Being a Black scientist can be lonely. Juneteenth helped me find myself

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From ScienceMag:

It was 19 June 2024, and I was 1 year into my Ph.D. Three years earlier, President Joe Biden had designated Juneteenth National Independence Day, recognizing the freedom of enslaved African Americans—a declaration that brought joy, relief, and a sense of pride to my community. But Juneteenth, though a federal holiday, does not receive the same recognition as other holidays, including at many academic institutions. On this day meant to celebrate my freedom to exist fully as a citizen, my department had scheduled a crucial laboratory demonstration. I looked around for someone, anyone, to express my grievances to, but I realized I only had myself. I was the only African American in my department. I had to carry this burden on my own.

It’s been a familiar feeling throughout my scientific training. I was one of the few women and Black Americans in my classes at the primarily white institution where I pursued my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in engineering. I was self-conscious; I am well aware of the stereotypes about people who look like me. I felt I needed to stand out and be the brightest, but also blend in and not draw attention to myself. In class I would only participate when I was confident I knew the correct answer; otherwise I sat in silence and refused to make eye contact. On the rare occasions when I spoke up and got an answer wrong, I perseverated on what others may have thought about me. I got good grades and felt I had convinced my teachers and peers I was good enough. But in the back of my mind, I questioned my own worth.

Then, I started my Ph.D. in a diverse department full of international students. I was still the only Black student, but I thought the feeling of being “other” would fade away. Except it did not. I still felt like an outsider who did not deserve to be in the program. And I still found myself trying to control others’ narratives of me—which, in this new environment, meant I was even quieter than before. I don’t think many of my peers even knew my name or what research team I was part of.

This isolation pushed me to look inward and gave me a chance to reflect. And I ultimately saw ways to allay my insecurities and stop worrying about others’ perceptions.

Growing up I had always been involved in community service, and I love talking about topics I am knowledgeable about. It boosts my confidence and reminds me why I fell in love with science in the first place: because it provides a level of truth we all so desperately need. During this time of frustration and fear, I thought reincorporating these activities into my life might be exactly what I needed. I began to participate in outreach opportunities through my department, visiting local high schools, hosting demonstrations, and speaking to the community about the work we do and how we got here. Seeing students’ interest in my knowledge and experience reminded me of what I have accomplished. I felt I was finding my place.

Then came that Juneteenth lab demonstration. I quietly attended, tamping down my feelings. But after this holiday that is so meaningful to me was effectively ignored, I realized I needed to reflect on the source of my insecurities. Instead of focusing on things outside my control, I chose to shift my effort into expanding my knowledge, speaking up when I want, and asking for help when I need it without worrying I will be seen as inferior, incompetent, or troublesome.

With this new mindset, I have noticed an increase in my productivity and passion. I am less drained at the end of the day, and my mind is freer now that I have taken away this imaginary power I gave to other people. Each day I move forward with a Bible passage in mind: “Whatever you do, do it well.”

When Juneteenth came around this year and was again largely overlooked by my academic community, I did not dwell on the hurt. I decided to plan the day on my own terms, to meet my own needs—without worrying about what others would think. I did some work in the morning to support my research team, and then spent the rest of the day with friends. Juneteenth represents historical freedom, and I’ve finally found my freedom to fully exist as myself.

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University of California faculty push back against Big Brother cybersecurity mandate

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Faculty and administrators at the University of California (UC) have settled into a bitter stalemate in a dispute over privacy and academic freedom. For more than a year, faculty members have voiced loud opposition to a cybersecurity mandate they say hands administrators and federal agencies access to their research and communications. Last month, they learned the UC president’s office would not issue any further statements on the issue, a decision faculty say underscores their frustration over limited dialogue about the mandate, which began going into effect in May.

The long-running dispute centers on Trellix, a cybersecurity software UC now requires on all university-owned computers used by faculty and even personal computers accessing certain online university resources. UC officials say it is essential for defending against a surge in digital threats. But faculty warn that Trellix is highly intrusive and effectively gives administrators the ability to view, or even remotely manipulate, nearly all activity on their devices. Trellix’s participation in the federal Joint Cyber Defense Collaborative, which aims for “rapid information sharing” between private companies and federal agencies, is stoking the concerns. Faculty fear the software could expose sensitive research, regulated health data, and high-value innovations to a presidential administration already hostile to higher education.

“Putting this kind of software on our machines completely obliterates our ability to speak and think freely in our academic communities,” says Lilly Irani, a communication scholar of technology at UC San Diego (UCSD). “It feels very much like Big Brother is sitting on the shoulder of every worker at the University of California,” adds Mia McIver, executive director of the American Association of University Professors, which sent a letter to UC officials today expressing “deep concern” about the policy.

Trellix is part of a class of cybersecurity tools that shield against ransomware and other attacks by constantly scanning a computer for any sign of intrusion. According to information posted online by the UC Office of the President (UCOP), Trellix can collect file names and browser history as needed and can remotely remove malicious files. 

In February 2024, then–UC President Michael Drake announced all employee computers connected to university networks would be required to install Trellix by May 2025. Campuses failing to comply would face penalties of up to $500,000 per security incident and a 15% increase in cybersecurity insurance costs. Unionized employees, including postdocs and graduate students, were exempt because adding such terms to their contracts would have required separate negotiations.

A spokesperson for UC, which in 2020 paid $1.14 million to a ransomware gang that penetrated computers at UC San Francisco, told Science the university established the mandate in response to “numerous requirements under federal and state law” and “to remain eligible for cybersecurity insurance at a reasonable cost.” University officials add that UC is not alone, claiming the software is in place at more than 600 colleges and universities—though the spokesperson and Trellix both declined to provide a source for those numbers.

UC faculty note that Trellix, formerly known as FireEye, was itself hacked by Russian intelligence in the 2020 SolarWinds cyberattack that compromised more than 250 federal agencies. Because it has full administrative control over every computer it monitors through a mechanism called “root access,” Trellix could become a single point of failure if breached, faculty argue. Adopting Trellix could make UC systems “more rather than less vulnerable to threats,” the UC Berkeley Division of the Academic Senate wrote in a May letter to the UC president.

