Am I a Failed Historian?
On a quiet evening, I sit before my laptop, a cup of coffee growing cold by my side. The workload is relentless, deadlines loom large, and spreadsheets filled with numbers and marketing strategies blur before my eyes. Amidst this monotonous routine, a familiar spectre of an old dream often emerges, tugging at my thoughts. Did I ever imagine myself like this? A small cog in the vast machinery of capitalism, endlessly turning without pause?
Once upon a time, I dreamt of becoming a historian. The world of history offered an escape from the chaos of modern life—a space where I could reflect on humanity’s journey, uncover the roots of societal issues, and perhaps find answers to the inequities we’ve inherited. I wanted to be a storyteller, breathing life into the past, weaving meaning into events, and connecting them to the present.
But that dream began to fade
Reality knocked on the door as I realised that becoming a historian was no simple endeavour. Higher education required funding, while the needs of my family back home grew ever more pressing. I am a child of the sandwich generation, caught between the responsibility of supporting ageing parents and younger siblings who look to me for guidance. Faced with this dilemma, I chose the more pragmatic path: a career in digital marketing.
At first, I convinced myself this was temporary. One day, I would return to my historical pursuits. But as time passed, I found myself sinking deeper into this world of work. It offered stability—something my dream could not guarantee. Yet, beneath that stability lies an undeniable emptiness.
Am I a failed historian?
This question lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind. On one hand, I feel as though I’ve betrayed myself, abandoning the dream that once gave me purpose. On the other, I know this choice wasn’t purely selfish. It was about survival, about fulfilling obligations in a system that leaves little room for idealism.
The more I reflect, however, the more I realise that being a historian isn’t solely about titles or professions. It’s a perspective, a way of engaging with the world through the lens of history. Even in my current role, I encounter echoes of grand narratives: how capitalism shapes societal behaviour, how digital campaigns replicate structures of power, and how consumer culture creates an illusion of happiness.
Perhaps I haven’t truly failed.
Perhaps being a historian doesn’t require working in archives or publishing books. Perhaps it’s about asking questions, seeking meaning, and striving to understand the world—even amidst the drudgery of everyday life.
My dream may have changed its form, but it hasn’t disappeared entirely.
Behind the numbers and marketing strategies, I still carry the spirit of a storyteller, a seeker of truth. Perhaps this is how I embody the historian within—a historian navigating a capitalist world, forever asking, “Why?” and “How?”
And perhaps, that is enough.