By Stacy Torres

As a sociology professor without an athletic bone in my body, I’d hardly compare myself to an Olympian, but recent professional hurdles have reminded me how much academics share with competitive athletes in our big-risk, big-reward striving.

Facing the prospect of my own epic failure to secure a spot on the podium in my career—achieving tenure—long after the winter games have concluded, I’m still drawing inspiration from the examples of two American figure skaters, Alysa Liu and Ilia Malinin, with wildly divergent medal outcomes.

Like many colleagues in academia, I’ve spent decades reaching for a brass ring trifecta, obtaining two out of three so far: gaining admission to a doctoral program, landing a tenure-track professorship, and obtaining tenure. I started taking myself seriously as a disciplined student around the same time I became an avid figure skating fan obsessed with the Nancy Kerrigan–Tonya Harding drama (yes, readers, back in the day I dedicated a homemade scrapbook to the 1994 Lillehammer winter games).

My working-class parents hadn’t attended college, nor completed high school in Dad’s case, but encouraged my curiosity as best they could even though they didn’t always understand my homework or what I was doing as I embarked on seven years of PhD training and study.

Recently my quest has veered off course as I’ve confronted the increasing possibility of being voted off the island, Survivor-style, and denied tenure, per the outcome of a decidedly “mixed” departmental vote. Tenure evaluation involves a multi-year “up or out” process of determining if you will be awarded a job for life or else terminated. Requirements often remain fuzzy but include assessing teaching, scholarship/ publications, references, service, and grant funding, depending on your field. At many universities, the process remains cloaked in secrecy. I have no idea how anyone voted or even who the 14 people eligible to vote were on my case. Eight didn’t bother to vote, and the rest split evenly. Only three mystery colleagues want me to stay at the university to which I’ve devoted myself for nearly 8 years. Ouch, to say the least.

After receiving this devastating news, I had trouble doing much else but compulsively eat chocolate pudding and bunny-shaped graham crackers, feeling sorry for myself while trapped at home in Oakland as an atmospheric river dumped buckets of rain on the Bay Area. But as I’ve emerged from my pity cocoon and pondered how to navigate this uncomfortable limbo state, I’m drawing inspiration to reimagine my future from American figure skaters Alysa Liu and Ilia Malinin. They’re teaching me, at more than twice their age, what freedom looks like and how to stand up proudly and carry on after a fall.

She did it her way. I’ll do it mine. That’s what I’ve told myself whenever I catch myself choking on fear of what lies ahead, whether I lose my job and future in academia or am retained and must reset working relationships with skeptical colleagues. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve viewed Alysa Liu’s gold medal winning free skate, which has become a form of therapy for me. But she was already a winner before stepping onto the ice.

Oakland-reared Liu has garnered as much glowing praise for her artistry, style, and joyful effervescence as for her impressive athleticism and technical skill. As she glided across the ice to Donna Summer’s melancholy-triumphant disco hit “MacArthur Park” in a gold spangled dress, her halo hair pulled up a jaunty ponytail, she wore her most important accessory for bringing down the house and a life well-lived—a golden smile that encapsulated the fun, freedom, and pure bliss that comes from retiring from the sport at 16 and returning on her own terms. “She’s all sunshine on the ice,” said former Olympic champion and NBC commentator Tara Lipinski. “I’m just glad that I could bring Oakland to Milan,” said Liu.

Like that famous line in the film When Harry Met Sally, “I’ll have what she’s having.” But fangirl that I am, I don’t want to be Alysa. I don’t covet her accolades, pizzazz, or even her special brand of joy—at my happiest, I have a resting bitch face. Blame it on being a native New Yorker and a Capricorn moon. “I gotta be me,” to quote another hero, Sammy Davis Jr. No, what I want is the independence that comes from dumping others’ expectations. “(Do) stuff that people tell you you shouldn’t do,” Liu said she’d tell young girls who want to follow in her footsteps. Amen. That message resonates to me more than ever in midlife. I’m over chasing external validation and people pleasing, whether in my personal or professional life. Take me as I am or not at all. I’m determined to embrace the freedom in my public failure, a nightmare for this former straight A-student but also an unprecedented opportunity to be my unapologetic self.

