Foucault viewed writing as the art of observing, analysing and interpreting the self and experiences of the self as a form of resisting current modes of subjectification (Simons 1994). He believed writing to be a transformative process of becoming and the recognition of self as a domain of knowledge production (Ball 2013). Writing, on that account, is a process in which authors constantly question themselves about the parameters that shape who they are (Simons 1994). For Foucault (1988:156 as cited in Simons 1994):

Autobiography is thus understood as a narrative of experience that happens to a historical subject, enabling authors to carve out their subjectivity through writing (Simons 1994). The use of self-writing in this study is justified as it allows us to engage with our own experiences and positionalities, providing a lens through which to analyse the socio-cultural contexts we navigate. This approach aligns with the principles of autoethnography, where personal narratives become a tool for understanding broader social phenomena (Ellis, Adams & Bochner 2011). Furthermore, Foucault’s concept of the hupomnemata underscores the transformative potential of self-writing as a practice of self-care and identity construction (Swonger 2006).

Collaborative autoethnography, a multivocal qualitative inquiry with three simultaneous elements, namely, collaboration, autobiography and ethnography (Chang, Ngunjiri & Hernandez 2012; Lapadat 2017), informed our approach. Chang et al. (2012:107) argue that grouping these elements is somewhat contradictory, and perhaps confusing, as, ‘how can a study of the self be done collaboratively?’. Put simply, the process involves two or more researchers (collaborative) who pool autobiographical data (auto) about a socio-cultural context in which they are situated (ethnography) for analysis and interpretation. Adams, Jones and Ellis (2016:669) argue that the storytelling feature of autoethnographic accounts allows us to deeply engage in another’s experience and ‘move and live into the world with others’ in ways that co-construct a future. Bochner (2016:53) describes autoethnography as ‘an expression of the desire to turn social science inquiry into a non-alienating practice’. Using a collaborative approach to autoethnography works to reduce our felt alienation, allowing us to tell our stories as emerging scholars and share our experiences. Autoethnography is about making meaning from memory and experience, and ‘truth’ in autoethnography is never stable because memory work is active and dynamic (Bochner 2016). Collaborative autoethnography focuses on collective agency, facilitating a bridging to a praxis of social justice (Lapadat 2017:597).

The process required balancing our individual positionalities with the collective narrative we aimed to construct. This collaboration provided insights into our socio-cultural contexts and how our experiences intersect and diverge. It also allowed us to discuss thoughts and feelings about our progress and experiences as emerging academics, which we might not have otherwise explored. When we first met, Curwyn Mapaling (C.M.) was unemployed, while Nokulunga Shabalala (N.S.) was already a lecturer. Upon being reminded of how N.S. met C.M. and realising that his career had seemingly progressed beyond hers – in terms of units produced and being ready for the next promotion. N.S. expressed feelings of jealousy and rage. For N.S. it felt like she had spent much time trying to progress and move towards promotion, and this was a challenging process; therefore, the rage resulted from imagining this being a seamless process for C.M. Conversely, C.M. expressed the idealisation of N.S., as she is a Fulbright scholar, having attained the height of academic scholarship in his eyes. C.M. later asked N.S. why she would want to work together, to which N.S. responded that it was important to acknowledge and challenge these knee-jerk reactions as opposed to not collaborating. The shared nature of our autoethnographic exploration facilitated mutual support during the often emotionally taxing process of excavating and articulating personal narratives (Adams, Ellis & Jones 2016). This fostered a sense of academic camaraderie and reciprocal validation of our experiences. Nevertheless, the collaborative approach necessitated ongoing negotiation and critical reflexivity (Lapadat 2017) to ensure equitable representation of our voices and perspectives. As highlighted by Trifan et al. (2024), using online communication technologies in CAE fosters inclusivity and effective communication, which were crucial in navigating the complexities of our discussions.

We had three 1-h conversations on Microsoft Teams, guided by pre-prepared guidelines. The discussion was recorded and transcribed verbatim for analysis. We each had an opportunity to narrate our entry into academia and where we are now as emerging scholars. We spoke of the dominant processes of academia, namely, promotion, audit culture and surveillance, affective shifts within our journey and the pervasive ‘carrying on’ culture of academia. Once data were transcribed, we used reflexive thematic analysis to code and develop themes.