Trellix’s root access privileges could also allow administrators or the government to view anything on faculty computers at any time, without a warrant, says Kevork Abazajian, a cosmologist at UC Irvine (UCI). In an email to Science, a Trellix spokesperson wrote that the company “will not disclose any UC or other customer data unless required to do so under law or a valid government order. In such an event, we would first give the customer notice of the demand and an opportunity to object, unless legally prohibited from doing so.”

UC says it would not allow such intrusions in the first place. “The university’s long-standing Electronic Communication Policy … strictly prohibits administrators from accessing user content without due process, such as a warrant,” says Van Williams, UC’s vice president for information technology services.

But many faculty members aren’t convinced by those assurances. “Once someone has access for a legitimate purpose, there is also access for illegitimate purposes,” Abazajian says. Given federal efforts to cut university funding, Irani also fears it might be hard for UC administrators to stand up to government officials seeking information on faculty computers. “It seems like a recipe for UCOP to end up in a situation where it’s going to get blackmailed by grant cancellations to give up information about what we’re teaching and researching.”

The objections have sparked a flurry of letters, petitions, and resolutions. Most recently, in June, UC’s Academic Senate—which shares decision-making power with the administration on matters affecting teaching, research, and academic policy—passed a resolution with an 82% supermajority demanding an immediate halt to Trellix. That same month, more than 1000 faculty signed a petition opposing the rollout, followed by another 1 August letter calling for its suspension. But on 15 September, Academic Senate Chair Ahmet Palazoglu relayed that UCOP would not respond to the August letter or issue future UC-wide messages regarding Trellix.

Despite the protests, all 10 UC campuses have rolled out the software, with varying policies. UCSD has said Trellix is required on both university-owned and personal laptops that access “trusted resources,” such as restricted research databases. UCI requires Trellix even for access to routine resources such as Canvas, the learning platform professors use to communicate with students, and employee timesheets. In response, some UCI faculty say they have resorted to teaching from “burner laptops” or virtual machines to avoid putting Trellix on computers where they store their data.

Organizers of the push to end the mandate say their fight isn’t over. “We certainly intend to keep the pressure up,” says Claudio Fogu, director of UC Santa Barbara’s Italian program.  A UC spokesperson told Science that administrators continue to be committed to an open dialogue with faculty. “This is a complex matter that requires nuanced, continuous conversation,” they wrote by email.

The stalemate has shaken faculty confidence in the Academic Senate’s power and has pushed some toward unionization. The UC system is home to a union that represents nearly 50,000 graduate students, postdocs, and academic researchers—but no tenured and tenure-track professors. “For many years, I thought we didn’t need a union,” says Walter Leal, a professor of molecular and cellular biology at UC Davis. “Now, I believe the only way out is if we’re effectively unionized, which is a very dramatic change.”

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As an immigrant scientist in the U.S., travel bans and visa uncertainty are taking a toll

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From ScienceMag:

On a warm June evening, I sat alone in my house, sobbing as I watched a choppy, pixelated livestream of my mother’s funeral. Thousands of kilometers away in Venezuela, my family grieved together while I remained in the United States, unable to travel because of immigration restrictions. I tried to tell my 17-month-old son I was sad, but not because of him. I was heartbroken and overwhelmed with guilt for not being there. I kept asking myself whether choosing a career in science, so far from home, had been the right decision. I felt a little like the species I study as a postdoc: the spotted lanternfly, an invasive insect that threatens U.S. ecosystems. I, too, was unwelcome and out of place.

As an undergraduate in Venezuela, I became captivated by the biodiversity of the tropics and began to research fruit bats. A cold email to a U.S. scientist working in the field opened the door for me to pursue a Ph.D. in her lab. I worried about not fitting in and was sad to leave home. Still, I felt thrilled and fortunate to move abroad. Visiting my family back home would never be a problem, or so I assumed. And after completing my Ph.D., I could return to Venezuela, teach at a local university, and share what I had learned abroad.

During my first year as a Ph.D. student, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. My first instinct was to move back home, but my mother—wise and selfless—assured me I should stay and keep pursuing my dream. Her illness made me more determined to finish so the sacrifice would feel worthwhile. I visited her three times during my program, and we shared long video calls. I followed her doctors’ visits, her hair loss, her fading strength. She supported me amid my research struggles and celebrated my progress, professionally and personally. She met my partner virtually. She watched my Ph.D. graduation online, and my wedding 2 months later. Despite my deep sadness, I found joy in my work and felt deeply grateful for the life I was building in the U.S.

Meanwhile my plan to return home had begun to dissolve, as Venezuela’s political and economic collapse made academic careers nearly impossible there. After my marriage I submitted a green card application so I could continue my career in the U.S. In the meantime, I transitioned to a postdoctoral position studying invasive species, working under an Optional Practical Training extension—a program that allows student visa holders in STEM to work in the U.S. for up to 2 years after finishing their degree.

Still, I wanted to visit Venezuela. My husband and I had welcomed our first son, and my biggest dream was to take him to meet my mother; her cancer had metastasized to her bones, leaving her too weak to travel. But until I had my green card, I could not leave the U.S. Under my student visa extension, I would not be allowed to re-enter the country. My husband and I spent countless hours navigating the immigration system, reading confusing guidelines, filling out dozens of forms, triple checking instructions. I lived in a constant state of waiting, hoping my green card would be approved.

In June, new regulations and a travel ban triggered warnings from my university’s international office, warning that my visa could be revoked at any moment and further discouraging international travel. I was advised to speak with immigration attorneys. For the first time, I began to question whether I truly belonged in the U.S. I even became self-conscious about my accent and appearance.

The clock was ticking. My mother’s health was deteriorating rapidly. Each morning, I checked my green card status. I was desperate to see her one more time. But the most consistent advice remained: Do not leave. A few weeks later, my mother passed away. I never got to say goodbye, and she never met my son.

I find comfort in believing my mother was proud that the curious girl she raised had followed her dream of becoming a scientist and turned that curiosity into a career. And although some may see me, and others like me, as invasive pests, I choose to focus on a different aspect of my study species: Even in foreign lands, it’s possible to survive, adapt, and thrive.

