversation that’s already in progress. It’s intimidating, especially when the room is filled with seasoned writers who seem to know exactly what to say and how to say it. But I’ve come to realize that I don’t need to mimic anyone else’s voice. I just need to use my own.

That’s easier said than done, of course. Impostor syndrome is a frequent companion, whispering in my ear that I don’t belong here, that my words aren’t good enough. But writing is as much about perseverance as it is about creativity. It’s about showing up, even when the words don’t come easily, and trusting that your voice matters.

I’ve also realized that writing can be an act of vulnerability. Sharing your thoughts, your stories, and your ideas with the world is daunting. It’s opening yourself up to critique, to misunderstanding, to judgment. But it’s also opening yourself up to connection, to empathy, to understanding. And that’s what makes it worth it.

Beyond Academia

While a significant part of my writing will focus on my research, I also want to explore other topics that resonate with me. Academia can be isolating. The pressure to publish, the endless deadlines, and the constant comparison can take a toll. I want to share what I’ve learned about surviving in this environment. Whether it’s tips for managing imposter syndrome, reflections on the highs and lows of PhD life, or just musings on the importance of taking breaks, I hope my experiences can offer some encouragement to others navigating similar journeys. Life is too rich and varied to be confined to a single narrative, and I believe our stories are most powerful when they embrace that complexity.

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The “4-Year Rule” is a concept that offers peace of mind by helping individuals understand their creative process and, ultimately, their marketability in the arts. This idea, originally explored in a video that resonated deeply with me, emphasizes that art — and by extension, research, writing, and other creative pursuits — is not a get-rich-quick scheme. Instead, it is a marathon, a series of iterative processes that unfold over four years to make the most meaningful impact.

When I watched this video, I thought about my own creative endeavours but later, about the transferability to my research. The concept felt universal, applying not only to artistic growth but also to the intellectual development required in academia, particularly in PhD research.

The inspiration for the 4-Year Rule stems from the natural four-year chunks we experience in life — undergraduate studies, structured education, and various career cycles. Sergio, the creator of this idea, discusses how this structured timeframe serves as a blueprint for personal and professional growth, providing a sense of direction and peace of mind.

One of the most compelling insights from the video is the connection to David Wallace’s articulation of the creative process in four stages: preparation, incubation, illumination, and verification. These stages closely mirror the academic research process, especially within a PhD journey. Understanding these phases can demystify the process of learning and creating, alleviating the pressure to have everything figured out immediately.

Preparation

The preparation stage is where everything feels crucial — every new piece of information, every theory, every methodology seems like the most important thing. This phase, while exciting, can also be overwhelming.

As a PhD student, I see this reflected in my own research process. The urge to learn everything, to dive into every buzzword, and to follow every potential research path can be paralyzing. There is always another book, another article, another framework to explore. But what’s important to recognize is that this feeling is not only normal but necessary.

This phase is all about self-informing — learning deeply about a topic, engaging with different schools of thought, and expanding your intellectual toolkit. However, just as in the creative industries, knowledge alone is not enough. A photographer does not become skilled by merely studying the works of great artists; they must go out and take photos, experimenting with composition, lighting, and technique. Similarly, researchers must engage with their work actively — through literature reviews, draft writing, and critical engagement with their field.

Unlike in the arts, where sketching or prototyping can feel more immediate, the academic world often lacks a tangible equivalent. Writing drafts, however imperfect, is crucial. Creating research memos, summarizing key readings, or even blogging about research ideas, I find, helps bridge the gap between passive learning and active engagement.

In this stage, it is essential to explore different methodologies, writing styles, and theoretical frameworks. This is the time to broaden one’s understanding and experiment without fear of making mistakes. At the end of this phase, you emerge as a more well-rounded and comprehensive researcher.

Incubation

Incubation is the period of reflection and refinement. It’s the stage where all the information gathered in the preparation phase begins to settle, allowing for the emergence of deeper insights. This is where creativity and research start to take shape.

Sergio describes this phase as the “What If?” stage. In academia, this is where research gaps become apparent. When reading journal articles, the introduction often highlights these gaps — the unexplored angles, the missing connections. This is where original research finds its footing.

