Abandoning my long-held career plans was painful—but I love where I landed

From ScienceMag:

Friday night a few weeks ago, as I was finally slipping into much needed sleep, my phone buzzed. It was another student whose career plans had been disrupted by recent upheavals in the U.S. research landscape. They asked a question I was all too familiar with: How do I get through this uncertainty to get back to my carefully laid plans? Wrestling with that question had defined my career. Twenty years ago, I had a plan. I was living in Louisiana, completing my Ph.D. in geography, and about to begin law school, planning to combine both specialties to protect human health. It took every ounce of me to study for the LSAT and apply to law school while writing my dissertation and teaching, and it had paid off. Then, on 29 August 2005, Hurricane Katrina made landfall.

You may remember the jarring foreground images, but you probably missed the background: people hurrying in and out of the Emergency Operations Center at all hours, working to map the devastation and answer questions such as where is the flooding, how deep is it, and how can we get these people off this roof? I was one of them. My law school had closed for the foreseeable future. So, when the geography department circulated an email requesting geospatial support, I had said yes. I saw it as a temporary detour, a chance to use my skills to help the community.

But weeks became months and law school had yet to reopen. I returned to the lab where I had been a graduate student, now as a research associate. I felt aimless and disoriented. Mapping environmental change after a disaster many people had already forgotten, I felt I had lost my identity. I stayed in this limbo for about a year, waiting to get through the uncertainty so I could get back to my plans.

Then, during routine field mapping, a woman walked over, looked at my map, and showed me it was incomplete. I was missing the underlying human factors, which I could never have known as an outsider. Although I could map vegetation overgrowth, for example, I had missed how that visible process intersected with the community’s varied uses of different areas—as meeting spots, recreation areas, and more. That moment redrew my map, literally and for the rest of my career.

Law school finally reopened, offering me a chance to get back on my original track. But the chance encounter stayed with me. I couldn’t deny my new fascination: studying how people can be environmental sensors and developing systems to harness this knowledge. The idea of abandoning my long-held plans scared me. I grieved for my hard work and sacrifices. I cried in sadness and screamed in frustration and ate too much ice cream. Then, I chose the unknown.

I became a research assistant professor. For several years I pivoted between teaching-focused and research-focused appointments, which made it difficult to build momentum. But I did not look back. I got married and had a baby and strapped that baby to my chest while field mapping. Eventually, I became tenure track. Now, I’m an associate professor, doing work I love.

As an academic, I had always talked about the cool science I’m able to do, never about how I got here. But then, that baby grew into a teenager struggling with perfectionism. Teachers advised me to tell my daughter about my own struggles, and the unexpected turns my life had taken. When I finished, she smiled, hugged me, and said hearing about my messy humanness made her feel more normal. I wondered what would happen if I opened up to my colleagues in science?

I said nothing for another year; I’m uncomfortable admitting my struggles. But then a colleague experienced a devastating, life- and career-changing event. She wanted to talk. So, one bitter cold morning, we tucked ourselves into a corner seat of our favorite bakery and I told her about how my plans had changed, too. I was open about how unmoored I had been—professionally, emotionally, financially, intellectually. I spared no detail. She smiled, hugged me, and said it made her feel more normal.

I now start my classes by saying science is a human endeavor, with the uniquely human parts making us stronger—if we let them. My students in turn often share their stories of plans changing because of illnesses, caregiving, traumas, and more. We smile, hug, and carry on—all feeling more normal.

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