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How my stutter is teaching me humility—in science and beyond

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From ScienceMag:

“My name is …” The words stick in my throat, obstinately refusing to yield. The silence stretches on as I shake a stranger’s hand. Consciously relaxing my jaw, I breathe in and manage to release my name in a breathy tone, “Pppeeeettterr.” Typical responses range from awkward pauses to the joking “Are you sure?” or, in the worst case, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” As a child, I would imagine I just made myself look stupid. Now, I see it differently. My stutter is an invitation to humility.

I have been a stutterer since I was about 7 years old. It had no obvious cause; even the most current literature on the topic will admit the pathology of stuttering is “enigmatic.” When I was young, I avoided speaking. I learned speech therapy techniques, methods of breathing and forming my words, but I was comfortable in my own mind and didn’t really need to share my thoughts. When I couldn’t avoid speaking, my go-to strategy was to replace words with synonyms when I felt a block coming. Then I fell in love with science, where precision mattered not only in benchwork, but also in terminology. So, while in graduate school, I restarted speech therapy, worked on new strategies, and began to gain confidence in my own voice. I thought I had my stutter under control.

One postdoc and many job interviews later, I became an assistant professor, facing the standard challenges of starting a research group—and my speech was regressing. Using speech strategies is taxing: To avoid stammering on tricky words I must be aware of how I breathe, form words on my lips, and move my mouth. But between grants, papers, project management, paperwork, other principal investigator stresses, and being a father of four (soon to be five) young children, I had too little intellectual space left to devote to preparing to speak. In addition, the transition from the few planned and prepared speaking opportunities I had as a postdoc to endless obligatory communication overwhelmed my coping strategies. I have been so preoccupied with what I am saying that I cannot focus on how I say it.

The regression was gradual, and I didn’t notice it until one day, a few months ago, I was teaching my thermodynamics class and found myself unable to say “equilibrium.” Later that day I struggled to tell a colleague the name of my newborn daughter. The students seemed to shrug off my difficulty, and my colleague changed the subject after a brief awkward moment. Still, a feeling of humiliation remained, clashing with my self-image as a capable scientist. I began to wonder how anyone could respect me or my work if I was unable to communicate clearly.

A few weeks later, I found myself nervously ruminating on a commitment I had made to introduce a speaker at an upcoming conference. I began dwelling on worst-case scenarios in which I humiliated myself in front of my peers. This anxiety over 30 seconds of public speaking months in the future was not healthy. I began to wonder whether I had subconsciously begun to avoid speaking roles again, as in my childhood. I thought back to a conference opportunity I had passed up, telling myself I was too busy to apply. Maybe I just didn’t want to give a talk.

Eventually I came to a realization: I will probably never be free of my stutter. I will always face the burden of coaxing my body to do what comes naturally and effortlessly for most. The thought was both depressing and exhausting. At the same time, I began to wonder whether I can gain some good from this burden. If radiation can be used to cure cancer, why can’t my stutter make me better, too?

I have decided to reject feelings of humiliation and instead embrace humility; to accept my vulnerabilities and my limitations and welcome the new perspectives they provide. When my voice sticks and refuses to cooperate, I can’t force it. And I can’t control how others perceive me. Instead, I can choose to relax, breathe, and coax each syllable, gently yet diligently. This mindset can help my work as well. I can employ similar strategies when I receive grant rejections or belittling paper reviews. I am not in control, but I can, with proper effort, participate in the conversation.

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When women researchers publish, media attention doesn’t always follow

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From ScienceMag:

Media coverage can give scientists a powerful career boost, raising their visibility and signaling that their work matters beyond the lab. But a new study finds that benefit goes disproportionately to men, potentially widening existing gender gaps and shaping public perceptions of who counts as a researcher. In an analysis of 1.2 million news stories about scholarly research, men-led papers were found to receive more attention overall and were heavily overrepresented in the top 5% of most covered studies. Women-led papers, on the other hand, clustered at the bottom.

“News media sit at a crucial gateway,” says senior author Chaoqun Ni of the University of Wisconsin–Madison. “If coverage systematically tilts toward some groups over others, that doesn’t just affect individual careers—it can reinforce stereotypes about who ‘looks like’ a scientist.”

Ni and colleagues searched for English-language news coverage of more than 1 million papers with U.S.-based corresponding authors published between 2018 and 2022 in highly media-cited journals; broadcast coverage, such as TV and radio, and blogs were excluded. Overall, only about one in eight of the papers—which spanned STEM, social sciences, and the humanities—received any media attention at all, the authors reported in a paper published in Science Communication in August. Of the 129,000 studies that did garner coverage, men-led papers were on average highlighted in more outlets than women-led ones. To classify gender, the authors used a computational tool based on names—a widely accepted but imperfect method, particularly for non-Western names.

A paradox also emerged across fields in terms of whether a study was covered at all. In male-dominated areas such as economics and business, women-led work was slightly more likely to be covered than expected. But in fields nearer gender parity—public health and social sciences—women-led papers were less likely to make the news. The authors compared media coverage with the real gender balance in each field—for example, if only one-quarter of the papers in a field were led by women, that was the baseline for judging under- or overrepresentation.

“Women often ‘outperform’ in fields where they are least represented, whether in citations or grants,” says Cassidy Sugimoto, an information scientist at the Georgia Institute of Technology, who was not involved in the new study. What stood out to her was the scale and nature of the skew. Women-led papers were more likely to be featured in local outlets than in national, international, or science-specialty media. They appeared more often in liberal-leaning outlets than conservative ones. And coverage of their work carried a more negative tone. “When women’s research is politicized or framed negatively, it risks eroding the perceived credibility of women scientists,” Sugimoto says.

The study doesn’t investigate possible mechanisms underlying the results. But multiple steps along the publicity pipeline could be at play, as well as broader structural imbalances. News coverage often reflects what universities and journals promote through press releases to the media, notes Ivan Oransky, co-founder of Retraction Watch. “If men are more likely to request press releases, that could tilt the pool.” High-profile journals—which often publish papers that warrant news coverage, and are more likely to have the resources to promote those papers to the media—also tend to have disproportionately male corresponding authors, says Priyanka Runwal, an associate editor at Chemical & Engineering News.