Reflexive thematic analysis (reflexive TA) was used. Joy, Braun and Clarke (2023) describe this form of thematic analysis as an accessible method for exploring and interpreting a dataset and then engaging in storytelling about the emerging patterns of meaning. This approach emphasises the importance of the researcher’s subjectivity as an analytic tool, whereby researchers are reflexive in their engagement with theory, data and interpretation. Reflexive TA comprises six phases, as described by Joy et al. (2023), which we followed in analysing our collaborative autoethnographic data (Figure 1).

Before recording our conversation, we (the two authors) clarified race to understand how we positioned ourselves for the research. ‘I wonder if we can start with the “Brown” thing’, one of us suggested. It is important to note that one of the authors is a black woman and the other a black man. However, his appearance spoke something different to her before this conversation. She noticed that he presented as what would be categorised as a ‘Coloured’ (a racial category of mixed race in South Africa) (Posel 2001) male in South Africa and, by his own admission, often reports as ‘Coloured’. In the South African context, ‘colouredness’ carries assumptions about perceived privilege, subjectivity and personhood that differ from black subjectivity (Pirtle 2022). Although this complex exchange extends beyond the scope of this article, it was a foundational negotiation for aspects of our conversation. This initial discussion on identity highlights the intricate dynamics of race and privilege that underpin our collaborative work. We acknowledge that these themes are crucial and warrant a more thorough examination, which we plan to undertake in a future publication.

As a collaborative report, we use ‘we’ and ‘our’ throughout the article to reflect our shared experiences and perspectives. Furthermore, throughout this article, we, as the authors, use our voices to share our experiences and perspectives. The initials ‘N.S.’ are used to indicate when the author who is a black woman is speaking, while ‘C.M.’ is used when the author who is a black man is speaking. This approach allows us to maintain our individual identities and positionalities while engaging in CAE.

In our planning phase, we prepared a document to map what this article would be about. I (N.S.) initially identified us as ‘Brown’ psychologists – in retrospect, it was a bizarre moment. Unsurprisingly, this sat uncomfortably for me in terms of my racial identity and my unwillingness to use ‘Brown’. I wrote a comment on our shared document (that we used to write collaboratively), saying the following:

In reflecting on this bizarre moment of writing ‘Brown’ as a descriptor for us, I wondered what that was about. One reason is that the work of discussing black subjectivity in academia is tiring, and can be alienating. The other reason may be an attempt to establish closer affinity, where we can create a home for ourselves in a space that often seems open, but is not home for black academics (Kiguwa 2019; Shabalala 2022). This reflection further encompassed gendered ideas regarding our individual successes. For me, reflection centred on the assumption that he may have had particular privileges as a ‘Coloured’ man, and that time works in his favour; as I reflected, ‘I have had to be productive, not reproductive’. I highlight this here, as it fuels the competition and comparison we experience at the outset – and perhaps perpetually.

Race may seem superimposed for those who find less resonance with our stories. Mbembe (2017:17) reminds us that it was not that long ago that our social worlds were organised on the ‘dualism that sought justification in the old myth of racial superiority’. He further cautions that we would be amiss to think we have completely transcended that – regardless of location, blackness and Africa continue to be objects of discourse and knowledge (Mbembe 2017). Building on Mbembe’s (2017) views on the historical and structural factors shaping the experiences of black academics, Kiguwa (2019) highlights the fact that black academics in post-Apartheid South Africa often have to contend with moments of racialisation and naming these moments. She argues that the mundane nature of institutional cultures reinforces particular hegemonic practices and traditions within academia, shaping how different racial bodies navigate the academic space. It was therefore necessary to state our positionality up front as we reflexively engaged with the research.

Three key themes emerged from our reflexive TA based on the autoethnographic discussions that formed the foundation of our data. These themes are: (1) the commodification of HE, (2) refusal as a generative force: challenging the status quo in academia and (3) envisioning a transformed university.

There are no more workers as such. There are only labouring nomads. (Mbembe 2017:3)

In navigating the environment of the neoliberal university, we have observed the profound impact of HEs commodification (Naidoo & Jamieson 2005; Wilkinson & Wilkinson 2023) on our academic work and personal experiences. This commodification refers to the transformation of HE into a market-driven entity, where principles of productivity, competitiveness and economic value increasingly dictate scholarly activities and priorities (Hoxby & Stange 2019). An example of this is evident in how sole-authored publications are more incentivised, as illustrated by the Department of Higher Education and Training’s (DHET) subsidy system, placing higher value on individual work (Tomaselli 2018). Our critique of this trend reflects the deep-seated challenges and anxieties we face as scholars positioned at the outset of our academic careers, and deeply concerns us. We have experienced the intensity of constant auditing firsthand, a process that meticulously scrutinises every aspect of our academic presence and output. N.S. vividly describes this pressure, stating, ‘our time is constantly audited, whether it’s someone physically checking, if there’s bums on seats’, highlighting the relentless monitoring and surveillance (Parker 2014; Skene, Raffoul & Chittle 2020) that symbolises the productivity-driven culture of HE.

