Pre-PhD Workbook 3: On Knowing Without Being Taught

Some knowledge doesn’t arrive, it's been there the whole time. Like… if I reached into the ether I could grab it, two hands, full-bodied. It just is.

I don’t always realise I’m carrying something until someone else speaks it out loud and then without hesitation, i'll just say or think to myself “well duh, yeah”, and shrug like the person im listening to is saying the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s not a surprise. It’s recognition. A deep thud in the chest. Like someone’s named something I already knew, but hadn’t had language for yet. Not new knowledge. Just a light turned on.

And it’s not metaphorical, either. I mean that physically. My whole body will respond before I even understand what’s been said. Something locks in — heart, gut, lungs. A full-body yes.

I’ve started trusting that.

Some people call it intuition, others wairua, but for me it’s a knowing that is woven in. It comes from whakapapa; of people, places, and moments that I wasn't personally there for but still carry the imprint of. Not in a mystical, floaty way; I’m not sure that it’s mine, exactly. I think I’m just the one holding it right now.

I used to think I needed to prove things. To show my working. To make it look like knowledge, with sources and steps and tidy logic. But that was a translation exercise. Making something I already knew sound like it came from somewhere else. Like it had to be justified to count. And, in the current world, maybe that’s true? I wish it wasn’t. I know sometimes it isn’t. But in academia?  Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Man it’s strange, isn’t it, the way some systems can only see knowing if it arrives in their format. As if anything that lives in the body, in intuition, in whakapapa, needs to be made palatable before it can be real. Someone else needs to have said it before it could possibly be true, but what is truth anyway? (God, that's a topic for another time).

But some truths don’t show up as arguments. They arrive as signals. Repetition. Vibration. A word that won’t leave you alone. A fragment that keeps turning up in your dreams. A pause in a conversation that hums with meaning. These things matter. They are the work.

I don’t always know what to do with them straight away. Sometimes I sit with the weight of them for a while. Let them move around in me. Te Korekore, maybe. Or Te Pō. The part before the light. Before the naming.

This is the shape of it:
A knowing that shows up uninvited.
A body that recognises it before the mind can.
A rhythm that doesn’t rush toward clarity.

I don’t want to misrepresent here, because even with this obvious “well duh” thinking. We still have an obligation to question, to analyse, to see what parts we want to keep and what parts can be left where they came from (even if we don’t know where that might actually be).

This is how I move through the world. Not in straight lines, but in returns. In loops and recursions and soft repetitions. I come back to things I thought I’d already worked out and find a different kind of knowing waiting there. The kind that doesn’t explain itself. It just settles in and stays.

I think I used to be afraid that wasn’t enough. That if I couldn’t explain it, I shouldn’t trust it.

I don’t feel that way anymore. Maybe I'm getting too old to bullshit myself anymore. Because now I think: if I feel it that clearly, there’s something true there. Whether or not I can say what it is yet.

Not everything needs to be spoken to be real.

Some things need to be carried.

Pre-PhD Workbook 2: When the Goalposts Keep Moving

Somewhere along the way, I started doing all the right things. Not performatively, just with intention. I took the job that made sense, the one that brought me closer to the conversations I care about. I wanted a foothold, a way to be in the room, I dunno, maybe even to be part of the shaping of a thing that mattered.

It wasn’t meant to be forever. Just a step closer. A bridge. I had been working in similar roles (tertiary provider-based), but not working in a way where the qualifications I had worked so hard on mattered much.

And the truth is, I’m still on the admin side of the table. Still catching the overflow. Still cleaning up other people’s mess and calling it support. Still doing invisible labour so someone else’s vision can run on time.

And it wears on you. Not all at once, but slowly. Like a dull ache that creeps in and settles. The kind you stop noticing until you realise you’ve been clenching your jaw for months.

I like to think that I’m good at my job. Sometimes, when the ego’s boosted, too good, maybe. I’m efficient and reliable. I absorb chaos, fix broken systems, hold space. I know how to keep the ship moving, even when the structure makes no sense. And that’s part of the problem.

The better I get at holding everything together, the harder it is to step away. There’s always more to do, and fewer people to do it. And the ladder I thought I was climbing? Turns out it was just a holding bay. A cul-de-sac. And to move upwards, I still need to move sideways. I’m at the top of my ladder; there’s nowhere to go.