A first media mention can also open the gate for a researcher, says Yong-Yeol Ahn, a data science researcher at the University of Virginia who was not involved in the study. Who reporters can reach for interviews—and whether authors agree to talk—can determine whether an initial mention snowballs into high-visibility coverage. “Small biases can compound as attention spreads,” he says.

Even when reporters work hard to talk to women researchers, some hesitate to agree, Runwal says. One study found women were more likely than men to cite harassment, appearance-based comments, or lack of confidence as barriers to interviews. This echoes Oransky’s concerns. “Are men more able to answer journalist calls? Are they getting snappier quotes that journalists love?”

Scientists can help shape coverage, Runwal says. “If it’s a field I regularly cover, I often ask researchers to keep me in the loop about upcoming publications,” she says. For women especially, who may hesitate to speak on sensitive topics, she suggests opening a dialogue with reporters about concerns such as backlash or harassment. “You can always ask questions, set boundaries, and if you’re not convinced, decline to go on the record.”

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Welcome to your Ph.D.! Now choose a lab

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From ScienceMag:

Experimental Error logo
Experimental Error is a column about the quirky, comical, and sometimes bizarre world of scientific training and careers, written by scientist and comedian Adam Ruben. Barmaleeva/Shutterstock, adapted by C. Aycock/Science

It’s been a long time, but if I remember correctly, my grad school acceptance letters mostly looked the same: “Congratulations! You’ve been accepted into [school]! Let us know by [date]!” And I’m pretty sure the rejection letters followed a similar pattern: “Sorry! We had many qualified applicants, but you weren’t among them. We’re wrong about this, and you don’t want to study at our stupid school anyway. Honestly, we found you too handsome.”

But one letter was different. It didn’t congratulate me on being accepted into a department—it congratulated me on being accepted into a particular lab. At any other institution, the order was school and department first, followed by a period of figuring out which lab to join. At this school, the interest I had expressed in one particular lab in my application had already been translated into a choice.

This, at first, was thrilling. I could imagine myself joining the school in the fall and beginning my doctoral research immediately. I had visited the lab during prospective grad student weekend, so I knew exactly where I’d be working, what I’d be working on, and who I’d be working with. Heck, I even remember encountering a peristaltic pump in the lab and recognizing it as the same model I used in my undergraduate lab.

Yet, as intriguing as it felt, that sense of predetermination was also unsettling. I’d chosen that lab based on a colorful website and a few publications. I met the professor and his grad students for an hour. What the heck did I know? What if I was wrong?

Because I knew enough to know I didn’t know enough, the acceptance into that lab pushed the school to the bottom of my list. I was off to my first postcollege adventure, and I wanted the great unknown, not the same beige peristaltic pump.

So, what did I exchange certainty for? A system of rotations: Every 2 months for my first year of grad school, I’d switch to a different lab, four labs total. I’d work on a relatively dinky research project in each—the kind that can reach some kind of conclusion in 2 months—and then choose the next one. And for that whole first year, I’d seek an answer to the question that would have been preanswered for me at a different school: which lab to join.

Other graduate programs, I’ve heard, offer a chance to experience labs in a kind of “open house” format for a few weeks before choosing. The principle is similar. You already chose this particular program for various reasons: geography, prestige, stipend, logistics, proximity to your parents, lack of proximity to your parents, the prospective grad student you hooked up with at Recruitment Weekend—and enough research into the professors to have some confidence, or at least naïve optimism, that one will be a good fit. But figuring out who that person is takes more than a brief chat in which you’re both probably trying to impress each other. And even if your school asks you to commit to a specific principal investigator (PI) before joining a program, there are steps you can take to increase your chances of picking a lab that’s a good fit.

Here are some of the strategies I found helpful when selecting my thesis lab.

I asked older grad students which professors were nice.

That may sound irrelevant, or at least like a quality that real scientists should find irrelevant—but, trust me, it matters. You do your best work when you feel like you’re respected.

I asked professors for recommendations.

Everyone seemed to say that one particular professor emeritus had strong opinions about all the other labs in the department and wasn’t afraid to share them. (Apparently this is a superpower that some professors emeriti have.) So I scheduled some time with him, sat down, and asked him every question I could think of, taboo or not—which labs seemed like fun, which were desperate for funding, which hadn’t published in a high-impact journal in years, which had a recent scandal that wasn’t widely known. His advice made me consider labs I hadn’t thought about—and dissuaded me from pursuing some labs that looked good on paper but now sounded less appealing.

I listened to department seminars.

We had regular events where professors would present a bit about the research in their lab to the department (with beer). Despite the liquid bribery, it could have been tempting to skip these to study, work, or nap. But I’m glad I made a point of going—those seminars not only showed us how interesting everyone’s research could be, they also showed us a lot about the personality of the presenting professor. In fact, the series was so popular that, after I left, the department turned it into a semesterlong, first-year course: one professor per week, boasting about their research to recruit grad students. It sounds like it was a helpful, though beerless, way to get to know the labs—and the PIs.

I asked new grad students about their current rotations.

Other first-year students had recommendations for, or against, rotating in their labs, for any number of reasons. Although my first rotation lab had been lined up without my input, I relied heavily on all of this advice for rotations two, three, and four. At first, this information was hard to come by, because students generally erred on the side of politeness, but once the floodgates were opened, my classmates became a great source of candid information.

The matchmaking period also gave me a chance to learn something I hadn’t known when I applied to grad schools: what the heck I even wanted. Other than a summer internship, I didn’t really understand what it was like to work in a lab on my own research project as a full-time job. I didn’t know what to prioritize, what I needed to succeed, and what I could let go. It was only by working briefly in labs I didn’t love that I learned more about what I did.

It’s been years since I thought about the school that offered me a position in a particular lab along with my acceptance letter into the program. With some memory searching and creative Googling, I figured out the name of the PI I would have worked for if I had joined that lab. It turns out Wikipedia has some choice words to say about him, including a citation from a student newspaper that extensively described the “toxic” and “hostile” environment in his lab. Had I joined his lab, the peristaltic pump would have been the least of my worries.

