There’s an uncomfortable truth about academia: It is not designed for everyone. Or more precisely, it is not designed for people without financial slack. It is largely designed for the upper classes. I am not saying that one cannot succeed no matter one’s income level or class background, but one still faces low grant funding rates, multiple postdocs, and jobs on a contract basis. If you do not need the money, these hardships are easier to bear. However, trying to pursue a successful research career from a poor or even middle-class background is a feat, and can often end in wasting years of your working years with nothing to show for it.

If you look around, you will notice that many of the most successful professors you have worked with came from privileged backgrounds or had high-earning spouses. This is not the same as saying “poor people cannot succeed.” They can, and they do. But they do so while navigating a system that quietly assumes something critical: that you can afford uncertainty. For a long time, I thought of academia as a profession. Something like engineering, medicine, or law, which follows a structured path where hard work leads, more or less predictably, to financial stability. When in reality, I found it is no different from my own profession back in India, an architect or a profession like an artist. Sounds fancy, but it is a gamble. You invest years of your life with no guarantee of return. You build a portfolio (papers instead of renders of buildings), chase recognition, and hope that eventually something sticks. The only difference is that academia still presents itself as a stable, respectable career path when in reality it functions more like a high-stakes tournament. Once you see that, a lot of things start to make sense.

Higher education has a lot of soft costs and hidden expenses, even when you have a fully funded PhD studentship. You keep on paying these costs to build your profile or CV. Attending a conference (which is essential for sharing findings and networks)? It can cost a good chunk of money to go to a conference. Even if your school will pay for it, it is usually in the form of a reimbursement. So, you need to be okay with a good amount missing from your bank account. Journal articles or just your thesis? This means spending a few weeks, at least,  at the British Library/National Archives or any other archives, digging up the raw data. DTP funds a substantial amount, but in many cases, just one visit is not enough. Student fees? The universities of the DTP (not every university, though) relax the tuition fees and cover the difference between the home rate and the international rate for international students. The moment the studentship ends, an email comes from the school asking to pay the annual tuition fees. And these are not optional expenses; these are the hidden costs of the passion. They are the price of building a CV that might eventually get you a job.

At this point, when I am awaiting viva and applying for jobs (and getting a lot of rejections too), I am scrolling through LinkedIn looking for an opportunity and job vacancies. And every now and then, I run into a post by someone coming from a privileged background, with the story that ends with one of these messages: “Follow your passion” or “Don’t worry about the money” or “Be part of something bigger than yourself.” And I also hear this often from people in real life. They are the ones who already have a financial safety net. And I cannot emphasise more than that risk is easier when you’re safe. If your rent is covered, your family can step in. If your partner has a stable income, then yes, risk looks noble and even exciting. And academia constantly celebrates risk.

But if you’re living paycheck to paycheck, risk looks like catastrophe. Sometimes, you find someone relatively more relatable on LinkedIn. There are more chances they are from a global majority background, not male and upper class, whose career trajectory clearly reflected their financial situation or even desperation and was all about clawing their way forward and perseverance. So, when you hear someone asking you to take risks, they are talking to only a select number of posh people. Institutions reward risk-taking, but they are not just rewarding courage; they are rewarding the ability to absorb failure, which often working-class scholars cannot afford.

The Return of the Gentleman-Scholar

Historically, scholarship was often the domain of the independently wealthy, the “gentleman scholar” who could afford to pursue knowledge without worrying about income. He would have maids, cooks and butlers to address his every need and a country mansion for respite. Having a coffee with another international PhD student, Coen, we discovered that we like to think we have moved beyond that. But in practice, something like it is re-emerging. Already with the tight stipend for just three years, it is difficult to finish a PhD, let alone publish when you have so many chores to do. Taking breaks or a leisure vacation, even for a few days, means planning so much ahead of time to manage finances. With the major cuts in funding for the arts and humanities, fewer job opportunities, and a series of national policies making it difficult for international students to find jobs in the UK, things are just worse.  With all this, I also see a pattern emerging in my school. People doing PhDs with their family support, without substantial debts and having higher-earning partners. This might not be completely universal. But it is still enough that it is hard to ignore.

And this financial divide is not just about money. It is also social and cultural. I have seen people who have travelled internationally and often come up with stories of their experiences of trying new cuisine in Italy. I have seen others who are comfortable in formal settings and know how to network over expensive dinners in posh restaurants.  Others, like me, arrive without that background. You sit at a table where people casually share stories about trips to Italy or Japan, and you realise your own experiences do not translate in the same way. It is not just awkward; it is alienating. Not because you do not belong intellectually, but because the environment assumes a kind of life you may not have lived.

So what do we do with this? Recognising this reality can feel disheartening. It certainly is/was for me. But it also gives you a clear picture. Academia is not a guaranteed path to stability. It is a high-risk, passion-driven pursuit that rewards those who can endure prolonged uncertainty, financial and otherwise. That does not mean it is not worth it. It just means the decision to pursue it should be made with open eyes. Not everyone is starting from the same place. Everyone has a different trajectory, and not everyone is taking the same risk. And pretending otherwise does not make the system fairer; it just makes the outcomes harder to understand. Do share with me what you feel and reach out to me at excy@liverpool.ac.uk.

Acknowledgements:

Many of the thoughts expressed here came after discussions with a PhD student at the University of Liverpool, Coen Schuurmans-Stekhoven and the participants at the Cross-DTP Student Facing EDI event held in Birmingham on the 25-26 February 2026.

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