The Making of a Scholar

Book Club (on Fable

Handwriting: A Dying Art

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 05 May 2026 07:30:45 GMT

I couldn’t have asked for a better grandmother than my Nanny.

And the fact that she never got to see the woman I am becoming still brings me to tears.

The best grandmother a girl could wish for.

Her warmth, her quiet kindness, her ability to find joy in the smallest things—all of it shaped me in ways I am still uncovering. But among the many things she gave me, one stands above the rest in its quiet permanence.

She taught me the power of handwriting.

Before she passed, I asked her to write my favourite Shakespearean quote on a card so that I could one day have it tattooed. It’s something I still haven’t done—but the card remains. Not long after, she was gone, released from a pain she had carried with extraordinary grace.

What I was left with were fragments of her life: crocheted washers, the scent of lavender, and her handwriting.

And somehow, that was enough to keep her close.

Where It All Began

I haven’t always written in cursive.

In fact, I spent hours in middle school trying to perfect the neat, almost artificial handwriting I saw scattered across Pinterest. It wasn’t until my growing fascination with Queen Victoria—and her meticulously kept diaries—that I returned to the cursive I had been taught as a child (I wrote about this last week in The Unexpected Start of My Academic Journey).

But if I’m honest, it was my Nanny who made it meaningful.

Every birthday, Christmas, and Easter card was written with intention—each letter carefully formed, each word carrying more than just its definition. After she passed, those cards became finite. Suddenly, something I had always taken for granted became irreplaceable.

That was when I understood what handwriting really is.

It is a trace of a person. A physical imprint of thought and presence. A form of communication that exists beyond time.

The Garden We Never Get to See

There’s a line in Hamilton that has never left me: “What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.”

It’s a beautiful sentiment—but it’s also a practical one.

Alexander Hamilton is remembered, in part, because he wrote relentlessly. Over 12,500 documents survive—letters, essays, notes—each one a fragment of his mind preserved in time. The musical captures this urgency with the recurring question: “Why does he write like he’s running out of time?”

Alexander Hamilton’s iconic signature.

Handwriting, in this sense, is legacy in motion.

It is how we leave something behind for people we will never meet. It is how we become knowable across generations.

There is something profoundly human about finding an old letter or diary and recognising, instantly, that a real person once held that pen. The shape of their letters, the pressure of the ink, the rhythm of their thoughts—it all tells a story.

Hidden Gifts

I didn’t realise how long I had been documenting my life until my mum found a page from a journal I kept at seven years old. In it, I confessed a crush on our neighbour—spelled so phonetically that it took us a moment to decode who I meant.

It was funny, yes. But it was also revealing.

I wasn’t consistent until around fourteen, but revisiting those early journals recently felt like opening a time capsule. They captured a version of me that I had almost forgotten, but who still exists in those pages.

What my handwriting has developed to over the last decade of writing.

Before journaling became aesthetic—before prompts, templates, and perfectly curated spreads—it was simply a way to process the world.

And it still is.

Now, after more than a decade of writing, I can say with certainty that the act of handwriting gives far more than it takes. It sharpens memory, regulates emotion, improves focus, and—perhaps most importantly—creates continuity between who you were and who you are becoming.

It is both an archive and anchor.

A Final Stand for the Written Word

Beyond its emotional and creative value, handwriting is quietly becoming one of the most important cognitive tools we are at risk of losing.

In an age defined by short attention spans, automation, and outsourced thinking, the ability to sit with a pen and sustain focus has become almost radical. Handwriting requires presence. It demands engagement. It slows thought down just enough for it to become intentional.

For me, journaling every evening—often for half an hour or more—has become a non-negotiable ritual. It is my way of clearing mental clutter, processing the day, and reconnecting with my own thoughts without interference.

I could list the studies. I could explain the neuroscience.

But more than anything, I simply want to encourage you to begin.

Pick up a pen. Write something—anything. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to make sense. It doesn’t even have to be legible.

It just has to exist.

Because one day, those words may be all that remains of you.

And that is not something to take lightly.

Follow the Journey

If you enjoy reflections on intellectual life, personal rituals, and the intersection between history and modern living, consider subscribing to The Making of a Scholar.

Each week I write across three pillars:

The Scholar’s Journey — documenting postgraduate life in real time
The Scholar’s World — exploring history and its enduring relevance
The Scholar’s Toolkit — practical ways to cultivate a thoughtful, intentional life

If this resonated with you, I’d love to have you here.

And I’d love to know:

Do you still write by hand?

An Academic’s Treasure Trove

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 07:30:23 GMT

I would be lying if I said I didn’t love beautiful things.

But more than that, I care deeply about the environment I create for myself—the objects I use, the textures I interact with, and the small rituals that shape my day-to-day life as a research student. These choices aren’t about excess; they’re about intention.

Like most full-time students, finances are not exactly abundant. But through consistent saving, a steady part-time job, and a complete disinterest in expensive nights out, I’ve slowly curated a collection of items that genuinely elevate my academic life.

These aren’t just “things”—they’re tools that make the process of thinking, writing, and learning feel more elevated.

I’ve also linked as many of these items as I can throughout the post for those who are curious or looking to build their own version of an elevated academic space.

Fountain Pens

I’ve written in cursive since I was fifteen, during the height of my obsession with Queen Victoria. Combined with my Nanny’s beautiful handwriting, my script became something I took pride in early on.

Fountain pens felt like a natural progression.

I saved for my first pen—a classic Parker—and was instantly hooked. There is something almost indescribable about writing with a fountain pen. The way the ink flows, the slight resistance of the nib, the rhythm it creates—it slows you down in the best possible way.

Over time, my collection has grown. My Ferris Wheel Press pens are in daily rotation, and more recently, my partner gifted me a glass dip pen for Christmas. It’s slightly chaotic to use (and yes, occasionally messy), but undeniably beautiful.

Writing, for me, has become less of a task and more of a ritual.

Leather Journals

I will happily admit that I own more journals than I realistically know what to do with. But the true standouts—the ones I reach for daily—are my leather journals.

From the beginning, I saw them as investment pieces. Not just something to write in, but something to grow with over time. With refillable inserts, they become far more sustainable (and cost-effective) than constantly replacing notebooks every few months, while also developing a kind of character that only comes with use.

My Paper Republic leather journal matches my doctor’s bag, and I will forever love this combination!

There are excellent options across a range of price points, which makes them far more accessible than they might initially seem. But beyond practicality, part of their appeal lies in the experience itself—being able to personalise, decorate, and slowly build something that feels entirely your own.

Paired with a fountain pen, the act of writing becomes something far more intentional. Slower, more tactile, and—at least for me—entirely unmatched.

A Not-Boring Water Bottle

This may seem slightly left of centre, but it has made a genuinely noticeable difference in my day-to-day life.

Since investing in a water bottle that is both practical and aesthetically pleasing, my ability to stay hydrated has improved dramatically. It turns out that when something is enjoyable to use—and nice to look at—you’re far more likely to reach for it consistently.

Yes, it’s slightly impractical. Yes, it takes up more space than it probably should. But the benefits of actually staying hydrated—better focus, more energy, fewer afternoon crashes—far outweigh the inconvenience.

My Burga tumbler has been a uni staple for well over a year!

I currently rotate between two: one from Burga and one from Brumate. Both are beautifully designed and, crucially, come with locking mechanisms that prevent any unfortunate leaks—a feature I now consider non-negotiable after my undergrad tote bag once turned into an accidental swimming pool.

