An Open Letter to My (Tenured) Colleagues: What Will You Do With Your Freedom?
Dear Colleagues,
I’ve been invited to serve as a panelist at the Association for Consumer Research’s Mid-Career Workshop—a gathering to help newly tenured scholars figure out “now what?”
I’ve been asking the same question myself.
Tenured. Third season of life. Third act of my career.
I piled the pubs high and deep, racked up the citations, and earned the title. Ran the seminars. Delivered the research talks. Presented at conferences. Even managed to do my legacy-cementing academic work. Whew.
Then I strayed off script and did the public academic thing. Wrote books. Launched podcasts. Gave TED Talks. Got on stage to test my theory of humor. I spent time with the people I was studying, not just the ones citing me.
That detour reminded me what tenure is for. Tenure is leverage—the chance to do work that matters within or beyond the academy. As I enter my third act, the question is sharp: what will I do with that freedom next? And what will you?
A Brief Reminder
The need for tenure is older than the academy. Copernicus hesitated to publish his heliocentric theory for fear of religious backlash. Galileo was put on trial and subject to house arrest. Darwin delayed Origin of Species for 20 years—the implications were too explosive. W.E.B. Du Bois used data to dismantle white supremacy—only to be surveilled, blacklisted, and stripped of his passport.
Chances are pretty good that none of us are Copernicus, Galileo, Darwin or DuBois, yet the principle still applies.
Tenure was formalized in the early 20th century, not to reward productivity, but to protect inquiry. It is a shield—against donor pressure, political interference, and administrative interference. Its purpose was to ensure that scholars could pursue the truth, even when that truth was unpopular, inconvenient, or slow to be accepted.
It was never about comfort. It was about courage.
What Kind of Animal do You Want to Be?
One cold, windy night, a hungry wolf prowled the outskirts of a farm. In the yard, it saw a plump, well-fed dog in a fenced-in yard.
“You should try this,” the dog said to his distant cousin. “I get regular meals, belly rubs, and a warm place by the fire.”
Tempted. The wolf hesitated. Then he saw the dog’s collar.
Sit! Stay. Roll over. Good boy!
The wolf turned back into the woods—hungry, but free.
This story, often attributed to Aesop, is ancient. And of course it isn’t about animals—it’s about the oldest tradeoff in intellectual life: comfort or freedom.
Most people don’t realize the choice until their boss calls them in and dresses them down.
Tenure should free us. Yet too often, we slip the collar back on ourselves. You know the rules: publish only in a narrow list of “top” journals that sit behind paywalls; show up to campus five days a week and talk mostly to other scholars; avoid controversy; and bow to the gatekeepers of peer review—whether you agree with them or not.
The question is: What kind of animal will you be off the leash?
Please keep doing what you are doing—if you are satisfied—but you can do more than you’re told you should do:
- Dedicate a decade to correcting the scientific record.
- Spend a year or three learning something entirely new.
- Pause your research to overhaul your teaching.
- Work on a moonshot project.
- Disappear into another field entirely.
- Take your ideas outside the academy—into policy, industry, or culture.
- Tell a Dean—politely or not—to stop micromanaging your teaching.
- Or straight up fight a corrupt University administration.
I aspire to be that badass.
The Solo project wasn’t conventionally “productive.” I went broad—into sociology, anthropology, evolutionary biology, even the history of marriage.
The work was never going to fit in the Procrustean bed of the top journals, so I took it public: essays, podcasts, talks, a book.
And it changed my life. I met remarkable people—many who’ve become friends and confidants—and I’ve received countless thanks from singles for helping them feel seen. That’s worth more than any “exceeds expectations” on an annual review.
Let’s Be Honest About the Costs of Using Tenure
I get it—you’ve got a mortgage, tuition payments, and summer salary on the line. So, you play the game. But when you look back on your career, what will you think?
The reality is this: you may lose summer salary and forfeit raises. Invitations to speak might dry up. Colleagues could roll their eyes, gossip behind your back, and quietly decide you’re “not productive” anymore. You might even have uncomfortable conversations with administrators.
But the bigger risk? Waking up one day realizing you never used the freedom you fought so hard to earn.
When I Felt Most Alive
The best ideas don’t always happen behind a desk. They happen in motion. And not everything worth doing fits neatly onto a CV.
- Richard Feynman cracked safes, played bongos, and asked absurd questions with a straight face. His legacy isn’t just Nobel-winning physics—it’s the attitude he modeled.
- Esther Duflo and Abhijit Banerjee didn’t just publish on poverty—they built labs that tested interventions in the real world. The Nobel followed.
- Hans Rosling turned dry public data into vivid, provocative TED talks that challenged the West’s assumptions about global development.
None of them got there waiting for Reviewer C to deliver a late review.
I wasn’t most alive while revising a manuscript for the sixth time on a Monday morning. It was when I was working on The Humor Code. I was mixing it up in the world—hanging with comics in the green room, chasing down a laughter epidemic in Tanzania, clowning with Patch Adams in the Amazon, and appearing up on the Today Show. It was messy and weird, but also full of wonder and laughter.
Why I’m Writing This Now
I don’t know what my third act will look like, but I won’t be seeking secondhand approval. I’ll be chasing firsthand joy, curiosity, and connection.
Because tenure is a gift, not a leash.
Teach differently. Write publicly. Chase a weird question. Talk to people who don’t know what “construct validity” means.
It may not be comfortable, but that’s how you know you’re alive.
Onwards!
Peter McGraw
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A sample of my previous open letters: