What does it actually mean to know something? Not just to repeat facts or hold a degree, but to internalize knowledge so deeply that it shapes how you think and act? For a long time, I thought knowledge was something you collected—citations, arguments, publications, credentials. I imagined it like a trophy wall, each new insight another achievement. I was motivated by the hope that one day I’d be called “Doctor,” and that title would signify mastery.
But as my doctoral journey unfolded—especially after finishing my literature review—that definition started to feel hollow. I began to see knowledge not as an object you acquire, but as a relationship you form. Knowledge isn’t just something you have; it’s something you practice. It’s shaped by who you learn from, how you reflect, and the context in which ideas emerge. Now that I’m entering the coding phase of my dissertation—working through interviews, writing memos, identifying themes—I feel less like a scholar proving a point and more like a researcher engaged in meaningful interpretation. I’m not standing above the material; I’m immersed in it.
Jacob Adriaensz Backer’s painting, A Scholar at His Desk, feels deeply resonant. The figure is surrounded by the materials of scholarship—papers, inkwells, a quill—but nothing about the scene is rushed. His hands are clasped, his eyes lowered in concentration. He isn’t in the act of writing or reading. He’s pausing, reflecting. That moment of stillness says more about the life of a scholar than any dramatic display of insight. It reminds me that real learning doesn’t happen in sudden flashes—it happens through long attention, through patience, through presence.
Three years into my doctoral work, that presence feels familiar. As I begin to code the interviews I’ve collected, I’m struck by how rich and human the data is. Every transcript carries the weight of real people—educators, leaders, advocates—doing difficult, emotionally charged work to support students in fragile situations. These aren’t just “data points”; they’re stories. Grounded theory offers a method to analyze them, yes—but also to honor them. It asks me to look closely and remain open to what might emerge.
And this brings me back to a deeper question that underlies my entire project: What does it mean to know something? In philosophy, this question lives under the field of epistemology. The ancient Greeks gave us distinctions like episteme (theoretical knowledge), techne (practical skill), and phronesis (practical wisdom). Thinkers like Descartes sought certainty through doubt, stripping knowledge down to its foundations. In many traditional Ph.D. programs—especially in philosophy—the goal is to build abstract systems, to isolate truth in its purest form. The focus is on coherence, logical rigor, timeless principles.
But my degree is in education—specifically, an Ed.D., the Doctor of Education. While it shares the title “Doctor” with the Ph.D., it follows a different path. The Ed.D. is traditionally practice-focused, emphasizing real-world application, leadership, and solving problems of practice within educational systems. Yet I often find that my work—particularly in its use of constructivist grounded theory—leans toward the theoretical, interpretive, and philosophical, aligning in many ways with the intentions of a Ph.D.
At times, I’ve wondered whether my study, with its open-ended questions and focus on meaning-making, might be more at home in a Ph.D. program. My research explores ethics, equity, and the nature of learning itself—concerns often associated with philosophical inquiry. Still, I remain drawn to the Ed.D. because my goal is not to theorize in abstraction but to create knowledge that lives in the world. If the Ph.D. builds frameworks for understanding, the Ed.D. asks how those frameworks behave under the pressure of lived reality.
Educational knowledge, in this context, is never divorced from ethics. It asks how we teach, who we teach, and who gets left behind. It lives in classrooms, in hallways, in the unspoken social codes between teachers and students. The theories I generate will not live in marble halls; they will live in underfunded districts, in programs designed to keep kids from dropping out.
This is why educational research is always entangled with ethics. We’re not just exploring what is true—we’re asking what is just, what is helpful, what is humane. Paulo Freire, in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, emphasized that knowledge is not a static thing deposited into passive students. It’s dialogic—it emerges from interaction, from shared struggle, from mutual engagement. He wrote, “Knowledge emerges only through invention and re-invention, through the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry human beings pursue in the world, with the world, and with each other.” That quote resonates deeply with my current work. I’m not looking for certainty. I’m looking for insight that transforms both the knower and the known.
Constructivist grounded theory supports this approach. As Kathy Charmaz explains, this method acknowledges that all knowledge is shaped by perspective. Researchers are not detached observers; we’re participants. Our histories, identities, and values shape how we see and what we notice. This doesn’t weaken our findings—it deepens them. As Charmaz puts it, “Grounded theory fosters seeing beyond the obvious and opens up a path to understanding complex relationships and meanings.”
Returning to Backer’s scholar, I see a portrait not of accomplishment, but of engagement. His robe, lined in red, pulses with quiet vitality. The tools around him are worn but ready. His learning is not cold or distant; it’s intimate. Simone Weil once wrote, “Attention, taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer.” That’s how I’ve come to see my coding work. Each memo I write, each quote I highlight, is an act of attention—an effort to honor someone’s story and understand the world they inhabit. It’s not just scholarship. It’s care.
Of course, there are days when this work feels overwhelming. I sit in silence, reading and re-reading transcripts, wondering whether the codes I’m developing will ever add up to anything meaningful. But I’ve come to trust that meaning doesn’t always come quickly. Sometimes it only arrives after returning, again and again, to the same lines, the same voices. The insight grows slowly, through repetition, through reflection, through the willingness to sit with discomfort.
And in that slowness, I’ve found something like a philosophy. Not the kind that builds grand systems, but the kind that stays close to the ground. The kind that recognizes the dignity of each person’s story. Scholars and monastics have long shared a common image: the figure at the desk, immersed in silence, surrounded by texts. That image has become real for me. In the solitude of analysis, I’ve learned how deeply personal research can be.
Thomas Merton once said, “We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another.” The same is true for research. Meaning emerges not through mastery, but through relationship. Through the act of listening. Through long attention.
So I return to my desk. The work is long. The answers are slow. But I now understand something I didn’t at the beginning: to know is not to dominate. It’s to dwell. It’s to remain open. It’s to keep asking, listening, wondering. That is the long patience of scholarship.
And I’m thankful to be here.