Sometimes the smallest upgrades make the biggest difference.

A Quality Leather Handbag

I used to think I needed a different handbag for every day of the week. Now, I think the opposite.

Over time, I’ve realised that a few well-made, thoughtfully chosen pieces will always outperform a collection of trend-driven alternatives. There’s a quiet confidence in owning something that is both functional and enduring—something that doesn’t need to be replaced every season.

The brand is Republic of Florence, and is on my shoulder pretty much daily.

I eventually discovered an Australian brand working with Italian leather, and I was immediately drawn in. It became less about wanting the bag, and more about committing to it. I set out to save—not just for one, but for two pieces I knew I would use constantly: a classic handbag and a structured doctor’s bag. Years later, both are still in regular rotation, and I’ve never once regretted the decision.

This mindset is something I inherited from my mum, who has always believed that quality outlasts trends. She owns shoes that are older than me—and, quite possibly, older than my parents’ marriage—which feels like the strongest possible endorsement of that philosophy.

When choosing a bag, I’ve learned to prioritise timeless design, versatility, and craftsmanship. Something that can move effortlessly between settings, that ages well, and that feels as good to use as it looks.

Because when you find the right one, it stops being just a bag—and becomes part of your everyday life.

Candle Warmer

I have loved candles since the Tumblr and Pinterest era—but open flames have never quite fit my lifestyle (or my mum’s rules).

Enter: the candle warmer.

my current on-campus desk setup, including my Brumate tumbler, Paper Republic journal, Jo Malone candle and candle warmer… couldn’t be happier with it!

I genuinely cannot believe it took me so long to discover these. I’ve had mine for about a year now, and it has completely changed how I use scent in my workspace. It now lives permanently on my university desk, which means I may need to invest in a second one for home.

You get all the atmosphere of a candle, without the maintenance or safety concerns.

If you enjoy studying or working with scent, this is one of the simplest upgrades you can make.

With a Pinch of Salt

Of course, my taste is my own—and that’s the point.

What feels luxurious or meaningful to me might not resonate with you, and that’s exactly what makes personal style so interesting. This isn’t about replicating someone else’s aesthetic. It’s about building your own.

More than anything, I want this to be a reminder that even as a (relatively) broke university student, it is possible to create a life that feels considered, intentional, and beautiful.

Not through excess—but through choice.

Follow the Journey

If you enjoy reflections on intellectual life, academic routines, and building a thoughtful, elevated lifestyle, consider subscribing to The Making of a Scholar.

Each week I write across three pillars:

The Scholar’s Journey — documenting postgraduate life in real time
The Scholar’s World — exploring fascinating corners of history
The Scholar’s Toolkit — practical ways to build your own intellectual life

If that sounds like your kind of corner of the internet, I’d love to have you along.

And I’d love to know:

What are your small, everyday luxuries?

Let me know in the comments—I’m always looking to expand my list.

Note from the author:

Normally, posts in The Scholar’s Toolkit series are reserved for paid subscribers, as they contain the practical guides and systems I use in my own academic life. However, on the final Thursday of each month, I make one Toolkit post free for everyone to read.

Think of it as a small window into the resources shared with the paid community.

If you enjoy this post and want access to the full archive of Scholar’s Toolkit guides, you can upgrade your subscription anytime.

Find Me Elsewhere ✨

Book Club (on Fable

The Unexpected Beginning of My Academic Journey

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 28 Apr 2026 07:31:33 GMT

As a medievalist, it might come as a surprise that my first true historical obsession was not medieval at all, but firmly rooted in the modern period. Queen Victoria—the second longest-reigning monarch in British history and a defining figure of the nineteenth century—is largely to blame for where I find myself today. That is not a complaint. If anything, it is a quiet acknowledgment of how something seemingly small can shape the trajectory of an entire life. Through learning about her, I not only developed an understanding of history, but also began to understand myself and the nature of curiosity in a way that would eventually grow into what I hope will be a lifelong career.

A Melancholic Beginning

Born Alexandrina Victoria on 24 May 1819, Queen Victoria entered the world already entangled in dynastic uncertainty. As the daughter of Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, she was fifth in line to the throne—but a succession crisis quickly reshaped her position and, ultimately, her future.

Within her first year of life, both her father and grandfather died. Over the following decade, more of her uncles passed away without legitimate heirs, and Victoria found herself unexpectedly positioned as heir presumptive. What began as a distant possibility quietly transformed into an inevitability.

Her childhood, as she later described in her diaries, was “rather melancholy”—a restrained phrase that masks a far more complex reality.

Fashion icon since birth. Portrait is by Stephen Poyntz Denning, 1823.

Raised under the restrictive Kensington System, Victoria lived a highly controlled and isolated life. The system—designed by her mother and Sir John Conroy—limited her interactions, dictated her daily routines, and sought to make her dependent on those around her. Even familial relationships were carefully managed, cutting her off from much of her father’s side of the family.

In many ways, she was shaped as much by restriction as she was by privilege—a tension that would follow her well into adulthood.

Victoria Regina

When Victoria turned eighteen in 1837, she avoided a regency—and within weeks, she became queen following the death of William IV.

At just eighteen years old, she ascended the throne of the United Kingdom, stepping almost immediately from controlled adolescence into sovereign authority. From that moment, she began to carve out her identity not only as a monarch, but as a young woman navigating immense responsibility under constant public scrutiny.

Her early reign was shaped by her relationship with Lord Melbourne, who acted as both mentor and stabilising force during her transition into power. Her coronation in 1838 drew hundreds of thousands to London, marking the beginning of a reign that would come to define an era—not just politically, but culturally.

She was young, visible, and—perhaps most importantly—learning in real time, with very little room for error.

Expectations and Empire

As both a monarch and a woman, Victoria’s life was shaped by expectation—both personal and political.

One of my favourite paintings of her that I got the chance to see at the V&A Museum in London two years ago! It is the work Franz Xaver Winterhalter, painted in 1842.

She married her cousin, Prince Albert, in 1840, forming a partnership that would become central to both her private life and public reign. Together, they had nine children, who would go on to marry into royal families across Europe, earning Victoria the title “grandmother of Europe” and extending her influence far beyond Britain.

Despite her personal discomfort with pregnancy and motherhood, she fulfilled the expectations placed upon her, balancing the demands of family life with the pressures of monarchy.

At the same time, she navigated the political complexities of working with twenty prime ministers, learning when to exert influence and when to remain publicly restrained. Over time, she became a symbol of stability, morality, and empire—an embodiment of the values associated with the age that now bears her name.

Her reign was not simple—but it was remarkably enduring.

Grief and Withdrawal

Albert’s death in 1861 marked a profound turning point in Victoria’s life and reign.

Overcome with grief, she entered a prolonged period of mourning, withdrawing from public life and earning the nickname “the Widow of Windsor.” For years, her absence weakened public perception of the monarchy and contributed to the growth of republican sentiment, as a nation accustomed to a visible sovereign was left with a largely absent one.

And yet, even in isolation, she continued to fulfil her constitutional duties, maintaining her role behind the scenes even as she retreated from public view.

Her grief reshaped her—not only as a monarch, but as a person—but it did not remove her from history. Instead, it added a layer of complexity to her legacy, one defined as much by personal loss as by public duty.