The audit culture’s (Shore & Wright 1999) reach extends beyond checking attendance (Gourlay 2022). The constant surveillance engenders a war on academics that neither we nor our colleagues enlisted for, nor have adequate armoury to fight, seeding a constant sense of urgency and anxiety within us. In our conversation, N.S. captures this sentiment, sharing her personal experience that, while there was evidence of having achieved some remarkable things, she had to do more: ‘Do more this year, you know, and it’s this audit culture that makes you wake up with this anxiety feeling like a pit in your stomach’. These relentless pressures for continuous improvement threaten to eclipse the inherent joy and richness of our academic discovery and learning, turning what should be a journey of intellectual curiosity into a race against performance metrics, such as the pressure to become a National Research Fund (NRF)-rated scholar (Wright & Murray 2002), or to publish in high-impact journals (Rawat & Meena 2014). The drive for prestigious accolades, such as international academic awards, high-impact research publications and significant grant funding, coupled with the prioritisation of quantity and quality in publications, strains our mental well-being and challenges the essence of our scholarly pursuits (Buller 2014) and personhood. Canham (2022) reinforces this perspective, noting:

This assertion underscores the need to redefine success in academia, valuing inherent worth over imposed benchmarks. Our reflections prompt us to reconsider the foundational mission of universities as champions of the public good – a mission now seemingly at odds with neoliberal mandates (Parker 2014, 2020; Vally 2007).

The concept of universities as a ‘public good’ represents a fundamental shift from viewing HE primarily as an individual economic investment to recognising its broader societal benefits (Bozalek & Leibowitz 2012; Matsiliza 2022). In this context, ‘public good’ refers to the idea that universities should serve the collective interests of society rather than narrow economic or individual interests. This means prioritising knowledge creation, critical thinking and societal advancement over market-driven metrics and commercial imperatives. This reframing or reimagination of universities (for public good) directly challenges neoliberal ideologies by rejecting the commodification of education and the reduction of universities to mere economic entities (Matsiliza 2022; Ratele 2018). It also addresses colonial legacies by promoting diverse knowledge systems, inclusive pedagogies and research agendas that serve a broader range of communities, rather than perpetuating dominant Western paradigms (Bozalek & Leibowitz 2012).

The journey through the commodified landscape of academia has laid bare the complex challenges that strike at the very heart of our academic identity and purpose. As HE morphs into a market-oriented, performance-driven sector (Kraemer-Holland & Díaz 2024), it profoundly reshapes our valuation, conduct and experience of scholarly work. Our shared narratives, infused with apprehension and critical reflection, serve as a call for a deep-seated reassessment of the principles and practices that currently steer academia. In grappling with the forces of commodification, we are committed to nurturing an academic environment that is more authentic, reflective and attuned to societal needs, thereby rekindling the foundational ethos of HE as a public good (Bozalek & Leibowitz 2012; Matsiliza 2022).

Refusal, in the context of academia, manifests as actively rejecting and challenging the dominant norms, practices and expectations that perpetuate neoliberal values within HE. It is a generative force that seeks to disrupt the status quo and create space for new possibilities and transformative change. As N.S. emphasises, ‘I think that’s why I have this theme of refusal. I read something the other day that spoke about refusal instead of resistance’. This shift in perspective, from merely resisting the current system to actively refusing to participate in its perpetuation, holds the potential for genuine transformation within the academic landscape. We share this sentiment, recognising that refusal is not merely an act of rebellion, but a generative force for change.

Refusal as a transformative tool is not new; scholars such as McGranahan (2016) have explored how marginalised communities enact refusal to assert agency and imagine new possibilities beyond dominant structures. In the context of academia, refusal takes on a particularly poignant meaning, as it challenges deeply entrenched norms and practices that have long upheld a culture of exploitation and trauma. This is notably reflected in the critique offered by Canham (2020), which cautions against the rapid promotion of young, especially black, academics into committees where administrative tasks consume their time, not only detracting from their acquiring research skills, but also contributing to a broader issue: ‘In this country with its legacy of black people serving white people, we just need to be careful that the stars are not all white and the caretakers black’ (Canham 2020:para. 8). By stars, Canham (2020) refers to scholars who have the time to engage in scholarly and impactful work represented on ORCID and in libraries. Canham (2020) argues energetically for young black scholars to have the time to think about how they develop in their careers, conduct scholarly work and champion the decolonial agenda to avoid the perpetual subjection of black scholars.