For first-year PhD students, this phase is critical. It is the time to identify the specific niche of research, to refine questions, and to determine methodologies. Questions like “What if I conducted interviews instead of surveys?” or “What if I examined this urban theory through a different lens?” help to shape the direction of the research.

At this stage, the process is still exploratory. You are not yet expected to have definitive answers. Instead, the goal is to narrow down the focus logically while maintaining an openness to new insights. As Sergio puts it:

“It’s not until you’ve tried everything that you start to narrow down some focus.”

This resonates deeply with academic research. While it is essential to continue learning and questioning, the incubation phase is about deepening understanding and adding layers of complexity to one’s work.

An interesting term Sergio uses is “tinkering.” This perfectly describes the iterative nature of research and creative work. Tinkering involves small, detailed adjustments — tweaking hypotheses, revisiting data, refining arguments. It’s a process of micro-decisions that ultimately shape the final outcome.

For researchers, this might mean reworking the theoretical framework, testing different methodologies, or refining the scope of a study. It is an iterative cycle that builds towards clarity and coherence.

Illumination

Illumination is the moment when everything starts to come together. The preparation and incubation phases lay the groundwork, and now, the connections begin to form. This is the stage of breakthroughs, where ideas solidify and the research starts to feel meaningful.

In this phase, the accumulated knowledge reaches a tipping point. Suddenly, concepts that once seemed abstract begin to make sense. The neurons start connecting, and patterns emerge.

As a PhD student, I don’t necessarily feel any smarter than I did during my master’s or undergraduate years. However, I do feel more attuned to my field. Even now, I experience moments of illumination — those “Aha!” moments where pieces of research align unexpectedly. These moments become more frequent with time, reinforcing the idea that knowledge-building is a gradual process.

Verification

Verification is the final stage — the culmination of years of learning, questioning, and refining. At this point, you are no longer just absorbing knowledge; you are contributing to it. This is where the research solidifies into something tangible and meaningful.

By the time you reach the final year of a PhD, you have tested hypotheses, explored methodologies, and refined your ideas through countless iterations. Now, you are expected to validate your findings, justify your research, and demonstrate its significance. This is a daunting but exciting transition — from student to expert.

This phase is also where the broader impact of your work becomes evident. It is time to share insights through publications, conferences, and discussions with peers. Just as an artist exhibits their work, a researcher must disseminate their findings to make an impact. Learning how to communicate research effectively is as important as conducting it.

The thought of becoming a world-leading expert in a niche area can be intimidating. However, this is the natural progression of deep engagement with a subject over time. By the end of this process, you will possess knowledge and insights that no one else in the world does. While this may not automatically make you a Nobel Prize laureate, it does establish you as a significant voice in your field.

Conclusion

Not everyone follows a strict four-year PhD timeline — some complete it in three, others take five or more years. However, the stages of preparation, incubation, illumination, and verification remain relevant regardless of the duration. Understanding this process provides reassurance that knowledge and expertise develop over time. You don’t need to know everything at once; breakthroughs will come with patience and persistence.

The 4-Year Rule is not just a method — it is a mindset. Whether in art, research, or any creative endeavor, trusting the process allows for sustainable growth, meaningful impact, and ultimately, success (I hope).

Watch it here: The 4 Year Rule

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Recently, I went to see Captain America: Brave New World, a title that is surely a direct reference to Aldous Huxley’s dystopian novel. There’s a lot to say about the themes in this latest instalment and the way previous Marvel projects, like Endgame and The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, have engaged with ideas of world governance. But what really stood out to me was Harrison Ford’s portrayal of the yet-again recast Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross.

Viral interviews featuring Ford’s take on the role have been making the rounds, and one moment, in particular, caught my attention. When asked about doing the CGI-heavy action sequences, Ford casually admitted that he was happy to do the “silly stuff” because, well — he’s getting paid. His delivery was effortlessly charismatic, and the sheer bluntness of his reasoning was both hilarious and, in a way, liberating.

This persona — someone who knows exactly why they are doing something and embraces it — felt like a lesson worth exploring. It got me thinking: What can we, as researchers, learn from Harrison Ford?

“There are aspects of personality that I now realise to be typically midwestern. There is a reticence. There’s, a tinge of anger that’s part of my nature. There is a kind of work ethic, morality. Which just comes from where I come from.”