Legacy and Longevity

Victoria’s reign spanned over six decades, culminating in both her Golden Jubilee in 1887 and her Diamond Jubilee in 1897—milestones that reflected not only longevity, but remarkable continuity in a rapidly changing world.

The Family of Queen Victoria in 1887, by Laurits Tuxen.

By the end of her life, her descendants occupied thrones across Europe, and her influence extended far beyond Britain’s borders. She stood as both matriarch and monarch, a central figure in a network of dynastic power that shaped the political landscape of the continent.

When she died in 1901, she left behind not only a political legacy, but a cultural one. Her reign had defined an era so completely that it continues to bear her name.

She had not simply lived through history—she had shaped it.

Lessons Learnt

At fifteen, I wasn’t thinking about political influence, dynastic strategy, or the evolution of monarchy.

I was fascinated by her hair, her dresses, and the aesthetics of her world—the surface-level details that, at the time, felt far more interesting than the structures beneath them. But that fascination was enough.

It was the entry point.

Looking back now, I can see how much deeper her story runs. By my current age, Victoria had already borne multiple children and ruled a nation. Her life forces a confrontation with scale—with what women have done, endured, and achieved throughout history, often within systems that limited their autonomy.

More than anything, Victoria taught me that history is not abstract. It is human. It is personal. And it is often far more complex than the simplified versions we first encounter.

She also taught me something I didn’t yet have the language for at fifteen: that curiosity matters. That following a seemingly small interest—no matter how trivial it appears—can lead to an entire intellectual life.

The Power of Obsession

We often underestimate the significance of our early interests, dismissing them as phases or fleeting curiosities.

But childhood obsessions are rarely random. They are often the first indication of what captures our attention, what holds it, and what might one day shape the direction of our lives.

For me, that path began with a fascination with a nineteenth-century queen and eventually led to a career in medieval history.

Not directly. Not linearly. But undeniably.

So if you find yourself drawn to something—whether it’s history, art, language, or something else entirely—follow it. Lean into it. Let it unfold.

You never know where it might lead.

Follow the Journey

If you enjoy historical deep dives, reflections on intellectual life, and the process of becoming a scholar, consider subscribing to The Making of a Scholar.

Each week I write across three pillars:

The Scholar’s Journey — personal reflections on academia and postgraduate life
The Scholar’s World — historical rabbit holes and fascinating figures from the past
The Scholar’s Toolkit — practical ways to build your own intellectual life

If that sounds like your kind of corner of the internet, I’d love to have you along for the journey.

And I’d love to know:

What was your first intellectual obsession?

What Academia Is Actually Like (aka not the aesthetic version)

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 21 Apr 2026 07:30:48 GMT

Tomorrow marks three weeks since I started my Master of Philosophy degree in medieval history.

And if I’m being completely honest, it has been some of the most confusing weeks of my life.

At the beginning of this journey, I promised myself—and all of you—that I would document it as honestly as possible. So this is me keeping that promise.

Let’s begin.

Feeling Lost Is Apparently Part of the Process

Nothing could have prepared me for how disoriented I’ve felt since starting this degree.

Not a handbook. Not a YouTube video. Not even years of university experience.

The sheer volume of paperwork, onboarding modules, and administrative tasks has been… eye-watering. I didn’t actually begin engaging with my research until last week, and by that point I already felt behind.

It wasn’t until my first supervisory meeting that I was told something rather surprising: this feeling is completely normal.

Being the first person—and the first woman—in my family to pursue academia, I didn’t have a baseline to measure this experience against. My parents are both highly educated, but an MBA and an MPhil exist on very different plains.

In many ways, last week felt like my actual first week as a research candidate—simply because it was the first time I was able to sit down and do the work I had imagined this degree would involve.

Safe to say, I will never underestimate administrative onboarding again.

Finding Time to Research Is Harder Than I Expected

For a degree that is entirely research-based, finding time to actually research has proven to be one of the biggest challenges so far.

I had my first research session last week, and I was happy as a clam (even though my face suggests otherwise lol)

Between my part-time job, my academic tutoring role, and full-time study, there is very little space left in the day. Add content creation and the basic requirements of being a functioning human, and I often feel like I am constantly thinking about the next thing I need to do.

I went into this degree believing I had strong systems in place. What I’ve realised instead is that I underestimated the mental load of balancing multiple roles simultaneously.

This has forced me to become far more intentional with my time. Not just in how I plan my days, but in how I protect the energy required to do meaningful work.

I’m learning—quickly—that productivity isn’t about doing more. It’s about doing the right things, consistently.

Downtime Doesn’t Exist Unless You Create It

One of the biggest adjustments I’ve had to make is recognising that rest will not happen unless I actively schedule it.

This isn’t a new lesson for me—it’s one I’ve known for a while (and discussed on here). But like most important things, it’s something that requires constant reaffirmation, especially in seasons where everything feels full.

Rest is a right, not a reward.

Even things like gym are needing to consciously scheduled each week.

For a long time, I treated it as something that had to be earned—something that only came after productivity. But I know now that without consistent downtime, I simply don’t function at the level I need to, let alone the level I want to.

So rather than rushing to complete everything as quickly as possible, I’m choosing a different approach. I’d rather something take a little longer and maintain my mental clarity than burn myself out for the sake of speed.

My past self would not recognise that mindset—but I think she’d be relieved by it. It’s not a perfect practice yet, but it is a conscious one that I’m returning to daily.

Teaching Is Rewarding… But Also Confronting

One of the most surreal parts of this experience has been stepping into a teaching role.

Within 18 months, I’ve gone from being an undergraduate student to teaching them.

It’s something I take seriously, especially knowing how important these early academic experiences are for students. Teaching is also a skill I’ll need to develop if I continue down the research path.

That said, it has also been a reality check.

Marking 87 undergraduate papers was, to put it lightly, eye-opening. It highlighted not only the challenges students face transitioning into university, but also how much responsibility educators carry in guiding them through that process.

Without turning this into a rant, I’ll simply say this: the gap between school and university is wider than many people realise.

And navigating that gap is some

thing I’m now learning from the other side.

Side Quests and Reality Checks

If I’m honest, this is not how I imagined the first three weeks of my postgraduate degree.

Last week’s research setup!

Academia, from the outside, looks like beautiful libraries, quiet cafés, and endless hours of reading fascinating material.

And while those moments do exist, they are only part of the picture.

The reality—at least in these early stages—includes admin, time pressure, uncertainty, and a fair amount of trial and error… not forgetting to mention the back aches from sitting at a desk for hours at a time.

But none of that makes the experience any less valuable.

If anything, these past three weeks have already taught me more about discipline, time management, and self-awareness than I expected.

And now, finally, I feel like I’m beginning to step into the part I’ve been most excited about: the research itself.

Follow the Journey

If you enjoy honest reflections on academic life, intellectual growth, and the process of becoming a scholar, consider subscribing to The Making of a Scholar.

Each week I write across three pillars:

The Scholar’s Journey — real-time reflections on postgraduate life and academia.
The Scholar’s World — historical deep dives and fascinating corners of the past.
The Scholar’s Toolkit — practical strategies for building an intentional intellectual life.

If that sounds like your kind of corner of the internet, I’d love to have you along for the journey.

And I’d love to hear from you:

What’s something no one prepared you for in your career or studies?

Find Me Elsewhere ✨

Book Club (on Fable

Learning That Learning Takes Time: Why Consistency Beats Intensity

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 07 Apr 2026 09:56:50 GMT

I started my Master of Philosophy degree a week ago. And so far, I haven’t actually started the degree part.

