What does it mean to ‘make it’ in academia?

I came across a LinkedIn post recently from a professor who had spotted their own book on the shelf of a bookshop. In the comments, someone had written: “It’s always been my ambition to have a book of mine on the shelves at Dillons/Waterstones. To me that would signal I’d made it.”

Their comment likely resonates with many in academia. In high-achieving environments, the benchmark of “making it” is a moving target. We tell ourselves that when we reach the next milestone, we’ll feel satisfied. Yet, when we get there, we rarely do.

Finishing a doctorate should feel like an “I’ve made it” moment. It represents years of effort, often sustained alongside work, family and other responsibilities. The hard part is done. You have earned your place. Yet, the sense of satisfaction is often short-lived. Before long, attention shifts to what comes next: securing a permanent post, publishing more, attracting funding or applying for promotion. 

This is what’s often described as the arrival fallacy, the belief that reaching a goal will bring lasting satisfaction. In reality, achievements become baselines far sooner than we imagine. And in academic environments, hedonic adaptation speeds that process up. 

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Ambition itself isn’t the issue. Striving can be motivating and meaningful. Having something to work towards gives us a sense of purpose. That’s what drew many of us into academic life in the first place. The issue arises when healthy ambition turns into unhealthy pressure. Over time, it becomes harder to separate who we are from what we produce, and our worth starts to feel defined by what can be seen and measured. Achievements are no longer satisfying; they feel like obligations.

This pressure often increases when we log on to social media platforms, with connections sharing promotions, grants, keynote invitations and publications one after another. It’s hard not to compare. Even when we understand upward social comparison as a psychological tendency, knowing the theory doesn’t make the feeling disappear. We think: “I wish I could do what they do. I wish I had their confidence. Their productivity. Their visibility.”

Yet, no two academic careers develop in the same way. Some colleagues are still establishing themselves, while others are managing substantial responsibilities at work or at home, much of which remains invisible on a CV. Family commitments, financial pressures and health challenges all influence what someone can realistically sustain. Despite this, academia tends to treat output as uniform. Deadlines remain fixed, expectations high, and the idea is easily internalised that how we move forward, regardless of capacity, is what determines our value.

Worth, however, is not the same as output.

In reality, “making it” is often quieter than we expect. It can mean maintaining teaching standards during a demanding period, submitting solid work even if it’s not perfect, supporting colleagues or helping students navigate difficult moments. These contributions are the threads that hold academia together. Universities don’t function solely because of high-profile achievements; they depend just as much on everyday contributions that sustain research, teaching and collaboration.

Constant striving without reflection comes at a cost. When we fail to acknowledge our own progress, we deprive ourselves of the psychological reinforcement that sustains long-term motivation. If we only allow the most visible achievements to count, the consistent effort that keeps everything moving begins to feel secondary. Gradually, we start to mistake pressure for progress, and slowing down feels like failure. Yet long-term success is built less on standout moments than on turning up every day.

Research supports what many of us sense intuitively. Self-compassion and realistic self-appraisal are linked to better mental health, greater persistence and lower burnout. If we allow achievements to count, even briefly, it doesn’t weaken our ambition, it strengthens it. When we give ourselves permission to acknowledge progress and pause before raising the bar again, we’re far more likely to sustain our work over time. 

This, however, is not solely an individual responsibility.

The way success is defined within institutions shapes how it’s experienced. When measurable outputs dominate promotion processes and workload expectations, academics more easily internalise the idea that productivity is the clearest sign of professional worth. Expanding the definition of success is not about lowering ambition; it’s about recognising that steady effort is just as central to academic careers as high-profile achievements. 

When institutions place disproportionate weight on visible outputs and measurable impact, it is hardly surprising that many people feel they are always chasing something. If performance is judged primarily through metrics, achievements rarely bring a sense of arrival. Instead, they feel like confirmation that the bar has moved again. The message may not be explicit, but it’s clear: more is needed, and enough remains just out of reach. In that kind of environment, the system itself reinforces pressure. Given that capacity changes across stages of life and career, institutions that recognise this are more likely to support long-term well-being and staff retention.

If I could offer any advice about measuring success in academia, it would be this:

• Decide for yourself what “making it” means because if you wait for the system to tell you that you’ve done enough, you may wait indefinitely.
• Let milestones count, even if only briefly, instead of immediately asking what happens next.
• Acknowledge the quieter achievements – the consistency, the resilience, the days you kept going – not just the big wins.
• Resist the temptation to move the goalposts the moment you reach them.
• Remember that growth and recognition can coexist. You can be proud of where you are and still want to move forward.

Ambition is not going anywhere, nor should it. Academia depends on curiosity and the desire to advance ideas. The question is not whether we should strive but how we create conditions in which striving doesn’t rely on constant dissatisfaction. If ambition is fuelled only by pressure, it becomes corrosive. If academics are to thrive rather than simply endure, “enough” cannot remain an ever-receding horizon. It has to become something that can be recognised in practice. Perhaps the importance lies in recognising that we can arrive at a milestone, enjoy the feeling that we have “made it” and continue growing.

Rachel Hagan is a researcher in psychology and a lecturer at the School of Law and Justice Studies, Liverpool John Moores University.