That makes me feel a bit vindicated; my fear of commitment helped me dodge a bullet. Or, maybe I should give my younger self a little more credit. I knew that I wanted—and needed—to dig deeper than an intriguing publication record and a 1-hour interview before committing many years of my life to a lab.

There’s no single system for selecting your graduate lab that guarantees a positive experience. The best you can do is to seek as much information as possible, be honest with yourself, and then cross your fingers. And if it turns out you made the wrong decision, it’s not impossible to switch labs. Honestly, you were too handsome for your current lab anyway.

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I didn’t think I needed mentorship training—but it reshaped my approach

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From ScienceMag:

My undergraduate mentee needed advice after yet another failed experiment. Sitting across from me, she looked exhausted—frustrated even. I heard myself say something like, “This is part of research. You just have to push through.” But even as the words left my mouth, I felt uneasy. She nodded silently and shifted her posture. Afterward, she began showing up less frequently. Eventually, she stopped coming altogether. For a long time, I tried to explain it away: Undergrads sometimes get busy with coursework, lose interest, or change direction. But deep down, I wondered what I could have done differently.

I became a mentor during the second year of my Ph.D. after my adviser encouraged me. I was excited about the opportunity to pass on what I was learning and help someone else discover the joy of research. But I didn’t get much guidance on how to do it. I learned only by doing.

There were moments I felt proud of. One mentee started out quiet and unsure, barely speaking above a whisper during lab meetings. Over time, she grew into one of the most independent and confident young researchers I have worked with. Before graduating she told me, “You are the reason I stuck with this.” That moment stayed with me.

But so did the other one—the silence, the absences, the slow fade-out. And the question I could not shake: Had I failed her?

It wasn’t until the final year of my Ph.D. that I came across a flyer for a summer mentorship training workshop. I was surprised such a thing even existed. A class for mentoring? I was skeptical. What exactly does one learn in a mentorship class?

By that point I had mentored several undergrads, and for the most part I thought I had done a decent job: I showed up, listened, and offered guidance. But I kept thinking about the student who had quietly walked away. I decided to give it a try.

The program, called Entering Mentoring and modeled after a book of the same name, brought together graduate students and postdocs in a weekly discussion circle. For the first time, I had the space to explore the invisible labor and emotional complexity of mentoring.

One session asked us to reflect on our own mentors—what helped, what hurt, and how those experiences shaped our own approaches. I thought back to a micromanaging mentor who demanded incessant updates, often raised their voice when experiments went wrong, and rarely acknowledged that students had lives outside the lab.

That experience, I realized, had influenced my mentoring style. In striving not to perpetuate the same pattern, I tried to be overly patient. At other times, however, my approach echoed the tough mentoring I had received: I defaulted to “This is how science works” without acknowledging how hard it could be, or how disheartening repeated setbacks could feel.

I also began to understand what might have been missing in my relationship with the student who had drifted away. I realized I had never explicitly invited her to share her goals or worries, and so I may have failed to notice when she needed more than technical direction. I could have been more attentive to her unspoken struggles and more willing to acknowledge the weight of frustration, rather than brushing past it. I don’t think I failed her entirely—she still gained time at the bench and exposure to research—but I do think I missed a chance to make her feel seen in the moments when it mattered most.

After the workshop, I drafted a mentoring philosophy and began changing how I interact with students. For example, instead of diving straight into experimental details during our weekly check-ins, I now start by asking how they are doing and what their biggest challenges—scientific or otherwise—were that week. That small shift has opened the door to more honest conversations, and I have noticed students are now quicker to ask for help.

As I approach the end of my Ph.D. and prepare to move on to a postdoc, I carry the lesson with me that good mentors are not born—they are built through reflection, training, and community. That lesson has led me to wonder why so many mentors are never trained in mentorship. I wish I had taken that workshop 3 years earlier. But I am grateful I took it at all.

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‘Completely shattered.’ Changes to NSF’s graduate student fellowship spur outcry

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From ScienceMag:

After months of anticipation, the U.S. National Science Foundation (NSF) today released its instructions for the next round of applicants to its Graduate Research Fellowship Program (GRFP). To the dismay of many, the prestigious program, which funds more than a thousand promising STEM graduate students each year, will now exclude a key group of students, as second-year Ph.D. students are no longer eligible. The students who are still able to apply—undergraduates, Bachelor’s degree holders, those in joint Bachelor’s-Master’s programs, and first year Ph.D. students—aren’t in the clear either, as some must decide whether to throw their hats in the ring with an unusually narrow timeframe to apply.

“I’m very upset and angry,” says Eric Foreman, a second year Ph.D. student in the biomedical sciences at Augusta University. He and others note that for the past decade, NSF has only allowed students to apply once during graduate school, and many are given advice to wait until their second year when their applications will be stronger.

Second-year students who had put in significant work on their applications prior to the solicitation release now feel abandoned. “I had already completed several drafts of my personal statement and research proposal,” says University of Chicago molecular engineering Ph.D. student Ben Broekhuis. After receiving an honorable mention when he applied as an undergraduate, he opted to sit out the application process the first year of his Ph.D. after being advised to wait. “Now, seeing from the solicitation that I’ve been cut out of my opportunity to apply, I’m completely shattered.”

There are no publicly available data on what proportion of GRFP applicants, who typically number more than 13,000 per year, are second-year Ph.D. students. But Susan Brennan, a former GRFP director who now works at Stony Brook University, says in her experience the bulk of applications come from people at that stage. “It’s completely unconscionable that NSF is pulling the rug out from under these students.” She adds that for students coming into graduate school from less well-resourced universities, having an extra year to get publications and other research experiences under the belt can be particularly important.

An NSF spokesperson told Science the changes are meant to “restore the program’s original emphasis on supporting students at the start of their research careers.”

Some researchers told Science they aren’t opposed to that shift in emphasis, but NSF should have given students a 1-year warning before changing the eligibility requirements. “We have a large cohort of incredibly competitive students … who now can’t apply” to one of the nation’s premier graduate fellowship programs, says Cynthia Reinhart-King, the chair of the department of bioengineering at Rice University who has served as a reviewer for the GRFP program and has mentored several fellowship winners. As one second-year Ph.D. student told Science on the condition of anonymity, “It feels like we are being punished for following the conventional advice.”

