An Unnamed Methodology

Yesterday morning, I attended another doctoral Confirmation Event.

The topic was heavy, although the student did not go into any specific details. What struck me as being different from any other confirmation presentation I have attended was that they spent most of their presentation talking about their process during the first year of their doctorate, repeatedly drawing upon the work of a single theorist.

As I listened, I found myself asking, “But what is your methodology?”

Even by the end of the presentation, it remained unclear. The student never explicitly named a methodology. However, when responding to a question about ethics, they explained that they, together with their supervisors, had decided that a low-risk ethics application would be sufficient because they were not recruiting participants.

Instead, they would be writing about their own experiences and reflections.

Hang on.

Writing about their own experiences and reflections.

Sound familiar?

Yeah, I thought so too.

It left me wondering whether they had not recognised that their work was autoethnographic, or whether they had intentionally chosen not to name it at this point in their doctoral journey.

If the latter, I found myself wondering why.

Was it because autoethnography still attracts scepticism in some academic circles? Was it a strategic decision? Or was it simply a matter of timing?

Even before my doctorate began, I had already encountered questions about the legitimacy of autoethnography. I found myself wondering whether I was witnessing someone navigating those same waters—or whether I was simply seeing something that wasn’t there.

Perhaps that is beside the point.

Whether the student’s work was autoethnographic is, perhaps, a question I will never be able to answer. What the presentation revealed, however, was how quickly I have become aware that naming a methodology is not always a neutral act. Sometimes, the words we choose to use—or choose not to use—carry meaning of their own.