By JC Stoner
October 20, 2026

This article was originally published on the SWACUHO Blog in July 2023 but lost during a website migration. It is republished here with permission of the author.

I will always remember my first instructor in my doctoral program. He espoused a neoliberal ideology, talked about the commodification of higher education, and made us read Karl Marx. He and I connected immediately. 

Most everyone in my cohort, myself included, had thus far failed at projecting that we had it all together while only mildly demonstrating the capability of masking our feelings of inadequacy. This being our first PhD course, it was also the first time any of us submitted a “final” paper as doctoral students. It had a required length of 15 pages (without references). Mine was 12 pages (with references). I figured I could make the argument to my seemingly anti-establishment faculty member that those requirements were put in place by someone in a position of power (him) to install fear into a working student (me) and Karl Marx would back my revolution to overthrow his ridiculous requirements. Sadly, I didn’t get the chance to make that argument until long after the course concluded, but I wrote about applying the Forms of Capital by Pierre Bordieu to Student Affairs programming, specifically making the case that efforts to get every single student to attend cultural programming events devalued the cultural capital gained since it would no longer be scarce. I was out of my league and I knew it was going to be a tough sell to my specific audience, but I was going to play to the instructor.

I remember scrolling through all his feedback on that first term paper. One particular comment jumped out at me. Across all the papers I wrote throughout my entire program it is the only comment I still remember verbatim to this day. He wrote, “It took nine pages, but your paper is finally starting to get good.” I think it was the italics that really got me, just knowing he invested a miniscule amount of time and energy to emphasize the “FINALLY” when he could have easily just moved on and still made the same point. 

I didn’t crumble. I didn’t go lock myself in my room and have a pity party. It actually made me laugh. I’ve always loved feedback because I believe in getting better every day. But it was easy to take that feedback for another reason: I knew he was right. 

I met up with this faculty member occasionally just to shoot the breeze. Maybe two years or so after the paper was returned to me, I asked him about that comment and if he remembered it. He said he did. I told him I knew his comment was correct, but I still to that day thought there was something to that paper. He told me, “There definitely was something to that paper, you just never found it.” 

In that same meet up, we got to talking about my dissertation. Even though I don’t remember the exact evolution of that conversation, I will always remember how it concluded when he told me, “Don’t sweat the dissertation. It will be the worst thing you ever write.”

At this point in our relationship, I probably should have expected a comment like this; but it still stopped me in my tracks. By that time, I had probably been working on my dissertation for more than a year, written 75+ pages, spent countless mornings in the office at 6:00am writing and rewriting (and rewriting), and pulled every survey karma string I had to get a good response rate. So much for being the so-called crowning achievement of my educational career if all that time and energy was being invested in the worst thing I would ever write...

But he continued, saying something along the lines of, “it’s your first legitimate scholarly paper. Hopefully everything you write after your dissertation will be better. Otherwise, what is the point of this education you are receiving?”

I’ll never forget that moment, sitting at the bar in that dumpy establishment serving brunch at 11:00am with his pile of books about who knows what radical ideology while nonchalantly telling me my dissertation was going to be the worst thing I ever wrote. But once again, I knew he was right. And he was right about more than just my dissertation.

The first conference program proposal I ever submitted? It was probably the worst one I ever wrote. My first “developmental” conduct meeting? It was probably the worst developmental conversation I ever had. The first time I fired a student employee? The first RA recruitment logistics I planned? Probably the biggest logistical mess I ever made.

If the first time I did anything new it was going to be the best I’d ever produce, I may as well have retired after my first year of full-time employment. Otherwise, I would have had a very long and very disappointing career ahead of me. 

But I’ve since learned through experience that just because something was the worst doesn’t necessarily mean it was terrible. That first conference program proposal? It may have been the worst, but it wasn’t terrible. That first conduct meeting? It may have been the worst, but it also wasn’t terrible. Same with my first RA interview logistics and everything else I ever did for the first time.

I’ve been doing this full-time for 20 years and I still probably haven’t produced my best work. Otherwise, as my faculty member said, what is the point?

Thankfully, at the time of writing this, I’ve still got a bunch of years to go before my retirement. I wish I knew 20 years ago what I know now: I’ve still got plenty of time left to paint my so-called masterpiece.

J.C. Stoner, Ph.D.
Director of Housing Systems & Services
University of North Texas