The dream of archaeology starts with imagination. Ancient landscapes. Forgotten cities. Secrets buried just beneath the soil. I chased that dream with everything I had, leaving behind a steady career as a writer so I could finally uncover the past for myself. But dreams have a way of changing when you get close enough to touch them and mine unraveled far more quietly than I expected.
But after ten years mostly confined to an office, twiddling my thumbs and desperately trying to find something exciting in the career I’d spent thousands of pounds on and years of my life chasing, I knew something was wrong. Deep down, I knew it was time to admit defeat.
When I handed in my resignation for what would be my final archaeology job, I expected regret to hit me like a wave. It didn’t. What I felt instead was a strange mixture of sadness and relief. Sadness that I would no longer spend my days writing about Romans or Iron Age communities, weaving their lives into weekly reports. But as I sat alone in my flat afterwards, it was the relief that took over. The truth was simple: the career I imagined had never matched the reality.
What most archaeologists don’t tell you is that archaeology isn’t glamorous. It isn’t treasure hunts or life‑changing discoveries. It’s poor pay, long hours, being treated as easily replaceable. It’s years of scraping by and justifying the struggle because you’re passionate. You either do something you love and earn very little, or something you hate and earn comfortably. For years, I chose the former. I took the punch to the chin every time I was overlooked in favour of a male colleague, every time I was expected to work longer and harder just to be considered adequate.
I once pictured myself spending days in dusty libraries, pouring over ancient texts, or examining bones in a quiet lab. But then I met PhD students who spoke openly about the years of poverty, burnout, and mental decline they endured to finish their research. That was enough for me to choose a different path. I went into commercial archaeology instead.
Within a year, the disappointment set in. I was clocking into a nine‑to‑five, writing endless reports about artefacts found 140 metres from a development site, staring at financial spreadsheets instead of history. I felt disconnected from everything that had drawn me to archaeology in the first place. Was I even doing archaeology anymore? The only part I still enjoyed was the research, and that small spark kept me going for another six years.
Eventually, I laid down my figurative trowel for good. The constant comments about my relationship status, the patronising tone, the way certain men felt entitled to speak to me, it all piled up until I couldn’t pretend anymore. For months, I wondered if it was just the particular environment I was in, not the whole industry. But when I wrote my final report, I knew the truth. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care whether the Romans had settled there or whether an Iron Age hillfort stood nearby. I just wanted to leave.
So I did. I moved into a different career. And strangely, that’s when everything changed.
By stepping awaywhile still keeping one foot in the wider heritage world, I rediscovered the love I thought I’d lost. I started reading archaeology books again. I went to exhibitions. I gave lectures on prehistory whenever I could. I reconnected with old archaeology friends, chatting excitedly about new discoveries and new theories. I felt like that 22 archaeology student again, full of energy, curiosity, and wonder.
It was exactly the renewal I didn’t know I needed. Sometimes you don’t lose passion. Sometimes it just gets buried, waiting for you to find it again.
Archaeoblog 