Where did I go wrong? I’ll probably never fully understand and am fighting the urge to relentlessly dissect my career stumbles like the Challenger explosion. As I’ve gathered insights from folks inside and outside my university, some have assured me it’s not over yet. Others disagree, “It’s definitely over.” Truthfully nobody knows. While tenure denials are uncommon, statistics remain difficult to come by. Those who expect a denial often depart early to avoid that stigma, which can be career-ending. Post-denial, some land other tenure-track positions. Many don’t. In my case, a denial will bar me from holding any faculty position within the entire UC system for five years.

Sociology is also helping me make sense of this situation, specifically the work of symbolic interactionists such as Herbert Blumer, who advanced our understanding of how people forge identity and make meaning through their social interactions with others. In a similar vein, Erving Goffman’s groundbreaking  theory on stigma has given me important context to interpret this latest blow to my psyche. Goffman defined stigma as “an attribute that is deeply discrediting” (p. 3)  and laid out three types of stigma (physical, tribal, and character). Framing my tenure journey and potential career failures as a socially constructed process that has very little to do with my worth helps provides healthy detachment that I hope buffers me against some of the worst outcomes of tenure denial.

For example, interview studies of faculty denied tenure have found personal accounts of depression, binge drinking, withdrawal from colleagues, and neglect of personal and professional responsibilities. Among positive outcomes, for some, this career catastrophe also spurred activism and prompted them to reconstitute a new self, based in elevating awareness of higher education system failures and fighting gender bias in tenure decisions. No matter the outcome in my case, I have nothing to be ashamed of and am committed to breaking the taboo of speaking openly about such career setbacks.

Processing my own slow-motion disaster, I’m also striving to harness figure skater Ilia Malinin’s (the “Quad God”) quiet dignity in carrying on and completing his disastrous free skate after two devastating falls that cost him the gold medal and left him tumbling to eighth place. As I struggle to pick myself up, I also must finish my program and skate on, not knowing my fate possibly until as late as June, shortly before my contract ends.

Whenever I feel depression’s dark clouds descending, I take refuge in Oakland’s mom-and-pop coffee shops, gazing upon the city’s colorful murals during my strolls to lift my mood. As I walk along Broadway from Sweet Bar Bakery, a cozy family-run cafe that keeps me from jumping off my roof, a stone’s throw from where Alysa Liu grew up attending the Oakland School for the Arts and training at the Oakland Ice Center, I’m flooded with a sense of ibasho, a Japanese concept which roughly translates to a place of belonging and acceptance, where one feels secure, comfortable being themselves, and at home. As a Reddit commenter observed, “You can be whoever you want in Oakland.”

While I adore San Francisco, The Town suits me. “Oakland’s scary,” some San Franciscans have proclaimed to me, incredulous I walk home from BART alone at night on a stretch of International Boulevard where I’m fairly certain I’ll never run into any of my colleagues. Oakland often gets a bad rap, but misfits like me who’ve found sanctuary here know you just need to take some time to uncover its wonders. “That’s what the f— I’m talking about,” in the words of Oakland’s golden daughter after her triumphant performance, a nod to proud Oakland son Marshawn Lynch exhorting her to bring glory home to The Town.

Oakland held its public celebration for Alysa at City Hall on March 12th, also my 46th birthday. “This rally is a celebration not just of an extraordinary champion, but of everything our community represents: grit, excellence, and the belief that Oakland always punches above its weight,” said Mayor Barbara Lee, summing up the gathering’s spirit. And party we did. Hella beats crying at home alone.

I wasn’t the only birthday girl in attendance, finding myself shoulder-to-shoulder with 12-year-old wearing a glittery “Happy Birthday” party headband. I celebrated my rebirth in what promises to be an unpredictable year between my private struggles, growing instability in higher education, and mass fears of a coming AI job apocalypse. I’ll throw a second party this summer, toasting new beginnings as I’m released from probation, whether or not I get tenure. But last March I honored Alysa and danced in Frank H. Ogawa Plaza with the Oaklanders that have accepted me in all my glorious imperfection. I squealed like a 12-year-old when Fremont-born, gold medal winning figure skater Kristi Yamaguchi paid tribute and again when Oakland School for the Arts alum Kehlani performed her Grammy Award-winning hit song “Folded,” reminding me with her moving words of appreciation for her education why I ever dreamed of becoming a teacher. Thank you, Alysa, not only for repping the Bay but for giving all of us scrappy underdogs a ray of hope to help us skate on through the darkness, shining your light on what awaits me on the other side.