The change in policy now also puts unexpected pressure on first-year Ph.D. students, many of whom were planning to wait until next year to submit their applications but now may feel compelled to apply, assuming the requirements won’t change next year and this will be their last shot. “It forces many students to propose projects based on limited experience in a particular research domain, having only been in graduate school for a few months,” says Ryan Sochol, an associate professor of mechanical engineering at the University of Maryland. Some may not have even joined a lab yet, as some Ph.D. programs require students to complete lab rotations during their first year.

This year’s prospective applicants don’t have much time to make up their minds. Normally the program solicitation comes out in July, giving applicants at least 90 days to prepare their materials—a policy that’s clearly stated on NSF’s website. But this year’s applicants will have just over 6 weeks—and that’s only after earlier this week the agency extended the posted deadlines by about 2 weeks, from late October to early November, with no announcement or explanation. “This is a pretty tight timeline now for the students to prepare an application,” Reinhart-King says. (When asked by Science whether NSF’s 90-day policy has changed, a spokesperson wrote “I’ll look into that and get back to you.”)

The program faced criticism in the spring when this year’s cohort of winners skewed in favor of the computer sciences—a field that’s a stated priority of President Donald Trump’s administration. The instructions released today say “fellowships will be supported in all NSF-eligible research areas.” But it adds that the agency “will continue to emphasize high priority research areas in alignment with Administration priorities.”

Jason Williams, assistant director of the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory DNA Learning Center, says he worries that the program has “become liable to outside influences that are not necessarily really aligned with the mission of NSF and the mission of the country to create the best STEM talent.” He and others submitted an open letter to NSF in 2020 expressing concern when, during the first Trump administration, the agency first began stating that artificial intelligence, quantum information science, and computationally intensive research would be considered high-priority research areas. Williams had a meeting scheduled today with colleagues, including Brennan, to decide how to proceed after they posted an open letter yesterday about the delay in guidelines, which quickly garnered hundreds of comments.

They may find a partner in Daniel Bolnick, an evolutionary biology professor at the University of Connecticut who spoke out on the social media platform Bluesky after seeing that NSF was revoking eligibility for second-year Ph.D. students without any prior warning. “This is so deeply unfair that it warrants a formal protest from the scientific community.”

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How I confronted my growing cynicism about academia—and rekindled my sense of purpose

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Earlier this year, a graduate student from another lab knocked on my door in tears. She had previously taken a course I taught, but her visit surprised me. She said she no longer thought graduate school was right for her. She felt she couldn’t do anything right and didn’t fit in. She worked constantly, yet didn’t feel productive. A cynical voice inside my head whispered, “That’s just how academia is.” Yet, as she spoke, I realized how much her story echoed my own. The hope and optimism I’d come into academia with had started to fade for me, too. But over the coming weeks, as I helped this bright young scholar rediscover hope in her journey, I rediscovered my own.

Like her, I was the first in my family to go to college, and my first encounter with academia was inspiring. When I was a senior in high school, I enrolled in a human anatomy course at a local community college. One Saturday I wandered the campus, hoping to catch a glimpse of a lecture hall—something I’d only seen in movies, where they seemed full of promise and possibility. Those 2 years at community college opened my eyes to the possibility of a career in research and teaching—something I hadn’t known existed—where I could create new knowledge and help others achieve their dreams.

When I finally became a professor, I still believed deeply in higher education’s transformative power. On my first day as a professor, I even had my partner snap a photo of me with a whiteboard noting: “First day of college.” I was beaming. When a senior colleague warned my optimism wouldn’t last, I thought they were just bitter.

Now, 4 years into my dream job, I understand how cynicism can creep in. I feel it with every wave of job cuts, every attack on science, and every student laden with debt and uncertainty. It was easy to feel discouraged while serving on the university’s finance committee during several rounds of layoffs. My view of college as a beacon of hope had started to feel more like a mirage. At some point I stopped taking photos of my first day of the academic year.

When that student came into my office, she reminded me of myself at that age, bearing the weight of being first generation and the resulting insecurities and impossible expectations. The negative gossip, disillusionment, and other toxic elements of academia I know well as a faculty member were starting to drag her down. Her situation shook me out of my complacency, and I resolved to do what I could to help.

Over several weeks she and I dug into the issues and considered her options. I told her that during the third year of my Ph.D., I had considered dropping out. Instead, I managed to renew my sense of purpose by aligning my work better with my original goals, changing my research topic, and getting more involved in mentoring undergraduates. In the end, she decided to try a similar approach, changing up her dissertation committee and her project focus and conducting research in collaboration with communities she cares about. We don’t meet on a regular basis anymore, but she seems to be thriving.

This experience helped me see that maintaining hope doesn’t mean ignoring hardships or naïvely expecting things to work out. It still takes effort.

Now that I am facing my own doubts again, I am creating more opportunities to connect with graduate students, including new office hours. When I meet with them one on one, I try to help them focus on the things they can control, such as building healthy work habits and supporting one another, and tune out the things they can’t, such as shifting institutional priorities or the politics of funding decisions.

Taking notice of the hopeful signs around me also helps sustain me. I felt hope again this semester when I stepped into the lecture room for our first class activity and saw that students were already asking questions and helping one another. I might have overlooked that before. But this time it helped remind me why I’ve stayed in academia.

Do you have an interesting career story? Send it to SciCareerEditor@aaas.org. Read the general guidelines here.

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How to engage your students and teach effectively

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From ScienceMag:

For the many graduate students and postdocs who find themselves in front of a classroom, the transition from student to teacher can be abrupt—and the new responsibilities overwhelming. That was the case for Endy Lopes Kailer the first time she taught college undergrads when she was beginning her master’s degree program. Despite previous experience teaching English and tutoring high school students, she felt “very nervous and intimidated,” she recalls. “I wanted to connect with my students and show [them from] day one that they could rely on me and that I truly cared about their learning experience.”

She committed to preparing, down to writing some jokes to break the ice. “Only two people laughed,” she says. “That crushed my confidence, but also taught me that it takes time for students to open up and connect.”