Instead, I’ve been swimming through paperwork, onboarding modules, and administrative forms I didn’t know existed. Apparently this is a standard part of postgraduate life, though no one seems to mention it beforehand. All I want to do is dive into the fun part—research.

But if the past few years have taught me anything, it’s this: learning takes time.

I promise I am in fact happy to be on campus (even though my facial expression says otherwise).

Whether it’s delayed by university bureaucracy, unexpected life events, or something as globally disruptive as a pandemic (yes, I graduated high school in 2020), the journey of learning is rarely smooth. And that’s okay.

Consistency Over Intensity

If you’ve ever met me in person or watched any of my videos online, you’ve probably noticed one thing fairly quickly: I’m a tad obsessive.

If I care about something, I commit fully. Whether that’s studying, working out, or building something creatively, I tend to go all in. For a long time I thought that intensity was the key to success… I was wrong.

For most of my undergraduate degree, I relied on last-minute bursts of productivity. I convinced myself that I “worked best under pressure,” which is simply a more socially acceptable way of describing stress-fuelled panic. The same mindset showed up in other areas of my life as well. If I had a goal, I would push myself relentlessly toward it, assuming that working harder and faster would get me there sooner.

What I’ve slowly realised, however, is that consistency will beat intensity every time.

The clearest example of this in my own life was my honours thesis. I worked on it almost every day—not always intensely, but consistently. Some days that meant reading a single article. Other days it meant drafting entire chapters.

The key wasn’t the scale of the effort. It was the habit of returning to the work.

By varying the intensity but maintaining consistency, I was able to avoid the kind of burnout that had plagued others in my cohort. By the end of the year I was exhausted, yes—but I had also written my first major independent research project: a 25,000-word thesis.

And when the results came back, the lesson was reinforced. I finished with first-class honours and topped my cohort. Looking back now, the most valuable takeaway from that experience wasn’t the mark.

It was the realisation that progress is built through steady accumulation, not dramatic bursts of effort.

Not Smooth Sailing

Unfortunately, learning that lesson once doesn’t mean it immediately transfers to every part of your life.

An example of this being that as an eldest daughter and a recovering perfectionist, I have a long history of believing that rest must be earned. For years I treated exhaustion as a badge of honour. Over the past year I’ve been trying to unlearn that mindset.

I’m learning that missing a workout occasionally doesn’t undo months of progress. I’m learning that slowing down doesn’t mean falling behind. And perhaps most importantly, I’m learning that the relationship I have with myself is the most important one I’ll ever maintain.

Learning, it turns out, isn’t just academic.

We learn in our respective career paths—whatever that may be. But we also learn about our habits, our limits, our fears, and our strengths. Personal growth runs parallel to intellectual growth, whether we realise it or not.

And that process takes time. It also requires mistakes.

The F Word

Failure.

For many people, it’s one of the most uncomfortable words in the English language. As a child—and honestly well into adulthood—I was terrified of failing. Change meant risk, and risk meant the possibility of making mistakes. That instinct hasn’t disappeared entirely. But over the past five years of adult life—and two years of posting online—I’ve come to realise something important: many of the experiences that initially felt like failures eventually became some of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned.

The most successful people are not the ones who avoid failure entirely. They’re the ones willing to walk into situations where failure is possible and try anyway. Not just financially successful people, but people who build meaningful careers, relationships, and lives. Facing failure requires a particular kind of courage: the willingness to accept uncertainty and move forward anyway.

I’m still learning how to do this.

And if I’m being honest, the process often feels less like a luxury flight and more like travelling in the luggage compartment with three parrots and a llama. Sometimes everything is quiet and manageable. Other times they’re all screaming simultaneously. But the alternative—never trying at all—is far worse. Most people never pursue their dreams because the fear of failure stops them before they even begin.

So if you’ve failed at something recently, congratulations.

You’re already further along than the majority of people who never attempted it.

And So…

If you’ve noticed that my recent posts haven’t included as many historical deep dives, there’s a reason for that.

Right now I’m taking time to learn.

Not just about my research topic, but about myself, my goals, and the kind of scholar—and person—I want to become. In a world of instant notifications and micro-dopamine loops, learning slowly is almost radical. But meaningful growth rarely happens overnight.

So if you’re in the middle of your own learning curve, be kind to yourself. Every mistake carries a lesson. Every setback carries the potential for growth. And sometimes the most important thing you can do is simply give yourself the time to learn.

Follow the Journey

If you enjoy reflections on intellectual life, academic growth, and the process of becoming a scholar, consider subscribing to The Making of a Scholar.

Each week I write across three pillars:

The Scholar’s Journey — reflections on postgraduate life and the realities of becoming an academic.
The Scholar’s World — historical rabbit holes exploring fascinating moments from the past.
The Scholar’s Toolkit — practical guides for cultivating curiosity, discipline, and an intentional intellectual life.

If that sounds like your kind of corner of the internet, I’d love to have you along for the journey.

And I’d love to hear from you: What lesson has learning recently taught you?

Let me know in the comments below.

Find Me Elsewhere ✨

Book Club (on Fable

Everyone Is Overstimulated

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Thu, 02 Apr 2026 09:58:53 GMT

I’m tired, and if we’re all being honest, you probably are too.

A difficult truth I’ve had to confront recently is that I’ve likely been living in a constant state of fight-or-flight for years. Not weeks. Not months. Years. At this point I’m not entirely sure what my true baseline as a human being actually feels like.

There has always been something occupying my mind—worrying about my body, my grades, or my social life during school. Now, as an adult navigating academia, the feeling hasn’t disappeared. The source of the stress has simply evolved.

Over the last eighteen months I completed my bachelor’s degree, finished my honours year, and began my MPhil as a research candidate. Alongside those achievements came a new adversary: imposter syndrome.

With the support of my family and partner I’ve been trying to face it head-on, but doing so is exhausting. Like many people, I spend far more time staring at a glowing rectangle than I would like. Ironically, you’re reading this on one.

Still, I hope what follows might help you as much as it has begun to help me.

Not all of these practices are things I’ve perfected yet, but they’ve come directly from conversations with my psychologist—someone whose guidance I trust deeply. If you’re not speaking to someone about your mental wellbeing, I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Breathing

Let’s start with the simplest tool available to us: breathing.

Yes, the thing we do automatically every single day.

Many people are familiar with box breathing, which involves breathing in for four seconds, holding for four, exhaling for four, and holding again. It’s excellent for bringing your body back to a baseline state.

Recently, however, I’ve been introduced to something slightly different: what I call the 4–4–6 method.

You inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, and then extend your exhale to six seconds.

This slightly longer exhale activates the parasympathetic nervous system—the “rest and digest” system that counteracts the body’s fight-or-flight response. Slowing the exhale stimulates the vagus nerve, lowering your heart rate and blood pressure while signalling to your brain that you are safe.

Your body already knows how to calm itself.

The problem is that our minds often refuse to get out of the way.

If you’re an overthinker like me, learning how to regulate your breath can become one of the most powerful tools in your self-regulation toolkit.

If You’re Going Through Hell, Keep Going

Winston Churchill once famously said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

While the phrase may sound dramatic, the principle behind it is surprisingly practical.

