As an academic scientist in the U.S., I’m learning to live with uncertainty

From ScienceMag:

I reread the email I had drafted to my department chair one last time. Then I read it again, and finally clicked “send.” The message itself was short: I wanted to pursue tenure 3 years ahead of the usual timeline. A changing political and funding landscape had made the future of my health equity research feel increasingly vulnerable, and I hoped tenure would help protect the work I had spent years building. I had agonized over the decision for months. What if my record wasn’t strong enough yet, and I was shooting myself in the foot by applying early? But supportive mentors and continued news of funding shake-ups convinced me to go ahead, and my chair responded quickly and positively to my email. Yet I still found myself searching for reassurance that I had made the right decision.

I got plenty of encouragement, but no two conversations sounded exactly alike. Some advised me to focus on the strength of my record. Others reminded me how unpredictable academia had become. I valued all the input and support, but I still felt unsettled. Eventually, I realized I wasn’t actually searching for more information; I was searching for certainty. As I assembled my dossier, suggested external letter writers, and watched my file move from one level of review to the next, I kept thinking perhaps the next step would finally bring that certainty I so desired. Instead, it simply brought another wait.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. Much of my life has unfolded without guarantees. My family came to the United States seeking a future none of us could fully predict. I entered academia without a road map for navigating it. And science itself is full of uncertainty. Every grant proposal rests on ideas that may or may not be supported by evidence. Every new study leads to surprises and unknown obstacles. Every student who joins my lab represents an investment in a future neither of us can fully predict. Waiting had never provided the guarantees I wanted. It had only delayed decisions that ultimately had to be made without them.

Yet somehow I had convinced myself that as I became more senior, my own career should be different. Before making an important decision, I believed I should first know how everything would turn out. But readiness, I began to understand, was rarely something I felt before taking the next step. More often, it was something I discovered by taking it.

When I eventually learned I had been awarded tenure, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. For a moment, it felt like I had finally reached solid ground. But new questions soon occupied my mind. How would I sustain a research program over the coming decades? How could I best support my students? What would the future of science look like? How could my research continue to serve the community during a period of profound change? The uncertainties had not disappeared; they had simply changed. And now I no longer expected them to disappear.

Uncertainty should never be romanticized. Early-career scientists continue to shoulder disproportionate risk, and many are understandably questioning whether academia offers a sustainable future. But over the past year, I have come to believe uncertainty itself is not the greatest threat. The greater danger is allowing uncertainty to convince us to stop building, mentoring, investing in ambitious ideas, supporting vulnerable communities, or imagining a future worth creating until conditions improve.

When I think back to that email to my department chair, I no longer remember only the fear I felt before pressing “send.” I also remember the excitement. I still don’t know exactly what the future holds for science, my field, or my own career. But I no longer believe I need to know before moving forward. I spent so much energy believing certainty would arrive before action. Instead, I learned that sometimes action comes first.

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