Comparison is the quiet thief of academic time and erodes confidence.
You are progressing well — until a colleague wins a large grant.
You feel satisfied with your output — until a peer publishes in Nature.
You feel secure — until someone younger is promoted first.
Academia is a status-rich environment: chairs, grants, journal rankings, bibliometrics, h-indexes, league tables, and citation counts. The metrics are visible if you look — and increasingly unavoidable even if you try not to. Comparison can feel constant. And comparison distorts time decisions and can kill momentum.
The Distortion Mechanism
Upward comparison generates urgency. We chase grants we are not ready for. We say yes to collaborations that do not align. We pivot to fashionable topics because they are fashionable, not because they are ours. We accelerate prematurely. Time becomes reactive. We stop shaping it and start chasing.
Downward comparison generates complacency. We relax into our local dominance. We stop stretching and close doors to challenge. We become the senior academic who quietly defends territory. Time becomes static.
In both cases, comparison replaces vocation as the driver. The question subtly shifts from: What work matters? To, where do I rank? That shift changes everything.
Hollow Victories
I once aspired strongly to become the first professor in my family. When it happened, it was satisfying — briefly. Then it became ordinary. The badge did not transform the work. It did not deepen curiosity. It did not improve writing. If anything, it sharpened my imposter syndrome. I felt unworthy sitting in the chair I had chased. Status is a milestone. It is not a sustaining force. And once achieved — what next?
If career becomes the metric, time becomes a shallow race.
“I want to be a professor before I am 30.”
“I want four 4* papers before REF.”
“I want the largest grant in the department.”
Will this encourage the best work from you — or simply the most expedient? If vocation becomes the metric, time becomes an instrument rather than a scoreboard.
The Gatekeeper’s View
When I was Pro Vice Chancellor, ambitious colleagues would ask: “What do I need to do to be a professor?”
Some would compare themselves internally: “I do more than Professor X.” “People my age are chairs at University Y.”
I controlled the gate. My recommendation counted and I had a clear benchmark: If you wanted promotion on research grounds, you needed to have secured UKRI funding. External, competitive and very tough, but a real measure of worth according to your peers. Or, in the case of education, you needed to have visibly influenced national policy.
It was not enough to write many papers. It was not enough to teach heavily. You had to prove yourself against an external standard. That principle was embedded into the career framework we negotiated; a project that I led. When I stepped down, the floodgates opened. Internal comparison replaced external benchmarking. And in my view, the role of professor was devalued. This is the danger of small ponds. If you compare only locally, the metric shrinks. If you must compare — compare against something real and difficult. Be a big fish in a big ocean. But even that can carry risk.
The Moving Target
There will always be someone doing better at that moment in time. Someone with a bigger grant, or a higher h-index. Publishing in a more glamorous journal and with a faster trajectory. I am not immune. Every couple of years a ranking of “world scientists” lands in my inbox. I can say I sit in the top 2% globally. Third or fourth in my institution. And yet when I compare myself with peers I graduated with, the glow fades. Some are ranked higher. Some have achieved more. Some have more citations and more recognition. Are they cleverer than me I ask? I know they are not, they have taken different paths, made different choices and work in different fields and at different institutions. But the comparison still shrinks my sense of achievement. That is how it works.
Psychologists call this social comparison theory[1]: we regulate self-worth by evaluating ourselves relative to others. In moderation it motivates. In excess it corrodes. Comparison can inspire effort. It can also poison satisfaction and for me that is the normal mindset given my rather pessimistic cast and introversion. And a pervading sense that I am not good enough; but that is were my motivation wells from and helps define who I am.
And crucially — all of this consumes time. Time spent ruminating. Time spent recalibrating identity and time spent chasing someone else’s trajectory. And sometimes time spent simply feeling down.
The Real Question
A hard look in the mirror does no harm. It drains hubris and keeps us grounded. But if comparison becomes your compass, you lose direction. When you look back at your career, what do you want to be remembered for?
The brilliant teacher who inspired a generation?
The researcher who shifted a paradigm?
The scholar who wrote with clarity and depth?
The leader who steadied an institution?
Or simply someone who accumulated status markers efficiently?
Legacy is a dangerous word. But it forces a deeper frame. Career is positional while vocation is directional.
Career asks: “Where am I ranked?”
Vocation asks: “What am I building?”
Comparisons do not going away. It is human nature. But you can choose which comparisons govern your time.
Internal comparison shrinks vision.
External comparison stretches it.
Vocational comparison steadies it.
The most stabilising comparison is not horizontal but temporal: Compare yourself to who you were five years ago.
Are you writing more clearly?
Thinking more deeply?
Taking better risks?
Choosing projects more deliberately?
That is growth. When comparison drives time, you chase. When vocation drives time, you shape. And shaping time — not chasing status — is the quieter, harder and ultimately more sustaining path.
[1] Psychologists call this social comparison theory: we regulate self-worth by evaluating ourselves relative to others. In moderation it motivates. In excess it corrodes.
(C) Matthew Bennett, 2026.