From Honours to MPhil: Beginning My Post-Graduate Academic Journey

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 07:30:47 GMT

After what has felt like a marathon—though in reality it has only been three months since finishing my honours degree—I am about to begin the next stage of my academic journey. What makes this moment even more extraordinary is that my research is being supported financially by my university after I finished at the top of my cohort in a degree I was almost denied entry into two years ago.

me and my first-born (thesis)

To say I am grateful would be an understatement.

Yet as the reality of beginning this degree has slowly settled in, I have also realised something else: there is surprisingly little guidance available for people who want to enter academic research. That realisation is exactly why I started The Making of a Scholar.

Why I’m Documenting This Journey

After four years navigating tertiary education, one thing has become very clear to me—there is no official handbook for becoming an academic.

There are countless study guides, productivity systems, and aesthetic “study with me” videos online, but very little honest discussion about what it actually looks like to pursue research as a career. Every academic journey unfolds differently. Some people arrive through traditional pathways, while others stumble into research after discovering a subject they cannot stop thinking about.

The Making of a Scholar is my attempt to document that process openly and honestly. Over the coming years I will be sharing the practical systems and experiences that shape my academic life—from study techniques and research habits to conferences, digital tools, and the emotional realities of postgraduate work.

Because becoming a scholar does not happen exclusively in libraries or lecture halls. It slowly begins to impact every aspect of your life.

The Missing Piece No One Talks About

There is a polished version of academia that circulates online: beautiful libraries, stacks of carefully arranged books, aesthetic study setups, and quiet productivity.

And while those moments absolutely exist, they are only one part of the story.

The reality of postgraduate research can also include confusion, stress, tears, and sometimes a deep sense of loneliness. Just last night I found myself crying to my mum because of how isolating this journey can feel. Many of the people around me—including my partner—have established friendship circles within and beyond their careers, while academia often requires long periods of solitary work.

My family and partner are incredibly supportive, and I am deeply grateful for that. But since attending my first academic conference last December, I have realised how powerful it is to be surrounded by people who share your intellectual interests.

Italian food on Lygon St with new academic friends was easily a highlight of the conference

For three days I was immersed in conversations about history, interpretation, and research. I listened to scholars discuss and debate ideas that genuinely excited me. When the conference ended, the absence of that intellectual community was immediately noticeable.

Finding friends who share your passions is difficult in any field. Finding people who want to spend hours discussing medieval chronicles is even harder.

Part of documenting this journey is my attempt to create a small online space where those conversations can continue.

What exactly is an MPhil?

One of the most common questions I receive is surprisingly straightforward: why not just do a Master of History?

The answer is that, at least in Australia, that degree technically does not exist in the way many people imagine. After completing an honours degree, students generally choose between two postgraduate pathways: a Master of Arts or a Master of Philosophy.

A Master of Arts combines coursework with independent research and usually culminates in a thesis of around 20,000 to 22,000 words—roughly the same length as an honours thesis.

A Master of Philosophy, on the other hand, focuses almost entirely on independent research. Instead of coursework, the degree is assessed through a much larger research thesis of approximately 40,000 words, accompanied by a viva voce oral examination—Latin for “with living voice.”

Both degrees serve important purposes, and the decision usually depends on where you hope your academic career will lead.

Because my long-term goal is to pursue a doctorate, the research-focused MPhil was the natural path for me. I will also admit that I struggled with the coursework components of my honours year. Much of the material we studied had little connection to my thesis topic or to medieval history more broadly. Being able to dedicate my time entirely to my own research interests feels not only more enjoyable, but also far more valuable as preparation for future research.

For the Many, Not Just the Few

One of my biggest hopes for this publication is to make the academic path feel more accessible.

Academia can often feel like a closed world—one that is difficult to navigate unless you already know someone inside it. When I first began university, I would have given anything to have more insight into how this journey actually unfolds.

So whether you are an undergraduate considering honours, a current research student, someone curious about the world of academia, or simply someone who enjoys intellectual exploration, I hope The Making of a Scholar can offer something useful, supportive, or inspiring.

If there are topics you would like me to explain or explore, please let me know in the comments. This space is as much for you as it is for me.

Follow the Journey

If you enjoy essays on academia, intellectual life, and the process of becoming a scholar, please consider subscribing to The Making of a Scholar.

Each week I write across three pillars. The Scholar’s Journey explores the realities of postgraduate life and academic growth. The Scholar’s World dives into historical rabbit holes and fascinating corners of the past. The Scholar’s Toolkit shares practical systems for building a thoughtful and intentional intellectual life.

If that sounds like your kind of corner of the internet, I would love to have you along for the journey. Because if there is one thing I am learning already, it is that becoming a scholar is far more meaningful when you don’t do it alone.

Take care beautiful people, and stay curious.

Find Me Elsewhere ✨

Book Club (on Fable)

So You Want to Figure Out Who You Actually Are? Start by Touching Some Grass.

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Thu, 26 Mar 2026 07:31:20 GMT

Note from the author:
Normally, posts in The Scholar’s Toolkit series are reserved for paid subscribers, as they contain the practical guides and systems I use in my own academic life. However, on the final Thursday of each month, I make one Toolkit post free for everyone to read.

Think of it as a small window into the resources shared with the paid community.

If you enjoy this post and want access to the full archive of Scholar’s Toolkit guides, you can upgrade your subscription anytime.

The Hot Topic

One of the most interesting conversations currently circulating online revolves around the idea of ‘taste’—how to develop it, why it matters, and what it actually means to have good taste. But copying someone whose style you admire does not magically grant you taste of your own. At best, it means you have good observational skills.

Its an easy rabbit hole to fall down, especially in an age where trends are delivered to us through carefully curated algorithms. Many of us have unknowingly built parts of our personalities around the digital landscape we spend so much time in—adopting the aesthetics, opinions, and lifestyles that appear on our screens.

Forcing myself to step away from that ecosystem allowed me to confront a difficult concept: how much of who I thought I was had actually been shaped by the algorithm?

It took time, reflection, and intention to rediscover the things that genuinely make me me—the interests, habits, and values that exist outside the digital world.

Each of us is a one-of-a-kind edition of the human race. Trying to blend in with trends—while expensive, exhausting, and often fleeting—is the last thing we should be aspiring to in a world already overflowing with imitation.

What follows are a few ways I’ve begun reconnecting with the girl I was before a glowing rectangle appeared in my hand—and how you might rediscover that version of yourself too.

Put the Damn Phone Down

After reading this—whatever screen it may be on—I challenge you to do something very simple: go outside and leave the digital world behind, even if only for a few minutes. Touch some grass. Go for a brisk walk. If you’re lucky enough to live near the ocean, sit and watch the water for a while. Remind yourself of the world you actually live in.

When we’re physically unwell, the first step toward recovery is identifying the root cause of the illness. If you feel disconnected from yourself, it may be worth applying the same logic. Removing, or at least limiting, the digital environments that constantly shape our behaviour can be the first step toward rediscovering who we are outside of them.

This doesn’t mean disappearing into the wilderness for a week-long retreat where you meditate for eight hours a day. For most of us, that would be more overwhelming than helpful. Instead, start small. Ten minutes outside. Then an hour. Eventually, perhaps a full afternoon without your phone.

Over time, something interesting begins to happen. Your sleep improves. Your energy returns. You begin to notice when your body actually needs food, water, movement, or rest. Removing the constant stimulus of a glowing rectangle allows you to relearn how you function as a human being.

Before long, you may realise that the real world has been patiently waiting for you this entire time.

