Surviving the Methodology Chapter: A Guide for the Emotionally Shattered

Ah, the Methodology chapter: that noble, soul-crushing rite of passage every thesis writer must endure. If you’re currently drafting yours, congratulations! You’re somewhere between hopeful optimism and complete emotional devastation — and that’s perfectly normal.

At untypicable, we don’t believe in sugar-coating academic trauma. Writing your methodology isn’t a logical step-by-step process; it’s a full-blown emotional rollercoaster featuring rage, bargaining, existential dread, and, eventually, a strange sense of peace. Think less “serene intellectual” and more “contestant on The Great British Bake Off discovering their showstopper has collapsed.”

Welcome to your survival guide: a slightly unhinged but entirely accurate journey through the Five Emotional Stages of Writing Your Methodology Chapter.

Strap in — things are about to get messy.

Stage One: Blissful Ignorance (a.k.a. “How Hard Can It Be?”)

At first, you are luminous with confidence.
“Methods? Easy. I’ll just say what I did. Should take, what, an afternoon?”
You make a to-do list with bullet points like:

• “Write about interviews.”
• “Mention sampling.”
• “Nod vaguely at ethics.”

You smugly open a new document. Maybe you even choose a nice font, feeling productive and stylish.
Twenty minutes later, you have written exactly one line:
“This study employed a qualitative approach.”

You sit back, impressed with yourself. Your bibliography sits untouched. You are still whole, still unbroken.

Enjoy this stage. It is fleeting.

Survival Tip:
Frame your blank Word document as a ‘creative opportunity’ rather than ‘the yawning void’.

Stage Two: Full-Blown Academic Rage

The realisation hits.
You’re not just expected to describe what you did — you must justify it like you’re on trial at The Hague. Every choice must be defended against invisible but vicious reviewers in your mind.

You discover terms like:

• “ontological stance” (which sounds like a forbidden yoga position)
• “epistemological underpinnings” (which you will never spell right first time)
• “methodological rigour” (which sounds great until you realise you have none).

You slam your desk. You threaten to quit academia. You Google “can you just vibe your way through a PhD?”
(Spoiler: No.)

At one point, you seriously consider using ‘vibes-based data collection’ and seeing if anyone notices.

Survival Tip:
Swearing loudly at academic articles is a proven method for restoring emotional balance. So is eating biscuits directly out of the packet.

Stage Three: Desperate Bargaining with the Gods of Methodology

You enter a strange phase where you think if you just cite enough people, you can escape responsibility for knowing what you’re talking about.
“As Foucault, Bourdieu, Guba, Lincoln, and possibly Beyoncé have suggested…”

You start to string together sentences like:

• “Drawing upon a critical constructivist lens informed by post-structuralist perspectives, this study utilised a mixed methods ethnographic case study within an interpretivist paradigm.”

You don’t know what it means. No one does.
But it sounds profound, and at this point, that’s what matters.

Negotiation tactics include:

• Promising to never question your supervisor’s feedback again if they just accept your dodgy justification.
• Whispering apologies to every philosopher you’re misrepresenting.

Survival Tip:
If in doubt, stick in the phrase “as appropriate for the research aims” and just keep moving.

Stage Four: Existential Dread and Other Fun New Hobbies

By now, you’ve read so many methodology textbooks that you’ve started ranking them for “vibe” rather than content.
You question everything:

• Am I real?
• Is knowledge real?
• Is this entire thesis just a social construct I can refuse to participate in?

You lose several hours googling “ontology vs epistemology explained simply” and come away more confused than before.
You start to wonder if the entire field of research is an elaborate prank designed to break your spirit.

You now speak exclusively in weary sighs and metaphors.
“My data collection method is… a raft made of tears, adrift on the sea of academic uncertainty.”

Survival Tip:
Accept that at least 80% of other researchers are also winging it. They just hide it behind longer sentences.

Stage Five: Delusional Calm and Wildly Overdue Acceptance

Something shifts.
You hit the point where you no longer care if your epistemological stance is coherent or if you’ve cited the same person five times. You just need it done.

You string your arguments together like fairy lights: loosely, haphazardly, but technically functional.

You submit a draft. Your supervisor sends back comments.
You read them with the detached air of someone floating above their own body.

You are now what is known in technical academic circles as “methodologically feral.”

And honestly?
You’re magnificent.

Survival Tip:
Once you submit it, immediately bribe yourself with something nice — a nap, a takeaway, or a small statue of yourself made entirely from Hobnobs.

The Methodology Survival Kit

If you’re embarking on this journey, make sure you’re equipped with:

• A stash of sugary snacks (preferably hidden from yourself to make them feel earned)
• At least three tabs open on “what is epistemology” at any given time
• A sturdy desk you can weep onto without causing damage
• An academic friend you can text “HELP” in all caps without explanation
• The unshakeable belief that nobody, nobody, actually fully understands phenomenology

Final Thoughts

Writing the methodology chapter is a uniquely absurd experience — a blend of faux-serious philosophising, genuine existential crisis, and the slow, plodding triumph of getting words on a page.

You won’t come out the other side unchanged.
But you will come out the other side.

Probably.

Good luck, brave scholar. May your reflexivity be critical, your sampling purposeful, and your metaphors appropriately tortured.

Now go forth. And for the love of biscuits, back up your document.