As a new assistant dean, I felt out of my depth—until I looked to my past for guidance

From ScienceMag:

In my first month as assistant dean, two people cried in my office. Both times I froze. Their problems were so much bigger, messier, and more complicated than anything I’d had to tackle as a faculty member. I had pursued a doctorate in geology rather than medicine largely to avoid sensitive conversations with people—rocks don’t talk back. Yet here I was, essentially a midlevel manager, overwhelmed and feeling like I was starting over. But looking to my past helped me find my way forward.

This wasn’t the first time I had doubted myself. I remember sitting in class the first year of my Ph.D. program, listening to a discussion of a paper I had read but not understood. Another student asked an intelligent and insightful question, sparking a lively debate. I followed none of it. I wondered how I could possibly write a paper myself, when I couldn’t even understand one I had read.

Determined to find my way, I started to emulate grad students I admired, asking them an insane number of questions. I put my trust in my adviser, even when I thought she was wrong. Two years later, I finished the first draft of my first paper. Distilling an unwieldy pile of data and ideas into one concise piece of work was deeply satisfying.

After I finished that first paper, I was hooked. I wanted to keep chasing that intellectual satisfaction, so I decided to give academia a try. But once I became a faculty member, I felt at sea again. I was unprepared to support students facing complex problems such as mental health and familial crises. Designing new courses overwhelmed me, and I struggled to connect with my students.

But I got my bearings the same way as before: by leaning on my peers, now other professors. I quickly learned that although new courses were fun to daydream about, they were an inordinate amount of work to prepare, and my time was better spent improving courses already in my load. I also learned to crack jokes in class, because even if students didn’t laugh, humor kept them engaged. By the time I was an associate professor, I felt like I knew what I was doing.

When my dean offered me the role of assistant dean, I didn’t want to take the job—I had finally figured out the one I had! But I knew I probably should accept it; my dean and provost had their reasons for asking me, and I trusted them. I didn’t even know what deans really did, so I went home and searched for the answer on Reddit. I discovered many others had asked the question, but no one seemed to know. Three months later, I took up the part-time role, juggling my research with my new responsibilities.

At first, I stumbled my way through technological hurdles and interpersonal dilemmas. I was now supervising faculty members who were also my friends, a tricky balancing act. I second-guessed myself constantly. But for the first time, I was confident that I would eventually feel comfortable in the role. I’d been through similar big jumps before, and always come out OK.

I now knew any career growth would come with self-doubt and uncertainty—and that as I’d done before, I needed to learn from my peers and mentors. So, I asked for help constantly and leaned on other deans’ advice. After a few months, I’ve figured out what deans do: We’re untrained therapists, helping people solve their own problems. I’ve learned to listen, point people to resources and university policies that could help, and to reassure. I soon stopped having to escalate every question to my dean, and then came a week where I felt comfortable handling every question and problem that landed on my desk.

There’ll still be hiccups, like the time I got a call from payroll—on Labor Day, ironically—because I had forgotten to approve time sheets, prompting me to rush home so staff would be paid on time. Regardless, I know how to find my way forward, by tapping the insights and experience of others. I wish I could tell my grad school self it’s OK to feel out of your depth; even deans can feel that way.

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