One of the first places I noticed this shift appearing in my own life was through something surprisingly simple: how I dressed.

When I began dressing for myself rather than for an invisible audience online, my choices naturally changed. Out went the baby tees, denim shorts, and perfectly straightened ponytails that dominated my wardrobe for years. In their place came tailored trousers, collared shirts, and natural hair.

It sounds superficial, but it was actually the beginning of something deeper. When I started dressing for the person I wanted to become rather than the one the algorithm seemed to favour, something shifted internally. Authenticity often reveals itself in subtle ways first, and for me it began with clothing.

Back to Your Roots

When I first realised how much of my personality had been shaped by the digital ecosystem, I asked myself a simple question: what did I enjoy before the internet started telling me what I should enjoy?

The answer took me straight back to the foundations of my childhood. I loved creating things. I loved learning. I loved moving my body. And I had always been deeply fascinated by history.

So I started doing those things again.

I also made a conscious effort to pursue them with as little technological involvement as possible. The only digital element that remained constant was music. Music had always been an important part of my upbringing, and returning to albums my parents used to play became a surprisingly emotional experience. Hearing those songs again would often bring back vivid memories from different stages of my life.

Rediscovering these small but foundational parts of myself helped reorient my sense of identity. It reminded me that the person I was before social media ever entered my life still existed—I had simply stopped giving her attention.

Following those instincts also ended up reshaping my career entirely. Choosing to pursue my lifelong interest in history did more than make me happier; it gave me a sense of purpose that had been quietly waiting in the background for years.

Sometimes the best way to figure out where you’re going is to remember where you started.

Breaking the Ceiling

You rarely discover anything new about yourself inside your comfort zone. It is called a comfort zone for a reason—it’s designed to keep things predictable.

One of the clearest examples of this in my own life happened the first time I attempted bookbinding. As someone who has always adored books, the idea of tearing one apart in order to rebuild it felt almost sacrilegious. But the moment I began learning the craft, that hesitation transformed into fascination.

What initially felt like destruction quickly revealed itself to be a creative process. Today, bookbinding is something I find both calming and deeply rewarding.

Each of us has something we’ve always wanted to try but never quite had the courage to pursue. For me, the next item on that list is horse riding. Your list will look entirely different—and that’s exactly the point.

Only you know where your comfort zone lies, and stepping beyond it is where growth begins.

Three years ago, I also stepped outside my comfort zone by sharing my life publicly online. At the time, I simply wanted to document my academic journey as an undergraduate living on campus, and hopefully connect with people who shared similar interests. What I didn’t expect was how much that decision would change my life.

Not every response was positive, and social media will always remain a curated environment rather than a perfectly honest one. But the experience taught me something invaluable: the things that scare us often contain the greatest opportunities for growth.

Flow State

One of the clearest indicators that you are reconnecting with your authentic self is what’s commonly referred to as a flow state. This is the experience of becoming so absorbed in an activity that time seems to disappear entirely. Hours pass without you noticing, and the outside world fades into the background.

In a world that constantly fights for our attention, flow is incredibly rare—and therefore incredibly valuable.

For me, flow most often appears when I am conducting historical research. What begins as a quick check of a source or manuscript can easily turn into several hours of reading, note-taking, and connecting ideas. The same thing happens when I’m working on bookbinding projects or cross-stitching. These activities demand just enough focus to keep my mind engaged, while still allowing a sense of calm and creativity to settle in.

But flow does not only exist in solitary pursuits. Some of my most meaningful experiences of it occur in much simpler moments: games nights with my family, long walks with my partner, or conversations that stretch late into the evening without either of us realising how much time has passed.

The common thread in all of these activities is that they feel effortless. Not easy, necessarily, but deeply engaging. They draw you in rather than drain you.

If you could spend entire afternoons doing something without feeling restless or bored, pay attention. That activity is telling you something important about yourself.

Flow states are often quiet signals pointing toward the parts of our identity that exist outside of trends, algorithms, or external expectations. They reveal what genuinely energises us—what our minds naturally gravitate toward when no one else is watching.

In many ways, rediscovering yourself is simply a process of noticing where your attention goes when it is free to wander. The things that consistently bring you into flow are rarely accidental. They are clues.

Follow them long enough, and you may find they lead you back to the person you were always meant to be.

The Final Phase

Rediscovering yourself is not a comfortable process. Society rarely encourages people to step away from trends or resist the pull of collective behaviour. And yet the process of self-rediscovery can also be one of the most affirming journeys you undertake.

When you begin to understand who you are outside of the digital noise, something interesting happens. Your sense of taste evolves naturally. Your clothes begin to reflect your lifestyle. Your daily routines adapt to your body’s rhythms. Your environment gradually transforms to support the life you actually want to live.

In other words, taste is not something you copy from someone else.

Taste is what develops when you truly know yourself.

And building a life around that understanding is one of the most rewarding things a person can do.

Follow the Journey

If you enjoy essays on intellectual life, curiosity, and the realities of academia, consider subscribing to The Making of a Scholar.

Each week I write across:

The Scholar’s Journey—personal reflections on postgraduate life and the process of becoming a scholar.

The Scholar’s World—historical rabbit holes exploring fascinating corners of the past and the cultures that shaped our world.

The Scholar’s Toolkit—practical guides for building a thoughtful, beautifully intentional intellectual life.

If that sounds like your kind of corner of the internet, I’d love to have you along for the journey.

And I’m curious:

What is something you loved as a child and want to reconnect with now?

Let me know in the comments below.

Take care beautiful people, and stay curious.

Find Me Elsewhere ✨

Book Club (on Fable)

Education Beyond Degrees: Learning as a Lifelong Practice

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 24 Mar 2026 07:30:48 GMT

I was not the wonder child. I was not the straight-A student, the naturally gifted academic, or the one teachers quietly predicted great things for. I was a B+ student: competent, capable, but unremarkable in the narrow metrics we use to define intelligence at school. I wasn’t failing, but I wasn’t exceptional either—at least not in the ways that were rewarded.

What I struggled with most was not coursework, but belonging. Authentic friendships felt elusive. I moved schools to chase volleyball, and dance—movement of any kind that made me feel grounded in my body when my mind felt restless. Eventually, my body intervened. Injury forced me to stop. And a pandemic arrived. Just like that, the things I had built my sense of self around at school were gone.

I graduated in 2020, into a world that seemed to fracture overnight. Plans dissolved. Certainty evaporated. Life was about as confusing as it could be.

At the time, tertiary education did not feel like a calling—it felt like insurance. I chose a degree in teaching because it promised security in an increasingly unstable society. It was a practical decision, a sensible one when my parents are so fulfilled in the occupation, and one that many young people are encouraged to make when passion feels risky. But what I had not factored in was the cost of studying something that did not ignite me. My spirits sank. I felt disengaged, disconnected, and quietly miserable.

The irony was that I was still studying—just not what I was enrolled in. I spent more time reading history books, listening to lectures, and writing notes on topics entirely unrelated to my degree than I did completing my actual coursework. History, which had once been dismissed as a “hobby,” had become the thing that animated me. The thing I returned to instinctively, without external pressure or assessment criteria.

Eventually, I listened.

Switching to a history degree felt less like a career move and more like an act of self-recognition. And I have never looked back.

What shaped me just as much as the discipline itself was where and how I studied. I lived on campus for the entirety of my undergraduate degree, at a college dominated by medicine, law and economics students. I was the only history major in a sea of future corporate lawyers, consultants, and doctors—many of whom were far more interested in drinking culture than intellectual inquiry.