On Fear

Thinking back to drama class, I remember how silly everything felt. I’m not alone in this; Ford himself admitted that acting came to him more as a necessity than a burning passion. Having struggled with his grades, he enrolled in a drama class almost by accident, confessing: “I found at first that I was terribly frightened of this.” But here lies the first lesson we can take from him. He continued because he wanted to conquer that fear: “I felt challenged by this fear, I continued to do it because I wanted to overcome the fear.” From overcoming that initial hesitancy, Ford found a deeper engagement with the subject and, ultimately, a place in society that he hadn’t felt before.

For researchers, fear often manifests as imposter syndrome, fear of failure, or the daunting nature of tackling big, complex problems. Ford’s approach reminds us that fear can be a catalyst rather than a barrier — something to lean into rather than avoid.

On Ambition

One sentiment I strongly relate to is Ford’s rejection of a conventional career path. He spoke of his disdain for “professional careers after which they would retire, play golf, and die.” This philosophy shaped every choice I made after turning 16 — my A-levels, my degrees, abandoning a traditional architecture route in favour of research. It wasn’t the easy choice, and even today, I question whether it was the right one. But Ford puts it well: “I wanted excitement, I wanted a challenge, and I didn’t want a real job.”

Choices like these are not easy; obstacles can feel impenetrable. After Ford’s first professional acting role, a producer bluntly told him he should consider another occupation. He later recalled the producer saying: “The first time Tony Curtis was ever in a movie, the first time he delivered a bag of groceries, you took one look at that guy and you said, ‘That’s a movie star.’” The message? Ford didn’t have it.

Researchers encounter similar naysayers — whether it’s reviewers rejecting a paper, advisors doubting a project, or our own inner critic whispering that we’re not good enough. But Ford’s story teaches us persistence: the external (and internal) doubters don’t define our potential.

On Resilience

Despite early roles, including American Graffiti, Ford’s career wasn’t an instant success. To support his young family, he became a carpenter. But this wasn’t giving up — it was a way to wait it out. Then came his breakthrough: while reading lines for actors auditioning for a little-known film called Star Wars, he unknowingly read his way into history as Han Solo.

This kind of resilience is crucial in research. We often face setbacks — funding rejections, failed experiments, lost data. But Ford’s story is a testament to endurance: sometimes, success isn’t about immediate wins but about positioning yourself for the right opportunity.

On Authenticity: A Real Man in an Unreal World

One of the defining traits of Ford’s characters — Han Solo, Indiana Jones — is their relatability. Unlike the superhuman heroes of his era, his characters showed fear. Indiana Jones, for instance, famously fears snakes. “I wanted to allow the audience to see his fear,” Ford once said. Similarly, Han Solo never had a plan; he improvised. In a way, Ford himself was a real man in an unreal world — just as many researchers feel navigating academia.

In research, embracing our human side — our struggles, fears, and moments of uncertainty — makes us better scholars. It reminds us that we don’t need to have all the answers upfront.

On Doing What You Want

Harrison Ford is a household name, the “star of the century” with hit after hit, from Star Wars to Blade Runner to now the MCU, it is as if Harrison Ford makes pop culture but does he care?

Despite his commercial success, Ford has always balanced blockbuster roles with personal passion projects. “I wanted to take the success of more popular films and allow me to make choices which would be less obvious… to stretch people’s sense of who I was.” I would say that is the healthiest balance, being able to care about your audience enough to give them what they want, to know what they want but also to continue that challenge that drove him into the career in the first place. It is clear that Ford cares, but he knows what he cares about and the rest is redundant.

This is a lesson in balance. As researchers, we juggle institutional expectations, funding pressures, and personal academic interests. Ford’s approach suggests a middle path: deliver what’s expected while ensuring room for personal exploration.

On Selective Engagement

Ford has never been one to chase fame. He moved from LA to Wyoming and remains notoriously reserved in interviews. “Why are people watching me? Am I in a zoo?” he once quipped. While some critics say he seems uninterested in his own stardom, Ford has simply established boundaries — he knows what he wants from his career and what he doesn’t.

For researchers, this is a reminder that we don’t have to engage with every demand. Not every committee, conference, or collaboration requires our participation. Setting boundaries allows us to focus on what truly matters.

