The Study I Imagined (and the One That Happened)

“There’s a big difference between writing about doing research and actually doing it.” — every grad student, ever

So… Now I Actually Have to Do This

When I submitted my research proposal, I felt like a magician. Every section was perfectly structured, the timeline impressively ambitious, and my theoretical framework… poetic, even. I was convinced I had the next great methodological masterpiece.

Then I entered the field.

And my masterpiece started asking uncomfortable questions like, “Have you actually thought this through?”

It hit me one morning, somewhere between my fifth cup of coffee and a color-coded spreadsheet: 

Oh no. I’m actually going to have to do this now.

Not just think about it, or write elegantly about it — but live it, day after unpredictable day.

Suddenly, the tidy sentences of my proposal were no match for the messy, chaotic, occasionally caffeinated thing that is real research.

That Time I Sounded So Sure (In My Proposal)

Let’s be honest — research proposals are a bit like Pinterest boards. They’re aspirational. You pin a vision of your future study: color-coordinated, perfectly framed, beautifully coherent. Then you start doing it, and realize fieldwork has a mind of its own.

Participants reschedule. Equipment malfunctions. Theories that looked elegant on paper behave like stubborn cats in practice — they show up when they want, and only under specific conditions.

And that’s okay. The proposal isn’t meant to be a flawless prophecy. It’s a map you draw before the terrain rearranges itself.

So, About That Research Plan…

Moving from proposal to practice is less about control and more about choreography — learning how to improvise without falling off the stage.

Reflexivity helps here. When the elegant framework you designed starts wobbling, your reflexive journal becomes your backstage diary. It’s where you can say, “Okay, that didn’t go as planned,” without an ethics committee watching.

It’s also where you spot new directions. Sometimes the unplanned moment — the awkward silence, the unexpected comment, the question you didn’t mean to ask — reveals what your proposal could never have predicted.

Real research thrives in the spaces where your plan politely collapses.

Hello Methodology, Meet Reality

When I designed my methodology, I imagined a seamless process — clean data, cooperative participants, and perfectly coded themes. Then reality showed up, uninvited, holding coffee and chaos.

Methodology in practice isn’t just about following a plan — it’s about making peace with the fact that you are the method. Your energy, your presence, your ability to listen when things get messy — that’s what makes the data meaningful.

The field doesn’t care about your perfect research design; it cares about how you show up when things go sideways.

So… I Re-read My Proposal

When I reread my proposal now, it feels like a time capsule — a record of who I was before I started. It’s not embarrassing (well, maybe a little); it’s evidence of growth.

Every moment of confusion, every detour, every “Wait, that’s not what I expected” has become part of the research story.

The proposal was a promise — tidy, optimistic, full of potential. The process was a practice — messy, humbling, and far more interesting.

And if I were to write it again?

I’d still begin with imagination. But I’d leave a few more blank spaces — for what the world, and the work, might teach me along the way.

The gap between proposal and practice isn’t failure; it’s where learning happens.

Notebook Prompt

Open your original proposal. Highlight one sentence that now makes you laugh — the one that assumed everything would go according to plan.

What have you learned since you wrote it? And how would you rewrite that sentence now?

The Researcher’s Notebook invites you to slow down and notice your own process.
Part field notes, part reflection, each entry offers a glimpse into the in-between spaces of research — where questions grow, meanings shift, and learning unfolds.