I wish I could give this girl a hug.

There is something clarifying about being out of step with your surroundings. While weekends revolved around parties and social rituals, I spent evenings reading primary sources, writing essays by candlelight, and sitting with languages that demanded patience and attention. I was not entirely anti-social, but I was fundamentally oriented differently. My education was not a means to an end; it was an end in itself.

Living on campus taught me that learning is often a solitary practice, even when done in community. It requires a willingness to be bored, to be misunderstood, to opt out of the dominant culture in favour of something quieter and more demanding. There were moments when I felt deeply out of place—but there was also a growing sense of internal alignment. I was becoming someone else. Someone more curious. More patient. More capable of sitting with complexity.

That, I think, is what education truly offers: not upward mobility in the narrow economic sense, but the chance to inhabit a different interior life.

When I say that education changed my life, I do not mean that it guaranteed success or certainty. In fact, it destabilised many of the assumptions I had inherited about productivity, value, and achievement. But it gave me insight. Context. A framework for understanding both the past and the present. It taught me how to think, not what to think—and that distinction matters more than we often admit.

This is why I believe so strongly that education—whether formal or self-led—is one of the few reliable doorways to a different life.

I am a humanities girlie through and through. And yes, that means I will continue to document, defend, and promote the disciplines that are increasingly dismissed as indulgent or impractical. History, literature, philosophy, languages—these are not ornamental subjects. They are the tools through which we understand power, culture, morality, and ourselves. The fact that their funding is being cut at unprecedented rates should concern anyone who cares about the long-term health of society.

Education does not look the same for everyone, and that is precisely what makes it a lifelong practice rather than a finite phase. For some, it is formal study. For others, it is reading deeply for the first time since school. It might be learning a language, visiting galleries and museums, enrolling in an online course, or listening to lecture series while commuting. What matters is not the form, but the intention.

Your learning journey must suit you—your interests, your routines, your questions. And it will change over time. That is not failure; it is growth.

A prime study setup if you ask me.

We are living through a quiet crisis of literacy. Reading and writing levels are declining at a rate that should alarm us all, and yet the conversation is often reduced to nostalgia or moral panic. I am less interested in blame and more interested in responsibility. If we outsource our thinking to summaries, algorithms, and passive consumption, we should not be surprised when our capacity for attention erodes.

We are moving toward a world where luxury is no longer defined by what you can buy. Hermes bags and high-performance cars will always exist, but the true markers of privilege will be the things that one cannot purchase: critical thinking, attention span, historical socio-political awareness, intellectual curiosity.

You can own all the markers of success our culture celebrates, but without understanding how the world works—how it came to be this way, whose voices are missing, and what systems you are participating in—what good can you really do? I often wonder whether extreme wealth is even possible without some form of education, formal or otherwise. But that is a conversation for another time.

What I do know is this: education cannot be forced. You can bring a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink. Learning begins with curiosity and desire. With a decision to take yourself seriously enough to invest in your own intellectual life.

Start small. Start in community. Start imperfectly. But start today.

Because the opportunities that education opens are not linear or predictable—but they are limitless. And the only true limitation is the one we place on ourselves.

Take care beautiful people, and stay curious.

Find Me Elsewhere ✨

Book Club (on Fable)

How to Fit Everything Into Your Week Without Burning Out

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Thu, 19 Mar 2026 07:30:52 GMT

Not to cause alarm, but at the time of writing this, I currently have four jobs: part-time school admin assistant, casual university academic, research candidate, and content creator. Needless to say, spare time is a rarity in my life, and yet I still manage to go to the gym regularly, meal prep weekly, read outside of academia, write for Substack, and get 7–8 hours of sleep most nights.

Last year was one of the most transformative years of my life. I topped my honours cohort, began building an online community, and started prioritising my health, finances, and mental wellbeing in ways I hadn’t before.

So while I certainly don’t claim to have life completely figured out, I have spent the last few years experimenting with organisation systems that actually work.

These are the habits that made the biggest difference for me as an academic, a recovering perfectionist, and a very ambitious woman in her twenties.

Get Clear on What Is Helping—and What Is Hurting

You can’t make informed decisions about your time if you don’t actually know where it’s going.

Your first step needs to be awareness. Once you understand how you’re truly spending your hours, you’re already ahead of a surprising number of people.

Start by getting clear on what you actually want your life to look like. Not in vague terms, but in real, tangible detail. Where do you live? What kind of work are you doing? Do you have a traditional job, or something more flexible? What does a typical day look like? How do you spend your evenings? Your weekends? Hopefully you get the idea.

Some people call this life scripting, but I’m less interested in the label and more interested in the exercise itself. The point is to step back and consciously decide how you want to spend the majority of your time.

Once you have that vision, you can begin building the blueprint.

Work backwards. What needs to happen annually, monthly, weekly, and daily to move you closer to that life? What habits need to change? What commitments need to be added—or removed?

The specifics will look different for everyone. I can only give you the outline. You have to colour in the rest.

Subscribe now

Learning Slowly in a World That Rewards Speed

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 07:30:11 GMT

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on why I’ve felt slightly behind in my own book club. The feeling surprised me. I created my book club, The Gentlewoman’s Library, to escape the pressure of speed, and yet there I was—measuring myself against it.

I’ve always been a fast reader. But being a fast reader and being a thoughtful reader are not the same thing. For years, I measured my success by the number of books I finished, not by the education I drew from them. Twelve months ago, I consciously decided to change that. Starting The Gentlewoman’s Library was part of that shift—an attempt to prioritise depth over volume, reflection over completion.

Yet the tension between speed and depth extends far beyond reading. It shapes how we learn, how we work, and how we live.

We are living in a culture that rewards visible output. Fast replies. Fast results. Fast growth. Education and critical thinking—once considered foundational—are quietly becoming luxuries. And so is time.

To learn slowly, and with depth, now feels rarer than a Birkin. Not because it is inaccessible, but because it requires something increasingly scarce: sustained attention. No one is immune to its erosion. Unless you are actively protecting your own intellectual life, it will be taken from you by the pace of twenty-first century society.

I struggle with this more often than I would like to admit. Between a part-time job, a full-time degree, stepping into university teaching and marking, and creating content online, finding time to learn purely for myself can feel like trying to find a horcrux in the Room of Requirement—not impossible, but rarely straightforward.

The temptation, in moments like that, is to disengage entirely. To tell yourself you’ll return to learning “when things calm down.” But life rarely slows itself for our benefit.

This is not a “fix your attention span” manifesto, nor is it a curated list of books to make you more interesting at dinner parties. There is no shortage of that content online. Instead, I want to acknowledge—and quietly champion—those who continue to prioritise their education in a world that constantly competes for their attention.

Social media, news cycles, group chats, streaming platforms—they are all designed to pull us outward. They fragment our focus and reward reaction over reflection. Yet the very thing most of us crave is depth. Meaning. Context. Understanding.

Learning slowly is not about withdrawing from the modern world. It is about refusing to let it dictate the terms of your inner life.

Although I have been less active here and on my book club than I hoped in February, I showed up when I could. And that matters. Self-led education is beautifully adaptable—it bends around the contours of your life rather than demanding perfection from it.

A video essay during your commute.
An article read before bed.
A few lines of commonplace journaling on a Sunday afternoon.

It all counts.