On Balancing Passion and Detachment

When asked if the excitement of Star Wars fandom meant a lot to him, Ford dryly responded: “For them, maybe.” This wasn’t cynicism but a reflection of his ability to separate his work from public perception. He loves his craft but doesn’t let nostalgia overshadow it.

In academia, it’s easy to become consumed by our work, to measure worth by citations or external validation. Ford’s attitude suggests a healthier approach: care deeply about your work, but don’t let external noise dictate its value.

Closing thoughts

In a moving interview, Ford reveals a glimpse into his childhood. at the age of 12, after moving to a new school and becoming an outsider he became the target of bullying, more than that, the victim of the school sport, pushing him down a hill into the brambles. but what is catching is the attitude towards this he says “I don’t really know how it started, but I know that my reaction was just to pick myself up, dust myself off and crawl back up to the top again.” It may be hard to imagine Han Solo or Indiana Jones in this position but the resistance of the man behind these characters shines through into the performance.

As researchers, we can learn a lot from Harrison Ford — how to handle stress, pressure, and fear. We can express ourselves on our own terms, balance passion with detachment, and embrace authenticity. Most of all, we can learn to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and climb back up the hill — every single time.

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It has dawned on me that this time last year, I was writing a research proposal for a program in Scotland — a city I had never been to, in a subject I wasn’t entirely familiar with. It felt like a long shot at best. I assumed I would apply and never hear back, but I did. I went through the interviews, essays, and presentations, and now here I am, reflecting on it as if it were a distant memory.

The year that followed was filled with lessons, hard truths, and revelations. I had my first tutoring job, went through two laptops trying to finish my master’s degree (which taught me the importance of insurance), and despite studying architecture for four years, finally experienced burnout. Then, the weekend after finishing my master’s, I moved to Scotland — because why waste time?

The biggest lesson I have learned is that you can only absorb so much information without producing any output.

In doing a PhD, I have (unsurprisingly) been reading a lot. I read to identify research gaps, understand research methodologies, explore the contextual background of my study, and even to learn how to do a PhD. Combined with the constant influx of new information on contemporary issues related to my field, it can feel overwhelming.

But consuming all this information — reading, listening, watching — creates an immense amount of input that can become mentally exhausting without an outlet.

This is where I discovered writing (as if that’s not the most obvious thing).

However, I mean writing for different purposes — not just waiting for my supervisor to request a polished chapter of my thesis. Instead, I have embraced writing in different forms: messy meditations on current affairs here on Medium, unpublishable ramblings and rants, structured academic writing, research notes, and summaries purely for my own reflection.

Meditations

These allow me to engage with broader societal issues, articulate my thoughts on evolving topics, and practice communicating complex ideas to a wider audience. They also provide a space to test arguments and perspectives before incorporating them into academic work. Writing about current affairs helps me refine my analytical skills and stay informed while also offering a creative outlet outside of academic writing.

Unpublishable Ramblings and Rants

These serve as a mental release, helping me process frustrations and challenges without the pressure of producing perfect prose. They act as a form of therapy, letting me externalize emotions that might otherwise hinder my academic progress. Writing freely without concern for structure or coherence allows me to work through difficult ideas and emotional roadblocks, making it easier to return to more structured writing later.

Summaries for Personal Reflection

These help consolidate knowledge, making it easier to retain key concepts and see connections between different ideas. They are invaluable when revisiting past readings and ensuring that important insights don’t get lost in the flood of information. Writing summaries also aids in creating a reference bank of key arguments, methodologies, and frameworks, which is incredibly useful when writing formal chapter drafts or preparing for discussions with my supervisor.

Conclusion

This shift has helped me process information more effectively, clarify my thoughts, and alleviate some of the overwhelming feelings that come with the PhD journey. Writing, in its many forms, has become my way of making sense of the constant stream of knowledge and ensuring that all this input doesn’t go to waste.

More importantly, writing has given me a sense of control over my learning process. Instead of passively consuming vast amounts of research, I actively engage with it, make connections, and develop my own perspectives. Writing in different formats — whether informal reflections or structured academic papers — has also helped me recognize my own growth as a researcher.

As I continue my PhD journey, I know that the way I write and think will continue to evolve. There will be moments of frustration, but also breakthroughs that make it all worthwhile. For now, I embrace writing as both a tool and a companion — one that allows me to process, reflect, and, ultimately, contribute something meaningful to my field.

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