C.M. contributes to this sentiment, noting the consequences of frustrations felt by emerging academics: ‘Like many of our colleagues that have left academia’. Burnout and disillusionment can ultimately drive talented scholars away from academia. This scenario emphasises the need for refusal as a transformative act, urging a rejection of superficial inclusivity and advocating for a genuine restructuring that aligns with decoloniality, thereby ensuring that the diversity of voices and knowledge in academia truly reflects its global and multifaceted nature (Ratele 2018). Voicing this sentiment, N.S. evocatively asks, ‘Should it really be a rite of passage? And we’re OK with that?’. This question strikes at the heart of the issue: the normalisation of exploitation and gatekeeping within academia. This mindset not only perpetuates harm, but also stifles innovation and progress, emphasising the urgency of re-evaluating and transforming these entrenched norms.

By refusing to accept the status quo, or participate in a system that traumatises and marginalises, we open up space for new possibilities to emerge (Ratele 2018). N.S. expresses discontent with the culture of ‘carrying on’, and emotionally asks, ‘Like we’re OK that this is the status quo and it goes on and on and just traumatised, traumatised, traumatises people? I think that it’s shown me what I don’t want’. This recognition of what we do not want is a crucial first step in envisioning and creating the kind of academic environment we do want – one that is more equitable, inclusive and conducive to genuine learning and growth. The environment we imagine is one that pumps life into us, rather than constantly depleting us, as C.M. poignantly states, ‘you don’t want to be giving leftovers to the people that matter the most to you’. This highlights the importance of refusing to sheepishly participate. The alternative is that we will indeed be drained of our capacity to genuinely care for ourselves, our communities and our families in pursuit of academic success.

In practice, refusal can take the form of rejecting superficial inclusivity measures (Ratele 2018) and advocating for genuine restructuring aligned with decoloniality. Zembylas (2021) argues that refusal can be a productive approach to decolonising HE by focusing on the emotional and psychological investments that educators and students have in colonial structures. This involves developing pedagogies that engage with these affective investments to challenge and ultimately transform the colonial dynamics within the university. Of course, the act of refusal is not without its challenges. Refusing dominant structures often means navigating a complex terrain of resistance and accommodation, of working within the system while simultaneously pushing against its boundaries (Ortner 1995). It requires a willingness to confront discomfort and uncertainty, to risk being labelled as ‘difficult’ or ‘not collegial’ by those invested in maintaining the status quo. In the context of this article, refusal means speaking out against the prevailing ‘me, me, me’ system and choosing collaboration over competition because, as C.M. suggests, we recognise that the people who matter most to us deserve our full presence and energy, not just the ‘leftovers’ from the demands of a toxic academic culture (Pelletier, Kottke & Sirotnik 2019).

The theme of envisioning a transformed university emerges as a call to reimagine HE in a way that prioritises genuine scholarly engagement, societal impact and the well-being of the academic community (Ratele 2018). This vision challenges the commodification of academic success and advocates for an integrated approach to teaching, research and community service that is meaningful, equitable and responsive to societal needs (Guzmán-Valenzuela 2016). Otherwise, as N.S. asks, ‘Why are we here?’, highlighting the sense of being stuck and the need for change. C.M. concurs, stating, ‘I think I’m tentative to answer [the question of why are we here] because I think earlier you said that you don’t think the answer is to leave and I think I’m not so sure of that’. This uncertainty reflects the struggle to find purpose within the existing structures and the contemplation of leaving academia. ‘Maybe I need to be in a space where I’m giving less of myself, for this phase of life, and I think maybe that’s why I’m struggling to answer why I’m here right now’ (C.M.). Our reflections emphasise the disillusionment that a lot of academics and psychologists are talking about (Canham 2022; Mapaling & Naidu 2023; O’Hara 2024; Shabalala 2022). Academia itself must look inward in order to truly ascertain how it does not lose people who once saw long futures within it. It must transform into a space that encourages participation parity (Lovell 2007) of its scholars and students, providing an environment that nurtures intellectual curiosity, fosters personal growth and allows academics to thrive without being consumed by the system’s demands (Levin & Aliyeva 2015). The central vision is collective action towards the imagination of a transformed university (Ratele 2018). N.S. emphasises the importance of addressing the emotional toll of academia and the need for academics to confront these challenges collectively:

Failing to address the emotional toll of navigating the neoliberal university can have severe consequences. We risk perpetuating a cycle of trauma and dysfunction that undermines the very purpose of HE. Unresolved emotional turmoil can lead to decreased productivity, strained relationships, burnout, attrition and the maintenance of toxic norms (Parker 2014). Ultimately, the cumulative weight of unaddressed trauma will erode the foundations of academia, compromising its core mission (Gill 2010). Therefore, it is imperative that we heed the call to prioritise introspection, emotional processing and mutual support, just as we have been trained to do in our personal lives (Canham 2017; Wetherell 2012). By creating a culture of reflexivity, we can disrupt the cycle of harm and build a more sustainable, equitable and fulfilling environment for all.

By coming together and engaging in dialogue, the academic community can advocate for systemic changes, support each other’s well-being and work towards a more nurturing and fulfilling academic environment (Gómez, Puigvert & Flecha 2011). Thus, creating supportive academic environments emerges as a crucial aspect of envisioning a transformed university. However, N.S. elucidates the reality of the current status quo prohibiting this transformation:

Thus, it is imperative that institutions provide support, ensuring that it is accessible and compatible with the realities of academic life (Belcher et al. 2019). By fostering mentorship, collaboration and an authentically supportive culture, institutions can create spaces that enable early-career academics to thrive intellectually and professionally.

This theme of envisioning a transformed university also calls for a re-evaluation of academic practices and expectations. N.S. reflects on having developed her teaching philosophy retrospectively, aware that this development served her promotion rather than being a genuine reflection of her approach to teaching: ‘All of this is, [written] in retrospect, sort of, because I didn’t come into the space and go, OK, this is my teaching philosophy’. During the conversation, she further qualified this by saying that, having come from a clinical environment into academia, there was no clear encouragement to think mindfully about her approach to teaching. Mindlessness in what we do, especially in the training of healthcare professionals, ought to be something that sits uncomfortably. Not knowing that one’s teaching philosophy is something one continuously engages in, coupled with it being understood as an exercise for portfolio development when getting promoted, does not encourage faith in the university doing what it claims to do. There is a need for more authentic and meaningful engagement with pedagogy, one that values developing a teaching philosophy over time and in response to the unique needs of students and the academic community (Kincheloe & McLaren 2011).

Ultimately, envisioning a transformed university calls for a shift from the commodification of academic success towards a more holistic and nurturing approach that values the well-being and growth of the academic community. As C.M. reflects: ‘what sort of came to mind for me was mutual vulnerability, which is a … I guess this ties to the teaching philosophy’. This acknowledgement of mutual vulnerability (Keet, Zinn & Proteus 2009) and fostering a sense of co-belonging in pedagogical encounters (Waghid 2020) would allow academics and students alike to be free to become, to freely make up their minds and co-create the university space. Opening up spaces for academics to share, instead of assuming what others are experiencing, is crucial. In these spaces, it is envisaged that academics can engage without the constraints of formal meetings or fear of being silenced.

By engaging in dialogue, advocating for change and creating supportive environments, academics can work towards realising a vision of HE that is truly transformative and responsive to the needs of society. As N.S. powerfully states, ‘If anything, I don’t want to be that kind of academic and I don’t want to, to be a vacant person because the structure has sucked the life out of me’. This impactful sentiment captures the essence of the university we refuse. To address this, the university we envision would provide targeted support for emerging academics. For example, Canham (2020) suggests that emerging scholars should be given room to do what scholars do. That is to engage in thinking, research and teaching. He proposes a balance of this by mentioning that that our teaching responsibilities are important but that we ought not to be stuck in the trenches of heavy teaching loads (Canham 2020; Ivancheva, Lynch & Keating 2019). Efforts have been made at our institution to closely look at the reduction of teaching loads for emerging scholars. This is a great start as it allows emerging academics to take advantage of existing supports, such as capacity building workshops and mentoring sessions, which often conflict with their heavy teaching schedules (Gill 2010). This approach not only supports early-career scholars but also addresses why there are so few professors, particularly black professors, in the first place; the current system demands high productivity in research and grant acquisition, often at the expense of teaching and mentoring (Tomaselli 2018). Additionally, offering protected time for research and flexible teaching arrangements would recognise the unique challenges faced by early-career scholars as they establish their research profiles (Canham 2020). The transformed university we envision is one that nurtures the passion, creativity and well-being of its members (Parker 2014), enabling them to make meaningful contributions to society without sacrificing their own vitality in the process (Ball 2013).