The Dream Is a Bookshop. The Reality Is Rent.

I’ve always wanted to open a bookshop.

 But only later. The kind of later that assumes I’ve already built some type of reputable career and earned the freedom to dream without doing the math first. In my imagination, the bookshop belongs to a future version of me who is no longer anxiously scrolling through Indeed or counting how many days are left until the end of the semester. For now, I need a job first. The dream has always been real, but postponed. It has been tucked away under “after stability,” where humanists like me learn to keep their desires. 

That quiet, long-held dream resurfaced while I moderated the book launch for Hustles for Humanists by Erica Machulak. The conversation wasn’t about abandoning academia or suddenly becoming entrepreneurial. Instead, it circled a simpler but harder question: why are humanists so quick to downplay the value of what we already know how to do? For me, the event made visible something that has gone unnamed during my time in grad school, which is how easily I treat intellectual labor as unfinished. As something that only counts once it is translated into a more recognizable professional form. 

One idea Erica shared stayed with me long after the event ended. In her book, she writes that it “makes little sense… that we are conditioned to believe that needing to learn things is an inherent deficit in our professional value.” Instead of treating gaps in knowledge as a weakness, she reframes the ability to recognize what needs to be learned and to pursue it as a strength. Reading that, I recognized a familiar voice in my own head. The one that convinces me readiness is something I can earn only after one more skills certificate. 

That pressure feels especially familiar as a graduate student working multiple jobs in a city where the cost of living is always present. Much of my working life is organized around staying afloat rather than planning too far ahead. When I think about my role as a teaching assistant, I usually frame it in terms of future job applications, not as experience that already has weight. Erica challenges that habit directly. She reminds me that people who “can write, teach, and respond thoughtfully to difficult questions have skills that are already valued.” If that work is being paid for, then its usefulness isn’t just theoretical.  It’s visible. 

Sitting with that idea shifted how I understand my own work. What I often treat as temporary or just a means to an end began to feel more solid. Not because it guarantees a clear path forward, but because it has already asked me to manage uncertainty, sustain attention, and think alongside others. These are not skills waiting to be activated later; they are being practiced now, even if I don’t always name them. 

It also changed how I think about that imagined bookshop. I still don’t know how to run a business, and I’m not pretending otherwise. But maybe entrepreneurship doesn’t begin with having everything figured out. Maybe it begins with noticing what you are already doing and trusting that curiosity. I didn’t leave the book launch ready to open a bookshop tomorrow. That dream is still filed somewhere under “not yet.” But I did leave with a quieter shift in perspective. Hustles for Humanists reminded me that the work we do as graduate students isn’t just preparation for something else. It already carries value. Maybe the point isn’t to wait until we feel fully ready, but to recognize that we’re already practicing the skills we imagine we’ll use later. 

Written by Marjorie Rugunda, PhD Student at the Institute for Gender,Race,Sexuality & Social Justice, Communications and programming Assistant at the Arts Amplifier.

Published 5 February 2026

It started with a conversation about Vancouver bus routes, one of those unexpected detours that happens in the middle of a meeting. Carolyn pulled up Google Maps to help me make sense of my poor direction skills and general confusion about how to get anywhere in this city. Soon we were zooming in and out of neighbourhoods, following bus lines, and naming places I’d somehow never visited. That’s when North Vancouver came up. A place I’d heard about but never actually been to. It hit me that I’d been at Waterfront Station for months, walking past the SeaBus signs like scenery, always heading exactly where I needed to go and never where I didn’t. 

So I decided to go.  No overthinking, no itinerary, just me and my questionable sense of direction. I walked straight to the SeaBus entrance at Waterfront Station, half-expecting a chaotic ferry situation where I’d have to fight for a seat, stand the whole way, or accidentally end up somewhere completely wrong (which, given my track record, felt possible). 

Instead, I stepped into this surprisingly calm, spacious vessel that looked nothing like the crowded commuter nightmare I had invented in my head. And the biggest shock? The ride was fifteen minutes. Fifteen. I had mentally prepared for an hour-long voyage, snacks and all, only to realize I barely had time to process the view before we were docking on the other side. It felt like discovering a hidden shortcut in a city I thought I already understood. It was a small, unexpected reminder that most things aren’t as complicated as I assume they are in my mind. 

When I stepped off the SeaBus, I didn’t open Google Maps.  A bold choice for someone who once got lost trying to find the UBC bus loop. I just let my feet decide where to go. The air was colder than downtown, the kind of crisp cold that feels intentional, like North Vancouver was built to remind you that you’re near mountains. The smell of seawater drifted through the air, sharper here, less city-ish, more “you might see a seal if you’re lucky.” 

