How to Drop Out of Higher Education

I left my doctorate program in music theory last winter, and it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

To give some context, I’d spent years in music school by that point, earning a bachelor’s in music performance and a master’s in music theory. If you don’t know, “music theory” is a phrase that tends to send chills down the spine of most music students. Why did I get my master’s in it? Honestly, part of it was that I liked how much people hated it. To me, it was like a misunderstood artist—if you took the time to look deeper, it was actually pretty interesting. Music theory is about as academic as a music degree gets: it’s focused on teaching undergrads, and it involves a lot of research, writing, and publication. I wasn’t too excited about the teaching part, but I loved the research: listening to hours of music, digging through scores, and putting my own analyses into print.

Deciding to go for a doctorate was also one of the hardest things I’ve done. By then, I was in my last semester of music school, deep in my master’s thesis, and going out to bars whenever I could. Like a lot of grad students, I was burned out, losing sight of the end goal, and feeling a bit lost. To be honest, I was also struggling with my mental health quite a bit. I was overwhelmed with school, feeling pressure from family and friends about what decision to make, and overall, just depressed. People tend to look at you strangely when you tell them you already turned down two full rides from other schools.

I ended up accepting a position at The University of Texas at Austin with a few weeks left of school. Even though this decision was made, it was hard to feel like I was fully in it. However, thanks to a kind professor who saw a lot in me, I was willing to give it a shot.

I will never forget the day I told my current faculty members that I’d accepted the position, because the topic of the theory seminar that day scared the s*** out of me. Upon hearing my good news, an undergrad asked, “So what is the timeline and process of getting a job as a music theory professor?”—and my professor’s response kind of made me rethink my decision entirely.

In 2024, there were eight music theory positions available nationwide. All eight of these positions required a full PhD, and only six of those positions were full-time; the other two were adjunct faculty positions.

At that moment, all I could think about was how I was never going to get a job.

UT Austin had a good record of job placement, so I tried to shake these feelings as much as I could and decided to trust the process. I uprooted my life, said goodbye to friends and family, and moved to Austin last August. The first couple of weeks of class were smooth sailing—I was in a new environment, learning new things with new professors. It kind of felt like the fresh start I had been wanting.

But after a couple of months, things changed. I didn’t feel like I fit in among my peers. I didn’t enjoy teaching, most of the readings felt like academic mumbo jumbo, and nothing excited me. The reality of my future became clearer—and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I’d known all this in theory, but it didn’t hit until I was actually there.

I know this is intense, but it’s the best way to explain it: being a music theory professor started to feel like I was going to be raising pigs for slaughter. I kept thinking back to the day in class when I found out how hard it would be for me to get a job. My future was going to be pulling students along for anywhere from four to eleven years in school, just to leave them jobless. If the job market was tough now, I couldn’t imagine what arts professor employment rates would look like in the future.

I also felt like my work didn’t matter, and that it only existed inside a weird academic vacuum. I would be teaching music theory students, who would then go on to teach music theory students, and that cycle would repeat itself endlessly.

With both of those factors in mind, I had to get out of there—but getting out felt impossible.

I was experiencing the sunk cost fallacy. In short, the sunk cost fallacy is when people continue investing time, money, or effort into something because they’ve already invested so much, even if it no longer makes sense to do so.

This is where I was. I had spent seven and a half years in school. I had loans; my parents had loans—so how could I stop? Too much time and money had already gone into my academic career. There was also this pressure to make use of my degree, since I already had a bachelor’s and a master’s, so if I did something else, would that be a waste?

There came a point where I had to focus on what I wanted in my life, and what actually made me happy. Through talk therapy (this isn’t a sales pitch, necessarily, but our app would provide the same benefit), I was able to truly figure out what I was missing and how I wanted to impact others through my work.

School gave me purpose, and I think what scared me the most was leaving school and not knowing what my purpose would be. It took a lot of work, but I had to be okay with leaving and not knowing what my purpose would be—really being able to live in the uncertainty of it all.

I wanted to share this because I know I’m not the only one who’s ever felt trapped by the weight of their past decisions or overwhelmed by the idea of starting over. If you’re reading this and find yourself in a similar place—stuck because you’ve already poured so much time, money, or energy into a path that no longer feels right—I hope this can serve as some reassurance.

It’s okay to change your mind. It’s okay to walk away, even if it feels like you’re letting people down or throwing away years of effort. Those years still matter. They shaped you, taught you things, and gave you experiences you’ll carry with you no matter what you do next. Choosing to leave doesn’t erase your hard work; it just means you’re brave enough to choose a different kind of hardship.