Thoughts on My Daughter’s First Day of School

Sept. 1 marked our scheduled departmental meeting. A few days before, my family of four was driving back to Ottawa from a vacation in Quebec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. A significant portion of our in-car entertainment was toilet-themed dance music, as my kids—now 6 and 4 years old—made their personal requests. My husband and I had different tastes, so we took turns expanding their musical horizons by playing songs from Rush, the Lion King soundtrack, Taylor Swift, Simon and Garfunkel, etc. Both kids fell in love with Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man,” eventually adding it to their requests when their turns came around.

On that drive, my husband and I realized that our kids’ public school district started before Labor Day. Our public school and university schedules have aligned in the past; this year was an exception. My 4-year-old was starting her first-ever day of school in junior kindergarten. I checked my schedule for that day. School drop-off was at 9 a.m. Our departmental meeting was at 9:30.

My stomach dropped. My immediate thought was “I have to go to the meeting; I have to work; I have to miss her first day of school.” In that moment, there wasn’t an alternative. Sadness and anticipatory grief followed as I understood that I had to sacrifice a key milestone of my daughter’s childhood.

I thought back to the time we dropped our 6-year-old off on his first day of school. The buzzing energy of the schoolyard, the excitement and tears. Parents hugging their kids goodbye. But now I couldn’t make it. I also felt guilty because I assumed all the other moms would be there. Then I broadened my reflection. Of course not; other moms miss the day for numerous reasons. I am grateful to have the flexibility even to consider going; I don’t have to work shifts or burn all my ends with multiple jobs. Importantly, I know that my department supports families.

I wanted to be there for her. There would always be another departmental meeting. I resolved to do both. I emailed our chair to explain I might be late. His reply? “Yipes! Good luck letting go!” He understood, having done the same years before. This was reassuring, to say the least, and unsurprising coming from him.

My kids and I excitedly talked about the new playgrounds, toys, teachers and classmates. We talked about what nervousness feels like and just taking one step in front of the other. That morning, my daughter started sniffling along the way and then bawled when we crossed the gate into the school’s play yard. As other kids lined up against the wall, she clung to me as though she would never let go. The teacher came over and offered her hand. I peeled my daughter’s little hands off my shoulders, unwound her legs from my waist, gave her one big hug and left the yard. It took all my will not to cry alongside her. I felt the wave of my own emotion rise as I held her; I pushed it down. It rose again as I left the school crowd on my bike; as I cycled away, I let it out. This emotional journey lasted all of 25 minutes, and I made it to the departmental meeting by 9:29 a.m.

While I’m still processing the newest chapter in my kid’s life, I’m mostly curious why—knowing the chair and the overall departmental culture—my immediate reaction was to put my family needs aside to uphold my academic responsibilities.

This points to a larger cultural undercurrent rippling through my subconsciousness, one where academic rigor is still very much at the forefront. Along the way, I’ve picked up the common view that to succeed in academia, one seemingly needs to work all hours, publish frequently, be present and serve the academic community. Despite evidence that academia supports lives beyond work, including the changes I see at my own institution and in policies at national granting agencies that prioritize quality output over quantity, I still hold unresolved doubt—so much so that it affects my immediate decision-making. The academic recipe for success has been explicitly and implicitly prescribed for decades, shaping scientific culture and regularly reinforced by affirming anecdotes. My automatic reaction to miss the one and only first day of school for work certainly came from this framework.

But working within that framework has a cost. I show up as only a part of my whole self, boxed in, blurring other aspects that give my life meaning, like family, community, sport, nature and growth.

But what about another option? One that departs from the prescription yet holds more uncertainty. What happens when I show up as a scientist with my whole life intact? I am still figuring it out—I certainly don’t hit 80 hours a week and am better at maintaining boundaries. I’m savoring the goodness of this really sweet time. But it still seems precarious. Will I publish less? Will I lose credibility? Or, more acutely, lose research grants sustaining an aspect of my job I most love? Can I maintain a rooted family life and a quality research career in academic sciences? Despite these uncertainties, this is the essential path, because it means working and living as my full self rather than a jagged part.

My daughter let go that morning with help from her teacher and me. My own letting go, of these deeply held conceptions of what it means to be a committed academic, will take more time.