Making a website is way out of my comfort zone—not because I don’t think I can do it. I’m fairly technologically sound. What bugs me is how exposing it feels. If imposter syndrome can wrap its fingers around my throat in a quiet undergraduate classroom, you can imagine how it feels to put forward-facing content into the world. 

Newton’s third law tells us that for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. It’s taken a surprising amount of internal force to get me moving on this project—so much so that I had to stop and ask: What am I pushing against? What resistance am I trying to overcome?

For me, the answer lies in something I’ve come to call my “Insomnia Questions.” 

They’re not good for maintaining a consistent sleep schedule, but they are among my biggest drivers. I think everyone should try to identify their own Insomnia Questions—those nagging, skin-crawling issues that keep you up at night. Politics? Religion? Conspiracy theories? One of them, for me, is Academia—and more specifically, the way it often keeps itself sealed off from the outside world. 

Now, before I get myself in trouble with future professors or employers, let me be clear: Academia has faced tremendous external pressures, many of which are far beyond the control of individual scholars. I don’t deny that. A quick glance at the news should confirm as much. 

But what I do critique is the internal complacency—the way Academia sometimes seems to settle comfortably into the very stereotypes we resent. In undergraduate classrooms, professors’ offices, or coffee shop conversations, I’ve heard ideas, insights, and revelations that most people would love to hear—but that’s where they often stay. 

The same is true at the higher levels. I absolutely loved presenting at the American Academy of Religion’s Annual Meeting last year in San Diego, and I’m excited to return this year in Boston. But even there, in the heart of the scholarly world I admire so deeply, I found myself turning to my partner one night and saying: “This is exactly the stereotype people think of when they think of academics.” 

You know the one: a group of brilliant minds perched on the highest floor of an ivory tower, one leg crossed over the other, maybe a pipe in hand, definitely elbow patches on their jackets. For the record, I usually do cross my legs. I don’t smoke—but I look forward to earning the elbow patches. 

What bothers me isn’t the image. It’s the inaccessibility. 

There’s nothing wrong with brilliant people talking to other brilliant people. I love those conversations. I want to have those conversations. But too often, they remain locked inside journals, conference panels, and inaccessible platforms. We talk to each other but forget the world outside. 

If Academia wants to survive and thrive in the Age of Communication, it has to communicate—not just to peers, but to people who are curious, confused, skeptical, or just plain interested. 

To be clear, I deeply respect the peer-reviewed model. I love reading journal articles, and I hope one day to contribute to that world myself. Writing a good paper is a meaningful act. The model is rigorous, it sharpens ideas, and it gives work a solid foundation. It matters. 

But if it’s the only model we’re willing to engage with, then we’ve built walls too high for most people to climb. And that’s a problem. 

So—this site is my modest step toward opening a window in the tower, albeit from one of the lower floors.