Every year, a new cohort of students arrives. They are always roughly the same age, full of expectations, uncertainties, and questions that feel both urgent and timeless. They come, they learn, they leave. And then they are replaced by another group that looks remarkably similar to the previous one.

Meanwhile, we stay.

Year after year, professors grow older. Our reference points change. Our bodies remind us of time passing, even when the academic calendar repeats itself with reassuring regularity. Lectures return, syllabi evolve slightly, exams follow one another, but we are no longer the same people delivering them.

Teaching across generations

This creates a peculiar temporal asymmetry. We teach students who are always at the beginning of their journey, while we move steadily forward in ours. At some point, the distance becomes visible: cultural references shift, expectations change, and questions are framed differently.

And yet, the classroom remains a place of encounter.

Students bring freshness, new ways of seeing problems, new sensitivities, and new concerns. Professors bring memory not only of knowledge but also of mistakes, revisions, and paths that were not obvious at the time. Teaching happens precisely in that space between repetition and change.

Why this matters for postdocs and early-career faculty

For postdocs and young faculty, this asymmetry often becomes apparent for the first time.

At the beginning, the distance between you and your students is small. You may even recognise yourself in them, their doubts, their urgency, their uncertainty about what comes next. But over the years, that mirror slowly fades. One day, you realise that you are no longer part of the cohort that keeps renewing itself.

This moment can feel disorienting, but it is also formative. It marks a transition: from learning with students to guiding them; from proximity to perspective. Understanding this shift early helps postdocs and young faculty embrace their evolving role, rather than resist it.

Recognising the asymmetry of academic time can be reassuring. It reminds you that feeling “out of sync” is not a personal failure; it is a structural feature of academic life.

What stays, what changes

Over time, I have realised that this asymmetry is not a problem to solve, but a condition to embrace. Universities exist because of this overlap between continuity and renewal. If students aged with us, institutions would stagnate. If professors were constantly replaced, memory would disappear.

Instead, academic life is built on this gentle imbalance: those who arrive temporarily, and those who stay long enough to see patterns emerge.

A quiet privilege

There is a quiet privilege in watching generations pass. In recognising familiar questions asked with new voices. In realising that what once felt urgent slowly becomes clearer, and that part of our role is to help others navigate that early uncertainty.

Students remain the same age. Professors do not.
But learning happens precisely because both timelines coexist.