As I walked, I kept noticing pockets of familiarity: the same cafés I’ve seen all across Vancouver, the chain ones with the predictable pastries and the same three seasonal drinks. It was oddly comforting, like the city was easing me into something new by reminding me I wasn’t that far from home. But the calmness was different. Not the forced calmness of a study break or a walk to clear your head, but the kind of calm that makes you briefly consider moving there. I was halfway through imagining my new North Vancouver life; morning walks, a fresh routine, a personality shift, before it was interrupted by the reality of a four-dollar tea. Suddenly, the fantasy cleared. I don’t know if the place was genuinely calm, or if there’s something about stepping off campus that tricks my brain into thinking life is instantly more serene. Maybe it’s the act of crossing water. Maybe it’s the absence of course deadlines. Or maybe it’s simply that when you’re not rushing to your next class, everything feels like a mild vacation. 

A little further into my aimless wandering, I stumbled onto a second-hand bookshop not tucked anywhere in particular, just there, suddenly, as if it had appeared for people exactly like me: directionally confused but open to surprise. The sign outside leaned at a slight angle, and inside, the books were stacked everywhere. Not in any specific order, not even pretending to be organized just joyfully overflowing in a way that felt charming rather than chaotic. I wandered between tilted piles and narrow pathways until I found myself in the biography section, trying to pretend I wasn’t already committed to buying a book. Somewhere between two uneven stacks, I picked up a small book titled What School Doesn’t Teach You. It was five dollars. I attempted to skim a few pages like someone who wasn’t already sold, but the truth is I had mentally added it to my tote bag within seconds. While I was still pretending to browse, the owner drifted over cheerful, warm, and already mid-story. She apologised for the books being all over the place, then explained that she had recently hired someone who claimed she could “fix the biography section.” 

“Two days in,” the owner said, lowering her voice as if letting me in on a secret, “I started thinking I might need to tell her not to come back. Turns out she didn’t actually know how to arrange books. “Not even a little.” We both laughed, the kind of laugh that feels like exhaling after holding your shoulders too high for too long. It was the small nudge I needed to stop pretending and actually buy the book. 

By the time I walked back to the Seabus with my five-dollar book, I kept thinking about how unexpectedly enlightening and refreshing the trip had been. It reminded me how rarely i let myself do things without a plan. Grad school has a way of making every hour feel accounted for, every quiet moment swallowed by readings, endless assignments or the looming idea of career planning. But this tiny excursion to North Vancouver reminded me that not everything needs purpose. Sometimes curiosity is enough. With winter break coming up, I’m holding onto that. Maybe it will look like going to the Shipyards Christmas market, or wondering through a neighbourhood I’ve never been to, or doing absolutely nothing except reading that book I bought in a bookshop were enthusiasm clearly outranked organisation.  

Whatever it is, I’m giving myself permission to be surprised. It turns out a small adventure can be its own kind of rest and maybe that’s exactly what December is for. 

Written by Marjorie Rugunda, PhD Student at the Institute for Gender,Race,Sexuality & Social Justice, Communications and programming Assistant at the Arts Amplifier.

Published 9 December 2025

The first message I ever sent on LinkedIn was a carefully crafted paragraph singing the praises of a marketing executive at a communications company. She had written a post about how nervous she’d felt looking for a job after graduating, and I thought: finally, someone real on this app. So I spent a week drafting, deleting, and retyping a message that struck the perfect balance between professional and personable. I thanked her for her honesty, told her how much her post resonated, and asked if we could connect because that’s what you’re supposed to do on LinkedIn, right? Connect.

Two days later, I got a reply: “Greetings dear Marjorie, I hope I find you well. I will run a webinar shortly; kindly be on the lookout.” 

I was disappointed. I’m not sure why, but looking back now, I think I secretly expected that one message, the one I’d overthought for a week would lead to a job offer. That she’d respond with, “You’re hired!” and I’d have cracked the networking code. I’d done it. Send one message. To one person. In one position I admired. That’s networking, right? 

I’ve had versions of that same feeling many times since, not just online, but also in my real-life attempts to “figure things out.” During my Master’s degree, I would schedule appointments with career guidance counselors, armed with enthusiasm and the hope that one of them would hand me a map for my future. Each time, I received genuinely helpful advice: attend career workshops, update my résumé, network, network, network. And each time, I walked out of those meetings with a strange mix of motivation and mild despair. Not because the advice wasn’t sound, but because it felt overwhelming.  

I often left those meetings thinking about the bigger, quieter question that I carried but rarely spoke out loud: Will this degree actually lead somewhere? That question often to appeared when I was midway through writing a research paper and my thoughts drifted toward job listings I was too tired to open. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to think about careers, it was that I didn’t always know how to start the conversation. 

