In the spring of 2022, I found myself feeling exhausted—not only from my job, but from other looming concerns. Having a child right after the COVID-19 pandemic was a real doozy, but two other events really heightened my anxiety. The first was the devastating Oxford High School shooting in November 2021; just a 35-minute drive north of my neighborhood it was literally too close to home.  

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In my home office (sandwiched between back-to-back Zoom calls and a constantly sick-from-daycare infant), I suddenly became frightfully aware of and more fearful for my son's upcoming enrollment in public schools. As a proud product of public schools myself, throughout my entire educational experience (elementary, high school, and college), I’d been blissfully unprepared for any sort of emergency. The thought ran through my head: What if we examined how schools and universities prepare for emergencies—really examined it?

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I began to realize that at my own institution, Wayne State, where I’d taught for years, I also felt totally ill-equipped to deal with any kind of emergency. Would Wayne State students, staff, and faculty prepared if a mass shooter showed up? What skills, knowledge, and tools would we need to feel more prepared? At the time, it was just an idea. I’d just finished navigating pandemic lockdowns and online teaching; and between faculty meetings, service commitments, and the chaos of a new kind of family life, these questions got pinned—metaphorically—to the bulletin board behind my desk. I began gathering past papers, advice, and ideas, but I had no real bandwidth to pursue such an ambitious research idea.

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Then, another mass shooting incident occurred in February 2023 at my alma mater, Michigan State University.

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The future I envisioned for my son—one where he has access to clean, safe, open public spaces in which to play and learn and grows up in a politically sane and secure nation that prioritizes human rights and values truth, science, and basic decency—never felt more uncertain. A new sense of urgency pushed me to quickly assemble a team, write up a grant proposal, and collect pilot data. I did, in fact, do all of that; but a year’s worth of writing and data collection left me even more exhausted and anxious than ever. It was only this winter during my sabbatical, when I finally focused on developing my ideas. I pulled it down, dusted it off, and dove in—slowly.

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Back in 2023, I assumed this project would follow the usual academic tempo: literature review in the summer, data collection in the fall and winter, analysis and write up, papers submitted by spring. Instead—facing a heavy advising load, a new interim role as graduate director, and dealing with one administrative dumpster fire after the next—I made zero progress.

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My sabbatical offered some breathing space. For the first time in years, I was able to recharge. I could devote entire mornings to shaping my research questions without that creeping sense of “I should be doing something else.” This is the heart of slow science: giving scholarship the space to develop over time, instead of forcing it through the high-speed academic assembly line. ​If I’d tried to rush through this project in 2023, it would have been narrower, less collaborative, and probably half as insightful. By giving it time to grow, I not only ended up with stronger research ideas—I rediscovered the joy of doing the research itself.

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So, here’s my modest proposal: let’s make room in academia for projects to unfold at human speed. Stop glorifying the grind and holding up being busy as a badge of honor. Unplug from the metrics. Measuring scholarly impact through citations, chasing grant dollars, and counting CV lines is probably missing the larger point.  We should be working on projects that contribute to science and society at the same time.

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In academia, speed is often mistaken for productivity. But the best insights—the ones that contribute to theory, that shape policy, that make us rethink how we live and work—often require slower, more deliberate work.