Every October, Oxford feels alive again; the streets fill with new faces, the cafés buzz with nervous laughter and chats about dreams, ambitions and aspirations. As Rhodes House buzzed with the excitement of Welcome Week, it struck me how quickly time has passed. Three years ago, I walked through these same doors, full of excitement and hope. I remember looking at upper year scholars and assuming they had all the answers. But here I am, three years later, realizing that none of us ever truly do… and maybe that’s the beauty of it.
It’s hard to believe that only a year ago, my world looked completely different. While Oxford was alive with new beginnings, I was on an evacuation flight from Lebanon, thinking this might be the end of my DPhil journey and perhaps the dreams that came with it. The war had made it impossible to continue my fieldwork, and as I looked out of the plane window, I felt a mix of disappointment and quiet grief. I didn’t know if I’d ever return to my country or what would happen to the project that had become such a part of me. It felt like the end not only of my research but of a chapter of my life I wasn’t ready to close.
In those first few weeks back in Oxford, I felt like I was caught between two different realities. A part of me was still back home, while another part tried to absorb the Oxford energy and pretend everything was fine. I was questioning the relevance of my research and the value of my work. How could my interviews and data still matter when the very people I had spoken to were now facing fear, displacement, and death? I had been studying forced displacement for years, convinced I understood what it meant. But now, experiencing it so closely, I realized how little distance there really was between my research and my own lived reality.
At my lowest point, I was searching for something to hold onto: a value for my research, a sense of relevance, a thread of meaning in the middle of so much uncertainty. I spoke with mentors, my parents, anyone who might help me make sense of it all, yet the answers never came easily. What I did find, though, was that the DPhil journey isn’t as lonely as people say. When people picture a doctorate, they often see long nights in the library, cups of cold coffee, and pages of notes and scribbles that never seem to end. And yes, I’ve had plenty of those nights. But what we rarely mention are the quieter moments that hold everything together when the rest feels like it’s falling apart. I found a community that became family. They didn’t need to understand every detail of my research; they simply showed up. It’s the late-night conversations with my parents that run past midnight, the formal dinners that turn into shared laughter, the quick coffee breaks that turn into hours of connection. Those moments made Oxford feel alive and reminded me that I wasn’t alone.
My DPhil taught me more about myself than I ever expected. During one conversation, my supervisor reminded me that this path is ultimately mine, and no one can take it away from me. I didn’t realise it then, but those words became an anchor. The challenges, setbacks, and unexpected turns have all become part of my growth in ways I never anticipated. The relevance I was looking for didn’t come from theories or academic textbooks, but from unexpected places and interactions. It took months to understand what a friend once told me: that relevance isn’t something we find; it’s something we create. Over time, I came to see that relevance reveals itself in many forms in places, experiences, and encounters that quietly shape who we become.
Over time, I came to see that relevance wasn’t just about research or results. It was less about the data I collected during fieldwork or the external factors I couldn’t control, and more about how I responded to those experiences, reflected on them, and kept finding the inner motivation to move forward. I began to understand what my dad once told me when I started my DPhil: to make sure I enjoy the process. The relevance I was seeking was not in the outcomes of my research but in the process itself, in how it shaped me and helped me understand why this work matters to me. Over the past year, I began to see that meaning unfold in different spaces:
In Classrooms
One of my dreams came true when I had the opportunity to teach a course on Migration and Governance alongside my supervisor. Coming from a war-torn country and being the first in my family to pursue a DPhil, I found myself standing in front of students at one of the best universities in the world, teaching a topic so close to my heart. My students came from all over the world and taught me as much as I taught them. Little did they know how much those hours in class inspired me to find meaning in my work—not the academic kind of relevance, but the one that comes from connection, inspiration, and shared learning.
Every session began with a simple question: What were your glimmers this week? Glimmers, as I explained, are those small, precious moments that make us feel alive; it is the fleeting sparks of joy we often overlook. While our discussions tackled complex and often heavy topics, I wanted my students to pause and reflect on their lives in Oxford beyond the classroom: the people they met, the laughter shared, the little joys that grounded them. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed that reminder, too. By the end of term, when one of my students told me that our seminars had become their “glimmers” each week, it felt like a quiet affirmation that I was exactly where I needed to be.
In Nature
At some point, I went on a hike in Patagonia, an adventure I never imagined taking. I spent five days hiking and camping in nature, completely disconnected from the world. No internet, no emails, just silence and wind. Initially, I joined the trip to step out of my comfort zone and find peace away from the sounds of bombs and airstrikes that had been haunting me. I wanted to escape the helplessness I felt as I watched humanity stripped down to politics and power struggles, fighting over land and resources instead of recognizing that humanity itself is what matters.
While I thought I was lost, walking alone on a silent trail at the end of the world in Patagonia, I ended up finding myself and a quiet sense of peace in nature. The magic I found there reminded me that meaning doesn’t always come from doing or achieving, but sometimes simply from being.
In Conference Rooms
Over the past year, I had the chance to present my research at Oxford, Sussex, and Cambridge. In the beginning, every question during the Q&A felt like a quiet challenge, a reminder of how much I didn’t know. But over time, I began to hear those questions differently. People weren’t trying to tear my work apart; they were trying to help me see it from new angles, to build on it.
We often talk about imposter syndrome, but rarely about the academic ego, that voice that pushes you to chase perfection and convinces you that nothing you do is ever enough. I’ve learned that perfectionism can hold you back more than failure ever will. After all, if we already had everything figured out, why would we be doing a DPhil in the first place?
In the Silicon Valley
My search for relevance also took me beyond the academic world to the heart of entrepreneurship in San Francisco. I joined the Rhodes Incubator trip with zero knowledge of what a start-up was and left with a spark of hope to one day become a social entrepreneur.
With my humanitarian background, being among founders, investors, and innovators from so many fields naturally led me to question how humanitarianism, ethics, and social impact fit within the business world. These aren’t the kinds of conversations that usually echo through Silicon Valley boardrooms; yet somehow, my voice did. To my surprise, I found relevance in the hallways of Google, Samsung, and LinkedIn. I learned that impact isn’t limited to academia; it’s something we create wherever we go.
Three years into this journey, I’ve been asked, and have often asked myself, the same question: What has this DPhil journey taught me? Here is the truth. I’ve come to view the DPhil not only as an academic pursuit, but as a journey of personal development. It feels like getting on a roller coaster without fully knowing how high it will climb or how fast it will drop. The beginning is all anticipation. You are excited and terrified at the same time. Then the ride moves. There are sudden turns, unexpected pauses, and moments that steal your breath. Sometimes from joy. Sometimes from doubt and fear. And when you finally step off, you realize the most important part was not the arrival. It was the courage it took to stay on.
As I begin my fourth year, I’ve learned that the value of this journey isn’t measured in chapters written or papers published. The real meaning is found in chasing new opportunities, embracing uncertainty, and remembering to find joy along the way.
So, if you’re thinking about a DPhil: buckle up, and enjoy the ride.