Depth does not require grand gestures. It requires consistency in small, imperfect forms. It requires the decision to protect even a fraction of your day for your own curiosity.

We tend to imagine education as something structured and institutional. But some of the most meaningful learning happens in quiet, self-directed moments. Moments no one applauds. Moments that will not appear in a LinkedIn update. Moments that shape you anyway.

Learning slowly means allowing ideas to marinate. It means rereading when necessary. It means sitting with confusion instead of outsourcing clarity to a summary. It means understanding that intellectual growth is rarely linear—and almost never efficient.

It also means extending grace to yourself.

There will be seasons of acceleration and seasons of stillness. There will be months where you read five books and months where you barely finish one. What matters is not the visible output but the underlying commitment.

So take this as a small piece of encouragement: show up for your own education when you can. Protect little pockets of learning wherever they fit. Follow your intrigues. Let curiosity lead you somewhere unexpected.

And, above all, give yourself grace.

Because in a world that rewards speed, choosing to learn slowly is not laziness—it is quiet resistance. It is a declaration that your inner life deserves time, attention, and care.

If you want to practice that kind of learning in community, The Gentlewoman’s Library exists for exactly that purpose. We read slowly. We question deeply. We prioritise understanding over output. You can join us on Fable for our monthly selections and discussions, or subscribe here on Substack to continue exploring ideas like this—reflections on reading, education, and cultivating a thoughtful life in a distracted world.

There is no deadline to begin. Only the decision to start.

And you are always welcome at the table.

Take care beautiful people, and stay curious.

Find Me Elsewhere ✨

Book Club (on Fable)

What does it actually mean to be well-read?

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Thu, 12 Mar 2026 07:31:24 GMT

As a society we have become obsessed with quantity, and the realm of reading has not escaped from the sentiment. Just because you have the goal of reading 50 books in one year does not mean you’re on your way to being well versed in literature. Because at the end of the day, what does it actually mean to be well-read?

As someone who has more interests than she knows what to do with, I constantly have to remind myself that reading with intention is always more beneficial than reading at speed. Over the past 5 years of academic study, I have come to realise that being ‘well-read’ is not about how much you consume—but how deeply you engage with the texts you do read.

How We Learned to Measure Reading Like Productivity

Reading has quietly been absorbed into the same framework we use to measure almost everything else in modern life. How many books can you read in a year? How quickly can you finish them? How efficiently can you extract their “key ideas”? And if a text resists easy comprehension, there is always a summary or condensed breakdown to tell you what you were meant to take away.

In this environment, reading becomes less about encounter and more about completion. Books are treated as units of output—something to be checked off rather than lived with. Productivity culture, amplified by algorithmic living, has turned what was once a slow, contemplative act into a race. The irony is difficult to miss: an activity designed to cultivate patience is now governed by speed.

As a historian, I can’t help but notice how sharply this contrasts with earlier approaches to reading. Texts were scarce, costly, and returned to repeatedly, sometimes over a lifetime. Reading was an act of study and reflection, not accumulation. The goal was not exposure to endless ideas, but deep engagement with a few.

When reading is reduced to a metric—books per year, pages per hour, summaries consumed—we lose something essential. Efficiency may increase, but depth diminishes. And it is in that depth that reading does its most meaningful work.

What Depth in Reading Actually Looks Like

Depth, when it comes to reading, is not a personality trait—it is a practice. One that must be cultivated deliberately. I am still learning how to implement it fully in my own reading life, but these are the three practices that have most helped me reintroduce depth into how I read.

I Don’t Have “My Girls”—And That’s Okay

Sarah Kathleen Francis — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 07:30:06 GMT

Female friendships aren’t something I have in abundance. Since childhood, I’ve been pretty true to who I am—stubbornly so. And when you grow up parallel to the rise of social media, that kind of self-assurance doesn’t always mix well.

I wasn’t skinny, or conventionally pretty by my cohort’s standards (the number of times my mum had to talk my very brunette fourteen-year-old self out of getting blonde highlights is embarrassing). But I knew who I was — or at least, I thought that would be enough.

Fast forward through a very tumultuous high school career and an undergraduate degree completed during Covid, and here I am in my twenties with very few solid friendships. And it kind of sucks.

Growing Up Without a “Girl Group”

I’m introverted by nature. I can hyperfocus for hours on what I love—reading, writing, creating, thinking—and I find genuine joy in solitude. The fact that I have a healthy, stable relationship is a testament to my partner, with his baffling patience and empathy. But even so, I crave the kind of female friendships that TV and film conditioned me to expect—the brunches, the deep late-night talks, the effortless camaraderie of “the girls.”

There’s this idea we’re fed from childhood: if you’re a good person, you’ll have friends.

I don’t believe that anymore.

Because I was a good person. I tried so hard—sometimes too hard—to be the kind of friend everyone wanted. But I was also myself: uninterested in trends, disinterested in drinking or all-nighters, more fascinated by history and skincare than chaos and hangovers.

And in environments where partying is a social currency, those traits don’t hold much value.

The Slow Disappearance

It still amazes me how quickly people can disappear.

One moment, you’re surrounded by friends—the next, you’re watching them fade out of your life like mist. I used to think something was wrong with me; that maybe I wasn’t fun enough, pretty enough, easy enough. But the truth is, most of those “friendships” existed out of proximity, not connection.

We just happened to sit next to each other. Or live in the same college. Or attend the same parties.

And when life shifted, those connections evaporated.

The Digital Illusion of Connection

Social media has made us more accessible but less available. We’re constantly online, yet rarely truly seen. It’s all highlight reels and hot takes—a constant stream of performances masquerading as authenticity.

I’ve always been an “all in” person.
If I love you, I’m all in.
If I believe you’re my friend, I’m all in.
If you betray my trust—unfortunately, I’m all in then too.

And when you’re wired that way, every loss stings. You start building walls not out of arrogance, but out of protection. The body’s fight-or-flight response extends to the soul—you start armouring yourself against disappointment.

For years, I lived like that. Concrete around the heart. Hoping someone would find a way through it.

If I just loved harder, gave more of myself, conformed a little, maybe it would lift.

It didn’t. If anything, it got heavier.

Learning to Be at Peace with Less

The past 18 months have been about unlearning all that.

I’ve been figuring out who I am, what I value, and how I want to spend my short life on this floating rock. In the process, I’ve shed people like old skin—and I’ve been left with less than the fingers on one hand.

And that’s okay.

True friendship requires effort, empathy, and consistency. It isn’t something you can collect like trinkets. So I’d rather give two or three people my all than ten people my half.

I might not have twelve bridesmaids at my wedding, but the few who stand beside me will be the ones who weathered every storm—the ones who stayed when there was no convenience left.

The Beauty of Solitude

Jo’s line from Little Women (2019)—“I’m so lonely”—has always stayed with me. Because yes, there are days when I feel that ache. When I wish I had ‘my girls,’ the easy group chat, the spontaneous dinners.

But I’ve realised loneliness doesn’t mean something’s wrong. Sometimes, it just means you’re living life at a deeper frequency—one that fewer people can meet you at.

I would rather walk alone in honesty than with a crowd in pretence.

So to anyone reading this who feels like they’re constantly the “odd one out,” who loves deeply and thinks too much and just wants a friend who gets it—I see you.

You’re not broken. You’re evolving.

And sometimes, that means walking alone for a while.

Take care beautiful people, and stay curious.

Find Me Elsewhere ✨