In a previous life (or at least what feels like one), I longed to be an academic. The idea was simple: if my waking thoughts were consumed by questions about consciousness and fundamental reality, why not pursue them in a formal capacity? What could be more efficient—more rational—than earning a living by following an intellectual compulsion?
Of course, this was a naïve misunderstanding of what academia actually is. I wasn’t wrong in thinking that there was money to be made in academia. I was, however, very wrong about how one was supposed to make it.
The academy has never been in the business of pure intellectual inquiry. It is an institution, and like all institutions, it operates on permissions. Some ideas are sanctioned, some are suppressed, and others simply do not exist—at least not within the sanctioned discourse. I learned this the hard way. There were things one did not talk about. Consciousness as something other than a computational byproduct of the brain? No. UFOs and non-human intelligence? Absolutely not. These were not topics to be engaged with in any serious way—not even in private discussions with colleagues. The social mechanisms of academia—the ridicule reflex, the professional safeguards, the tacit understandings of what constituted “serious work”—ensured that such ideas never made it past the realm of passing curiosity, much less formal research.
And so, I left. But not to intellectual exile—far from it.
A Different Kind of Fulfillment
I poured my time and energy into something far more demanding, visceral, and immediate than academic debates: working as a Behavioural Specialist with autistic young people in the English residential childcare system. These were individuals who presented extremely challenging behaviour, and my role was not some abstract philosophical exercise—it was real, tangible, and had life-changing stakes.
In many ways, it was more meaningful than anything academia had offered me. The work was difficult, often morally complex—the operational and business elements of the sector raised their own questions—but the intrinsic rewards were undeniable.
And those questions I once obsessed over? They didn’t vanish.
They found new ground.
Theories of consciousness, agency, perception, and behavior—once academic thought experiments—became practical tools in my work. I saw firsthand how different minds interface with reality, how cognition could manifest in unexpected ways, and how perception itself seemed to obey its own internal physics.
I applied my intellectual obsessions in unexpected ways.
But I never stopped pondering.
The Litmus Test: Deploying the Clinton-Kimmel Playbook
For a long time, I had assumed that if I ever wanted to re-engage with academia, it would be on their terms. That meant sticking to institutional dogma, avoiding politically inconvenient conclusions, and ensuring that my work stayed within the acceptable radius of permitted discourse.
But what if I didn’t?
I decided to submit a preprint to PhilSci Archive (PSA)—the University of Pittsburgh’s respected repository for philosophy of science. Notably, PSA is curated. It’s not a free-for-all. Submissions are screened to ensure they fall within the accepted philosophy of science discourse. In other words, PSA represents a controlled entry point into the academic ecosystem—a space where ideas can exist before they’re fully rubber-stamped, but only if they’ve already been cleared for discussion.
So, I designed my paper as a test case.
I intentionally structured it to include the newly sanctioned terminology—the same “UAP”, “non-human intelligence (NHI)”, and “anomalous aerospace phenomena” rhetoric that government officials and media figures had been using for years. I played the game. I used the language that had been carefully focus-grouped into legitimacy.
I wrote:
Notice the careful construction. Not “extraterrestrial intelligence.” Not “aliens.” Those terms would have set off the reflexive academic alarms. Instead, I used the officially authorized nomenclature—the kind that had been de-risked by its use in congressional hearings and mainstream news interviews.“This paper explores the quantum-mechanical underpinnings of consciousness and the potential for non-human intelligence (NHI) technology to exploit these phenomena through advanced psionic interaction models.”
For good measure, I wrapped it all in a rigorous theoretical framework, ensuring that it aligned with existing discussions in quantum cognition, panpsychism, and information theory. If they rejected it, they’d have to do so on academic grounds alone, rather than due to any overt violation of the established linguistic codes of acceptability.
Then, I hit Submit.
The Result: Academia’s Permission Structure in Action
To my genuine amusement, PSA accepted it without hesitation.
Quantum Foundations of Consciousness: A Framework for Psionic Interaction and Non-Human Intelligence Integration now sits in their repository—among papers by Dan Dennett and other mainstream figures in philosophy of science.
This should have been a victory. Instead, it felt like confirmation of something far less triumphant:
Ten years ago, my paper would have been dismissed as pseudoscience. Not because the arguments were weaker, but because the topic itself had not yet been approved for discussion. Now, after a decade of institutional recalibration, I am suddenly permitted to explore the very same ideas—because they have been sanitized and certified for academic consumption.Academia had not become more open. It had simply moved the goalposts.
This is not intellectual freedom. This is a delayed form of conformity.
Final Thoughts: Conformity, with a New Coat of Paint
The academy does not challenge paradigms. It absorbs them, repackages them, and permits their discussion only once they have been made institutionally safe. The fact that I am allowed back into the discourse does not mean I was right all along. It simply means that the system has adjusted its boundaries to accommodate what has now become necessary to discuss.
Had I submitted my work ten years ago, I would have been dismissed. Today, my work is acceptable—not because the academy has become brave, but because it has become pragmatic.
True intellectual freedom would mean pursuing ideas before they are deemed permissible. Until that day arrives, academia will remain what it has always been:
Not a home for the brave, but a refuge for the newly authorized.