I’m not failing. But I’m not moving either.

This squidges over into other parts of my life too. Proposals, programs, open calls. I’m tired of being told I came close. That I was in the top few. That they loved my proposal, but someone else was a better fit. It’s always that last bit — the “but” that hangs in the air. Because anyone who has hung around in an English class should know that “but” negates everything that came before.

So I’ve been trying to make sense of it. Not just professionally, but personally. Because it’s not just one missed opportunity. It’s the pattern. The way the goalposts keep shifting. The way clarity and recognition always seem just out of reach. I once applied for the role of “photographer” only to be told that they were looking for someone with more video experience. I had a Master’s by this point, but video isn't my thing. Recently, I saw a job listing that asked for all of this, plus, apparently, UX design. I cannot keep up when the goal posts zoom this far ahead.

People keep offering suggestions. Tidy advice. Maybe I need to sharpen my pitch. Simplify the work. Make it easier to fund, to explain, to market.

But I don’t want to be easier.

I don’t want to compress the work just to make it fit. I don’t want to dilute it until it stops meaning what it meant when I started. I don’t want to reshape myself so someone else can see me more clearly.

I’ve tried. I won’t pretend I haven’t. I’ve edited myself down before I’ve even begun. I’ve made myself smaller, sharper, cleaner.

But it never lasts. Because it hurts. Because it’s not me.

And I’m not willing to spend my life sanding off the parts that don’t fit someone else’s frame.

What I keep circling — again and again — is the idea of a PhD. Not because I need the title, but because I need the space. The time. The structure. The permission to go deep and stay there.

One of my previous Heads of School often said to me, “Hayley, you don't need another qualification, just go out there and do the work.” Which directly speaks to why, six years after finishing my Master’s, I keep circling back.

I want to build something that doesn’t need to be flattened into a funding brief. I want to follow the threads that don’t lead anywhere tidy. I want to sit inside contradictions without being asked to resolve them for a panel. I want to write with depth and clarity and care, without apology.

It’s not about prestige. It’s about survival. About carving out a space where the work can be what it actually is. Where I can ask real questions and take time to listen for the answers. Where I’m not stuck at the edge of other people’s projects, holding it together behind the scenes.

I don’t want to be promoted. I want to be in motion.

I don’t want to climb a ladder that was never built for me. I want to carve a path.

So I’m starting here. Again. Still circling. Still asking what this could be. I’m just a little closer to filling in the donut hole, and naming it.

Pre-PhD Workbook 1: This is me leaving a trail

I keep thinking I should wait until I know what this is before I start writing. But that’s never really worked for me. If I wait for clarity, I’ll just keep circling the same thoughts without realising I’ve already passed them three times.

So I’m starting here.

This isn’t the warm-up or the overflow. It’s part of how I hold the work. The thinking doesn’t happen first and then get written down neatly afterward. This is the thinking. Or at least the part where I start to notice it taking shape. The way it shows up isn’t tidy. It doesn’t arrive as full arguments or clean conclusions. It comes in fragments. Images. A feeling in my chest. A sentence that sounds right before I know what it means. I need somewhere to catch those things while they’re still forming. Otherwise I miss them.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the shape of thought. How it moves before it makes sense. Before it has form. There’s this feeling — not even an idea yet — just something low and constant. A pressure, maybe. A hum. That’s what this space is for. The hum before the thing. The sound before the light.

I’m not trying to be poetic about that. I mean it literally. Thought, feeling, direction — it all starts as vibration. As something I can’t quite name yet. If I treat that as nothing, I miss the moment it starts to form. This is my way of trying to stay close to it.

I don’t think in neat progressions. It’s loops. Repeats. A bit obsessive, sometimes. I can’t always see where a thought begins or ends. But if I leave a trail — a sentence, a post, a scrap of something, maybe I can find it again. And eventually, I’ll see the pattern. Maybe not until much later, but still.

That’s what this is. A way to leave a trail. Not a map, not a finished route — just something to follow when I forget how I got here. Something to help me notice when I’ve come back to the same point again, but with slightly different eyes. I’m not trying to draw conclusions. I just don’t want to lose the thread. If I leave enough markers behind me, I can start to see the pattern.

So this is the first one. Not because I’ve figured anything out, but because I need somewhere to start. A place to say: I was here. This mattered. Something was forming.

That’s enough for now.