After an academic mentor’s unwanted sexual advances, I stayed silent for decades. Now, I’m speaking out

From ScienceMag:

I expected the news to bring relief. Instead, when I learned that the mentor who had made unwanted sexual advances toward me 25 years ago had died, I found myself sifting through far more complicated feelings. There was sadness—not because his actions were excusable, but because for me he hadn’t always been the person who harmed me. At one time, I had trusted him and believed he was someone who saw potential in me. Even now, I can recognize the small ways he supported my early steps in science. Holding those truths alongside the memory of what he did has never been simple, and his death only brought that complexity into sharper focus.

I had joined his lab as an undergraduate intern, determined to prove I belonged there. Surrounded by tools I didn’t yet know how to use, I felt both thrilled and intimidated. What grounded me was the trust I felt as I was welcomed into that space—trust that I would be given the training I needed and space to grow. I didn’t realize how fragile that sense of trust could be until the night it broke.

On my 21st birthday, my mentor, who was decades my senior, invited me to his home to celebrate. I was encouraged by the gesture, taking it as one more sign that I was on the right path. When he handed me a cocktail and queued up Basic Instinct, I told myself this was informal mentoring, the kind I assumed others experienced but rarely discussed. But midway through the movie, he moved closer and put his hand on my thigh. I froze. People often imagine that these situations trigger immediate resistance, but paralysis is its own instinct, one that leaves you feeling betrayed by your own body.

When he leaned in and tried to climb on top of me, something finally snapped. I ran down the stairs, out the door, and into the night. I barely remember the walk home, only the pounding of my footsteps and frantic rhythm of my heartbeat.

Afterward, I said nothing. I told myself that speaking up might threaten his career, or mine, or both. I worried no one would believe me. I rationalized that perhaps my experience had been a misunderstanding, that it was an isolated moment, that speaking up would cause more trouble than good. But silence doesn’t erase harm. It simply buries it and the weight of keeping it buried becomes its own burden.

That burden intensified weeks later when he introduced me to the intern who would replace me, a young woman with the same eagerness and optimism I had. Seeing her shook something loose in me. I realized my silence, intended to protect myself, also shielded him from accountability. But even then, I told no one.

Years passed. I moved on to other labs, other institutions, other milestones. Outwardly, I was succeeding. But my silence traveled with me. It shaped how I approached mentors, how I navigated power dynamics, and how I hesitated before asking questions that might expose vulnerability. It also influenced choices I didn’t fully recognize at the time, like how I found myself gravitating toward advisers who were women, or men who felt safe—even if the research groups that excited me most were led by others. I told myself it was about fit, or personality, or timing, but underneath was a different calculation. The guilt persisted as well. I saw myself as someone who had failed to act.

In the meantime, as I moved into roles that involved mentoring students, I became acutely aware of the environments we create for trainees. I tried to be intentional about well-being, boundaries, and belonging, recognizing that mentorship is not simply about guiding someone toward a career, but about honoring the responsibility that comes with power. That meant checking in with students before problems arose, being transparent about expectations, celebrating their successes, and regularly inviting feedback. These practices are small, but they are deliberate, and they reflect a commitment to building the kind of scientific community I needed when I was young—one where safety is nurtured and trust is earned.

After all these years, I share my story in the hope that others, whether trainees or senior scientists, will reflect on moments when trust mattered in their own career journey, and on the responsibility we each hold in ensuring that the next generation enters a scientific world where safety is actively protected.

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