During the following 6 years, Kailer—now a graduate research assistant in agronomy and soil science at Kansas State University—honed her skills to effectively engage and teach her students. “I have been able to replace the anxiety and insecurity for excitement when I step into a new classroom,” she says. Soon enough, students started to show their appreciation in positive feedback about her teaching style.

To help readers on their own teaching journeys, Science Careers asked Kailer and other researchers with recognized teaching experience to share their insights and approaches. The responses have been edited for clarity and brevity.

Q: How did you get into teaching, and what was your first experience like? Was it difficult to transition from student to teacher?

Jack-William Barotta, Ph.D. candidate in fluid mechanics at Brown University: Teaching has always been a passion of mine. I started out as a tutor during my freshman year of college and later volunteered for office hours and exam reviews. I quickly realized the importance of supporting students’ unique approaches, and that it’s OK to be human and make mistakes. The first time I taught a dedicated course, I didn’t get through as much of the content as I had planned because we ended up diving into a beneficial discussion about a related concept. This experience taught me the value of overpreparing for lectures while remaining flexible about the exact content covered.

Evangelia Gazaki, associate professor in mathematics at the University of Virginia: I started as a teaching assistant in my second year of grad school, and in my third year I started teaching my own calculus class for nonscience majors. I was definitely excited going in, and also definitely nervous. The challenges were plenty, partly because I was an international student with no experience with the U.S. college system and an accent. But what I was most unprepared for was the level of the students in my class. A very large portion of them thought they were terrible at math, and I had to work hard to build their confidence.

Cel Welch, postdoc in chemical engineering at Stanford University: My first teaching assignment was in the first year of my Ph.D. as a [teaching assistant ] of an executive master’s in a science and technology leadership program. I mainly took this position because starting grad school had depleted my financial resources. I also wanted to help my [principal investigator], who was managing the course. I was skeptical about TAing 40- to 70-year-old business professionals as a young grad student with a biomedical engineering background, but the professor and I collaborated to make interesting resources for the class that leveraged my perspective. It definitely opened my eyes to how teaching can be creative and enjoyable. Shortly after, I TAed my first engineering course, an entirely different experience that made me realize it is one thing to understand, and another to teach content.

William Kelton, senior lecturer in biomedical sciences at the University of Waikato: While working in industry, I actively sought out opportunities to give guest lectures at a local university, as I was considering a move back to academia. Upon taking my academic position, I was tasked with developing a series of master’s level workshops. It quickly became apparent there was a great deal of preparation required for each class that I clearly hadn’t fully appreciated as a student. Our university’s rapid switch to online learning during the early stages of the COVID-19 pandemic presented additional challenges for a new lecturer grappling with unfamiliar learning platforms. I distinctly remember being relieved after delivering the first workshop and realizing I had an excellent cohort of understanding students to thank for making the experience positive.

Angelika Lahnsteiner, postdoc in molecular biology at the University of Salzburg: I started teaching during my first year as a Ph.D. student, and I quickly developed a passion for education. But it took me several years, and several moments of “I will quit this job,” to learn how I can deal with challenging situations. Sometimes, students will ask why someone receives extra time for exams without realizing this student has a disability, or they may feel they have been treated unfairly after failing a class. I try to stay as calm as possible and explain the situation clearly to them, seeking guidance from more experienced colleagues or the legal department if needed. I’ve also learned to accept that I will never reach every student—not all students will like me as a person or my teaching style—and that’s OK.

Florian Golemo, postdoc in robotics and 3D perception at McGill University: My teaching responsibilities and independence gradually increased over time. Being part of a team teaching a large undergraduate class during my Ph.D. felt like an apprenticeship, allowing me to observe experienced instructors and learn the ropes, from classroom management to assignment design. My first solo flight came during my postdoc, teaching cognitive science to 200 students with backgrounds ranging from psychology and philosophy to computer science. I vividly recall the sinking feeling of seeing some students disengaged while others struggled. That first experience really shaped me into the teacher I am today: one who values continuous improvement and believes learning is a collaborative journey.

Q: What is your teaching approach or philosophy, and how do you measure success toward your goals?

Golemo: Effective teaching is about more than content delivery; it’s about creating an inclusive environment where every student feels seen. I immediately asked my diverse class for feedback, inquiring about prior knowledge, adequate pacing, and how I could better meet their needs. The course improved significantly as a result, and I discovered the power of student collaboration in shaping learning. Since then, my teaching philosophy has centered on adaptability and responsiveness—listening to students, understanding their perspectives, and adjusting my approach.

Kailer: I have made it my life’s mission to make learning fun and accessible to others who, like 7-year-old me, had to work against the odds to access education. Teaching is also caring, helping students get back on the horse when things get difficult and creating a safe space for every student. By the end of the semester, I always know each of them, their struggles, their strengths, and how I can take those aspects on board to benefit their learning process.

Welch: I personally thrive when making conventionally difficult or disliked content digestible. The best way for me to get a pulse on the class not just once it is over (as in course evaluations) but while it is happening is having anonymous forms after each lecture where students tell me if they found a concept or problem confusing. In terms of student interaction, I just aim to be myself and to be open. I will never be the person who tells a student they should give up, but I will hold them to a high standard and connect them to the resources they need to succeed.

Barotta: I don’t want to be seen as an all-knowing figure at the front of the class; rather, I aim to create a learning community where we all learn from each other—including me. I want my students to feel excited about the content, engage deeply with it, and understand that it’s OK not to grasp everything immediately. For me, success is measured by my students’ growth as problem solvers, their willingness to explore unconventional approaches, and their ability to recognize their own worth.

Gazaki: My favorite motto is “Don’t be afraid of the math, get your hands dirty!” During my postdoc years, I taught inquiry-based learning classes, where students work in groups on worksheets and the instructor serves more as a moderator (also known as the flipped classroom experience). To this day, I make my lectures very interactive, encouraging students’ participation by constantly having Q&A times. I also have large groups of students working on problems on the blackboard during office hours. Besides getting energetically involved with the material, this approach helps them build community.

