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| Photo by Jadon Johnson on Unsplash |
I had never wondered what happened to a project after it was graded.
Once it was submitted, defended, and approved, I assumed its journey had ended. Like many students, I saw research as something you completed to fulfil an academic requirement. I never really stopped to think about whether those pages could continue to matter after leaving the classroom.
Attending the SWOLE Learning Series, organised by the SWOLE Initiative in partnership with the Policy Innovation Centre (PIC) Institute, challenged that assumption.
The session, Getting Published: Navigating Peer Review and Getting Your Work Accepted, promised practical guidance on publishing academic work. I left with a completely different question occupying my mind: Who is research really for?
Throughout the discussion, one idea continued to surface in different ways: research only begins to fulfil its purpose when it is shared. Until then, it remains knowledge with unrealised potential.
It made me reflect on how many of us approach research.
For many students and early-career researchers, publication is often treated as another academic requirement. We publish to graduate, strengthen our CVs, satisfy institutional expectations, or qualify for promotion. These are valid goals, and they reflect the realities of academic life.
But Dr. Temitope Olalude, a Lecturer in the Department of Economics at the University of Ibadan, introduced a distinction I had never seriously considered before: the difference between publishing to achieve and publishing to contribute.
Achievement ends with the researcher.
Contribution begins with everyone else.
If research uncovers new evidence about maternal health, youth unemployment, climate resilience or education, but never reaches policymakers, practitioners or communities, has it truly accomplished what it set out to do? If important findings remain locked inside a thesis that no one reads, how can they influence decisions or improve lives?
Those questions reminded me that the value of research is not measured only by the effort invested in producing it, but also by its ability to reach the people who can learn from it and act on it.
Another point that stayed with me was that meaningful publication begins long before a manuscript is submitted.
It begins with curiosity.
A strong research idea does not emerge fully formed. It develops through reading widely, understanding existing scholarship, identifying genuine knowledge gaps, and asking questions that matter. I appreciated Dr. Olalude's emphasis that researchers should first immerse themselves in the literature before turning to artificial intelligence.
In a time when AI can generate ideas and summaries within seconds, it is tempting to mistake speed for understanding. But technology cannot replace the discipline of reading, reflecting, and thinking critically. AI can support research, but it should never replace the intellectual responsibility of the researcher.
Another discussion that broadened my perspective centred on choosing where research is published.
Before attending the session, I understood that predatory journals existed, but I had not fully appreciated the risks they pose to early-career researchers. I was reminded that credibility cannot be rushed. A journal that promises publication within a matter of days may be offering convenience rather than quality.
It made me realise that publishing is not simply about getting accepted somewhere. It is about contributing to a body of knowledge that others can trust, build upon and use with confidence.
Perhaps the part of the discussion that challenged me most was the conversation around peer review.
Like many young researchers, I had always viewed reviewers' comments as obstacles standing between an author and publication. The discussion encouraged me to see them differently.
Every thoughtful comment is an opportunity to strengthen the work. Constructive criticism is not a sign that research has failed; it is evidence that good scholarship grows through dialogue, revision, and a willingness to improve. The goal is not simply to defend our ideas but to refine them.
The same lesson applies to rejection. Dr. Olalude acknowledged that rejection is difficult, whether it comes from an editor before peer review or after months of revisions. Yet she also reminded participants that rejection is not the opposite of success. More often, it is part of the journey towards producing stronger research.
That perspective felt reassuring.
Instead of seeing rejection as the end of the road, I began to see it as an invitation to revisit the work, strengthen it and continue moving forward.
As I reflected on everything I had learnt, I realised the conversation was never just about getting published. It was about understanding the responsibility that comes with producing knowledge.
As a Development Communication student, I often think about whose stories are heard and whose experiences shape public conversations. This session made me realise that research carries a similar responsibility. It is not enough to generate evidence if that evidence never reaches the people capable of using it to shape policy, improve practice or inspire change.
By the time the session ended, I realised that the problem was never that our universities produce too little research. The problem is that too much of that research never leaves the shelf.
A shelf is an important place for preserving knowledge.
But it should never be where knowledge stops.
At Shades of Us, we believe ideas should move beyond classrooms, conferences, and library shelves. They should spark conversations, inform policies, and contribute to solutions that improve lives. Encouraging more young researchers, especially women, to publish their work is not simply about building academic careers; it is about ensuring that valuable knowledge finds its way into the world where it can make the greatest difference.
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