That’s why the new Straight Talk program at Arts Amplifier feels different. It isn’t another networking event filled with small talk and elevator pitches. It’s a chance to have real conversations about what happens after grad school, with people who have actually lived it. Through the program, Arts graduate students and postdocs are paired with professionals who once sat in the same classrooms, wrote similar essays, and navigated the same uncertainty about what might come next. Some went into government, some into non-profits, others into communications, education, or creative fields that I might never have considered. 

What stands out about Straight Talk is its honesty. These one-on-one conversations aren’t rehearsed success stories; they’re lived experiences. They create room to ask questions that don’t belong on job boards: How did you get here? What surprised you? What would you do differently? They offer glimpses into how others took their Arts degrees and built something from them. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes by accident. And in that process, I begin to see that career paths don’t unfold neatly; they evolve, twist, and intersect in ways that are both unpredictable and encouraging. 

The value of these conversations isn’t that they lead directly to a job. They rarely do. But they open up perspective. They reveal how many ways there are to use an Arts degree, how many definitions of success exist, and how much of this journey is about exploration rather than arrival. I’ve started to understand that clarity doesn’t come from waiting for the right opportunity to appear. But maybe it can come from conversation. From asking, listening, and realizing that the answers aren’t meant to appear all at once. 

My first LinkedIn message didn’t land me a marketing job, and my career counselling sessions didn’t give me a perfect plan. But together, they taught me something that has maybe been more helpful: that growth begins with dialogue, not certainty.  

So, if you’re still figuring things out or trying to perfect your networking game one slightly awkward message at a time, this program might also feel right for you.  

Written by Marjorie Rugunda, PhD Student at the Institute for Gender,Race,Sexuality & Social Justice, Communications and programming Assistant at the Arts Amplifier.

Published 4 November 2025

Hi!

I’m Marjorie Rugunda, the new Communications & Programming Assistant at Arts Amplifier and a second-year PhD student in the Institute for Gender, Race, Sexuality & Social Justice. I’m also an avid reader, professional napper, day-dreamer, and occasional “out-fit repeater.”

When I began my master’s, the word career barely crossed my mind. “Career? I’m in grad school!” was my immediate (and slightly panicked) response when my mum asked what I planned to do with my life a week before classes began. Her point was that it helps to start career conversations early so you can shape your grad experience. At the time I did not want to hear that because…..

Beginning grad school is like joining a book club where everyone’s already read the book and written a dissertation on it but  you only made it through the blurb. And returning to campus after summer break? Like opening your laptop to twenty  unread emails and realizing ten are from yourself. In the middle of that chaos, thinking about your career  beyond campus feels impossible. In fact it almost feels good to not think about career during grad school because it feels like “other peoples” problems …..…Because let’s be honest: in grad school the scariest question isn’t “What’s next?” it’s “So, what’s your research about?”

But once you’ve wrestled your thesis into submission, figured out how to eat at least one vegetable once a week and survived your thesis defense, that question quickly morphs into the next dreaded one: “Do you have a job yet?”

I still remember my own masters graduation day as a blur not from the excitement of it all, but because I was secretly scrolling through Indeed and LinkedIn listings between hugs and photo ops. That anxious “what now?” haze taught me that the fear of the unknown is a lot easier to tackle if you start thinking about possibilities early.

So, how do you start without feeling like you’ve just added another syllabus to your life? Here are a few bite-sized moves I’ve picked up (and wish I’d tried sooner):

• Tap UBC resources early. The UBC Career Centre is a great starting point for low-stakes questions like “What could I even do with this degree?” They offer one-on-one career coaching, résumé/CV help, and regular skill-building workshops. Pair that with Graduate Pathways to Success sessions for professional development and check out Arts Amplifier’s monthly newsletter for career workshops and events, which are perfect if you’re curious about non-academic pathways.
• Talk to interesting people. Spot someone with a job or project that makes you think, Hmm…how did they get there? Sign up for arts amplifiers career conversations. Open to graduate students and postdoctoral fellows in the Faculty of Arts, Career Conversations is designed to help you explore your career questions and connect with professionals who’ve walked a similar path.
• Join the Career Design Studio (Oct 25). Spend a full Saturday in the Arts Student Engagement Hub, exploring life-design tools, career-search strategies, and networking with other Arts grad students and professional facilitators. It’s a hands-on way to brainstorm and think about a professional path in the early stages of grad school.  

Wishing all our new grad students a smooth start and a rewarding first term and a warm welcome back to those returning. When you’re ready to take a breather from readings and research, check out Arts Amplifier’s events and career workshops for an easy way to start exploring what comes next.

Written by Marjorie Rugunda, PhD Student at the Institute for Gender,Race,Sexuality & Social Justice, Communications and programming Assistant at the Arts Amplifier.

Published 29 September 2025