Your PhD is a Toolkit, Not a Destination

Today, 32 years ago, the European University Institute conferred me a full-time, research doctorate. 

The world of learning, for me, began much earlier as a card catalogue. I was twelve, standing in the hushed grandeur of the Royal Dutch Library. My mother, a researcher herself, taught me how to navigate that universe of knowledge, one meticulously typed card at a time. I can still recall the scent of aging paper and wood polish, the satisfying click-clack of the small drawers, each one a portal. 

That library was a promise: if you followed the system, if you learned the structure, you could find anything. You could chart a course from A to B, from question to answer. This was the map I would follow for years.

My father reinforced this vision. At my Masters graduation, he clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Next station: the doctorate." The path was clear. I was driven by a desire to innovate within the structure, to introduce measurable, hard facts into the soft narratives of European history, to challenge the convenient blind spots in our textbooks. This passion carried me through a prestigious Masters scholarship in Rome, digging through archives and even gaining access to the mythical Vatican Secret Library. 

I chose to pursue my PhD at the European University Institute, a place that offered phenomenal resources and the freedom to do the work properly. I was all in, committed to the process. My committee included world-renowned historians from Italy, Germany, and even the chair of Harvard's Economics Department. I also managed to be the first historian using a Notebook computer in the archives, and applying PC-based Geographical Information Systems on my dataset of railway traffic in Norhtern Italy. I was building my path, laying each stone with precision, just as the card catalogue had taught me. I finished on time. My book proposal was accepted for publication by Cambridge University Press, the oldest and largest university press in the world. I had reached my destination.

And then, the map I had so carefully drawn led to a wall.

Date 24 November 1994, including typos

The silence from the history departments in my own country—the institutions I expected to welcome me—was deafening. The doors didn't just close; it felt as if they had never existed. The path, so clear and bright, simply ended. The Dutch professors themselves could not explain it. For a moment, I was lost. The structured world of the card catalogue had failed me. Out of necessity, not design, I moved to Central America following my wife at the time.

That move was not a step on the path; it was a leap into the unknown. Unbound from the rigid expectations of European academia, my career, and more importantly, my curiosity, exploded. The straight line I had been walking became a vibrant, sprawling web. My work in economic history branched into studying the other large technical systems of multinational corporations. In the rich biodiversity of Costa Rica, I became fascinated with environmental history, which led me to environmental economics, and eventually to the dynamic world of experimental economics. I was no longer following the catalogue; I was creating my own. This was a different kind of education, one taught by necessity and fueled by a newfound freedom. It was a leadership born not from title or position, but from the act of navigating uncharted territory.

Looking back, I see the irony. My doctorate, the very thing I believed was my golden ticket, often felt like an obstruction in my later career as an academic administrator. Yet, I have never regretted that deep dive into research. It taught me rigor, discipline, and the joy of the process. But the slammed doors, the unexpected detour to a new continent—that is what taught me resilience. It forced an innovation upon my life that I never would have chosen.

We are often taught to value the certificate on the wall, the linear progression, the predictable career. But the most profound growth happens in the spaces between the steps, in the detours we are forced to take. My greatest education wasn't in the hallowed halls of a library, but in the moment I had to draw my own map. My most meaningful leadership was not in managing others, but in leading myself out of a dead end. And my most vital innovation came not from improving an old system, but from being forced to create a new one entirely.

The straight path gives you a destination. The detour gives you a story.