Kaveri Sheth, a postdoctoral researcher in linguistics at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris, has spent years observing this phenomenon. Having recently completed her own Ph.D., Sheth has occupied the unique space between student and early-career researcher, a transition that often involves mentoring the next wave of undergraduates and graduate students. As a scholar who studies how children acquire language—often through the powerful mechanism of imitation—she is acutely aware of how humans learn by observing those around them. This awareness has led her to a sobering conclusion about the state of higher education: academia is currently trapped in a cycle of inherited mentorship, where the traumas of the past are inadvertently visited upon the scholars of the future.
The core of the problem lies in the very structure of the academic world, which is built upon a centuries-old model of apprenticeship. Scholars are not merely trained by institutions; they are trained by individuals. These advisers were, in turn, trained by their own advisers, creating intellectual lineages that can be traced back through decades, or even centuries. While these lines of descent are often celebrated for the way they preserve and evolve scientific and humanistic thought, they also serve as conduits for culture—including its most toxic elements. Along with research methodologies and theoretical frameworks, mentors pass down norms regarding overwork, emotional distance, harsh criticism, and the blurring of professional and personal boundaries.
Sheth notes that many advisers justify their severity as a form of necessary conditioning. The phrases "That’s how I was trained" or "It made me stronger" are frequently used to rationalize behavior that, in any other professional context, might be viewed as counterproductive or even abusive. The underlying implication is that hardship is not a bug in the system of doctoral training, but a vital feature—a crucible that separates the worthy from the weak. However, Sheth argues that this perspective conflates survival with thriving. While many students do survive these environments, they often do so at a tremendous cost to their well-being and their long-term passion for their fields.
During her own time as a graduate student, Sheth experienced the profound weight of this culture. She describes moments of deep-seated doubt that had nothing to do with the quality of her research and everything to do with her sense of self-worth. In an environment where feedback often feels less like a guide for improvement and more like a final judgment on one’s character, it is easy for students to internalize negative signals. This internalization leads to a dangerous assumption: if a student is struggling, it must be because they are inherently inadequate or unworthy of a place in the academy.
What makes this dynamic particularly insidious is the lack of malicious intent. Many advisers do not set out to harm their students. On the contrary, most are dedicated scholars who care about their fields. However, these mentors are often operating within a system that leaves them overwhelmed, undersupported, and buried under impossible workloads. When an adviser is drowning in their own professional pressures, their mentorship often becomes a secondary priority, leading to neglect or outbursts of frustration. Yet, as Sheth points out, the absence of intent does not erase the reality of the impact.
The consequences of this breakdown in mentorship are now being recognized at an institutional level. Universities are increasingly forced to confront a mental health crisis among graduate students, with rates of anxiety, depression, and burnout reaching alarmingly high levels. Research has shown that the quality of the relationship between a student and their adviser is often the single most important factor in determining whether these pressures remain manageable or become crushing. A good mentor can serve as a buffer against the external stresses of academia; a poor mentor can amplify them.
When mentorship becomes unpredictable, overly critical, or neglectful, it creates a paralysis of fear. Students begin to hesitate before asking for help, they delay sharing their work because they dread the response, and they may even avoid meetings altogether. To an outside observer, this might look like laziness or a lack of commitment, but Sheth identifies it as something much more physiological: anxiety consuming the cognitive bandwidth required for high-level research. Brilliant students, when subjected to constant comparison and criticism, often begin to "shrink," losing the confidence necessary to take the intellectual risks that lead to breakthroughs.
Breaking these cycles requires a fundamental shift in how academia approaches the role of the mentor. According to Sheth, the first step is a radical recognition of the existing problem, followed by humility from those in power and courage from those who are still training. For mentors, this involves a difficult process of self-interrogation. They must look back at their own training and identify which feedback styles were truly motivating and which left lasting scars. They must ask themselves if they are equating academic rigor with emotional harshness, and whether they are being transparent about their expectations or simply expecting students to "figure it out" through trial and error.
Sheth found that one of the most transformative changes she could make as a mentor was also one of the simplest: the clear articulation of expectations. In many labs and departments, the "rules" of engagement are unwritten and ambiguous. Sheth began explicitly telling her students how quickly they could expect a response to an email and taking the time to explain the complex norms of authorship and publication. This transparency serves to reduce the ambient anxiety that flourishes in the absence of clear communication. Ambiguity, Sheth notes, is a breeding ground for insecurity.
Another vital shift involves the reframing of feedback. While critical feedback is the lifeblood of research, there is a profound difference between critiquing a piece of work and critiquing the person who produced it. Sheth advocates for actionable comments—such as noting that an argument is underdeveloped—rather than deflating, subjective judgments like "this makes no sense." The former provides a roadmap for revision and growth; the latter invites shame and retreat.
Furthermore, Sheth emphasizes the importance of modeling healthy work-life boundaries. Academia has long rewarded a culture of constant availability, but this "always-on" mentality teaches students that rest is a sign of failure. By avoiding non-urgent emails late at night and explicitly stating that weekend responses are not expected, mentors can signal that they value their students as whole human beings with lives outside the lab. These small signals, Sheth argues, carry more weight than many realize in setting the tone for a sustainable career.
While the power dynamic in graduate school is heavily skewed toward the adviser, Sheth maintains that students are not entirely powerless. Though naming one’s needs in a hierarchical relationship is daunting, it can be transformative. She encourages students to ask clarifying questions early on, such as "What does a successful first year look like to you?" or "How developed should a draft be before I send it to you?" These questions can help define the relationship before ambiguity turns into a source of chronic anxiety.
Additionally, Sheth suggests that students move away from the traditional model of relying on a single "master" adviser. By seeking out multiple mentors—including committee members, senior graduate students, and postdocs—students can build a support network that distributes the intellectual and emotional weight of their training. This "mentorship by committee" reduces the pressure on any single relationship and provides the student with a more diverse range of perspectives and support styles.
Perhaps most importantly, Sheth wants students to understand that struggling is not synonymous with failing. The very nature of doctoral training is designed to stretch a person to their absolute limits. Feeling overwhelmed or uncertain is not evidence of a lack of belonging; it is a natural response to a demanding process.
The prevailing narrative that academia is inherently and necessarily brutal is a seductive one because it absolves individuals and institutions of responsibility. If suffering is viewed as an inevitable rite of passage, then no one can be held accountable for the harm caused along the way. But Sheth rejects this fatalism. Mentorship, she argues, is not an unchangeable force of nature. It is a practice—a set of behaviors and choices—and practices can be changed.
The path forward does not require mentors to be perfect. Instead, it requires a commitment to reflection, transparency, and the prioritization of people over prestige. It requires institutions to change their incentive structures so that good mentorship is rewarded as highly as grant acquisition and publication counts. When Sheth reflects on her own experience as a mentor, she finds that she doesn’t remember her students’ citation counts; she remembers their questions, their excitement, and the immense responsibility she felt to support their growth rather than "toughen them up."
The academic world will always be demanding. The competition for funding and jobs is fierce, and the work of pushing the boundaries of human knowledge is inherently difficult. However, Sheth’s message is clear: this difficulty does not need to be compounded by preventable emotional harm. By being honest about the ways they were hurt and brave enough to break the cycle, the current generation of scholars has the opportunity to build a new culture—one where rigor and respect coexist, and where ambition is tempered by empathy. It is a future where the next generation of researchers can thrive without having to endure the same scars as those who came before them. The cycle of toxic mentorship can, and should, stop here.