Kelton: I think it’s important that students learn to apply key theoretical concepts to solve problems, thus avoiding the rote learning that can pervade some fields. Rather than prioritizing detailed memorization, I’ve adopted a real focus on flipped learning with practical lab sessions and workshops. I think this approach is all the more important these days, considering the rise of artificial intelligence tools. Beyond tracking pass rates and gathering feedback at the end of the course, I’ve begun to implement online polls during the course to understand how the students see themselves as learners and whether they have any subjects of particular interest that I could cover.

Q: How do you go about preparing and delivering the course material? What professional training or resources did you have access to?

Kailer: It takes a lot of research and reading to create a great set of slides for a lecture and be prepared to answer questions. I always try to show that complex topics can be easily understood if presented in a more digestible manner, often bringing soil samples, live plants, and organisms preserved in resin blocks for the students to observe and interact with. I find this hands-on approach especially valuable to support students who may find it challenging to focus during traditional lectures, especially students with ADHD, as it makes learning much more memorable and exciting than simply viewing pictures. I also try to connect course material to current events to help students understand the relevance and practical application of what they are learning in class. To help me develop my teaching skills, I watched YouTube videos and read open-access books developed by my and other universities. I recommend asking former teaching assistants about their experiences with the course and inviting the main professor to attend some of your lectures to provide feedback. Critically observing great professors and other role models will also help you in your learning process.

Welch: I use a similar approach to teaching as I do when writing a grant or research paper and preparing talk slides. First, I set aside some time to abstractedly think about the topic and the main things that must be touched on. Then, I scaffold an outline of how I will address these concepts. I flesh it out with specific pieces of information, review, and modify (time permitting). For grading, at first I was giving overly detailed comments, taking twice the time or more than I do now. I started striving for efficiency once I realized the students didn’t necessarily care. In terms of training, I was able to pursue three teaching certifications as a Ph.D. student, which taught me a lot of skills. Then as a postdoc I completed a mentorship certificate, which made me aware of the pitfalls in my style and how to correct them.

Barotta: Typically, I first go through material from several textbooks and online resources from other instructors or organizations to gain different perspectives on the topic. I then focus on creating in-depth, applicable problems that complement the material, with the lecture content structured around these examples. I like to start by presenting a key concept and showing how tackling a related phenomenon or application will be achievable by the end of the lecture. The final example or content point usually ties back to this initial concept, creating a full-circle moment. I also make an effort to keep the lectures interactive by incorporating numerous questions and activities. My formal pedagogical training has been incredibly helpful in this regard, as I’ve been exposed to various forms of active learning that I am now implementing, such as debates and discussions, Think-Pair-Share moments, and case studies. Then, setting up asynchronous communication channels, such as Slack, has been useful for students to continue conversations outside of class or form problem solving groups.

Kelton: I’ve joined a group of academics from both the education and science fields that has been a great forum to share ideas, resources, and most importantly, come to grips with simple practical steps you can take to improve your teaching. For example, I now quite often use short, prerecorded videos to deliver content ahead of class, allowing more time for interactive workshop style learning. Developing classroom strategies has been a learning process with some trial and error. In my classes, I’ve found that simply posing a question and waiting for the class to answer is an effective tool to drive engagement. I also try to pace content and avoid the temptation to include too much material.

Golemo: It’s a little bit more preparation, but I generally gear the lecture for the slower students and have optional further resources for the more advanced students to keep them engaged. As for course materials, traditionally in the department there are a lot of classic experiment papers to read as homework. But I’d argue that it’s faster and more effective to discuss them in a lecture so I can make sure directly that the students pick up on the (modern) criticism surrounding some of these classic experiments. Meanwhile, I like to give the students more contemporary and diverse materials to explore between lectures, like podcasts, book excerpts, and TV shows. There are Star Trek episodes that do a better job exploring the nature of intelligence than some papers do.

Lahnsteiner: Several days before the lecture, I send students videos and learning materials to allow class time to be dedicated to discussions and collaborative problem solving. To help students track their own learning progress, I prepare ungraded quizzes for each lecture on our learning platform, where they receive automated feedback. Then, in a final workshop, I ask students to prepare in small groups some posters about key epigenetic mechanisms and present them to classmates. I also created a board game about these mechanisms for student teams. While these activities may seem playful, I have found that active engagement significantly improves learning outcomes. I learned some of these teaching approaches in a three-semester course I recently completed. As part of the program, I also took a voice training class to control my breathing and manage nervousness, which significantly increased my self-confidence.

Q: What do you find are the most enjoyable or valuable aspects of teaching? What has proved more challenging for you?

Golemo: I’ve always loved teaching, and witnessing a handful of students getting motivated to do a summer boot camp on AI following last year’s cognitive science class has made me really excited for becoming a professor. Still, I have a little bit of stage fright. I’ve been building confidence over the years, but when I step into the big auditorium in front of 200 people, it’s daunting for the first couple minutes. Today, the feeling will naturally fade once I settle in, but what helped me in the early days was a saying from one of my role models: “The worst day of teaching is still better than the worst day without teaching.” As for balancing teaching, research, and free time, that’s tough. The silver lining is that it gets a lot easier over time. With practice, you become better at prioritizing different tasks and gauging how much time some topic will take to prepare for a given class. And then, creating a whole course for the first time is a massive time sink; updating and adjusting one that you’ve already taught is a walk in the park!

Kailer: It is so fulfilling to see a student that used to struggle with a subject to not only learn it effectively but also enjoy it. And certainly, teaching has indirectly benefited my research by helping me gain strong communication skills. However, whereas students have the option to not show up when life happens, the instructors have to be there, consistently, so organization and planning skills are key.

Kelton: Marking has been a real challenge time-wise, and I’ve been working on strategies to reduce this burden while still achieving quality assessment. Then, having to adapt to the widespread use of AI tools has further changed the nature of assessment. I’ve found individual or group presentations with question-and-answer sessions to be a good way to gauge the depth of student understanding. For me, the most rewarding part of teaching is seeing students really grasp a concept. Teaching has also been an amazing tool to connect with and recruit enthusiastic students, which makes growing a research team significantly easier and more enjoyable.

Barotta: It is thrilling to have a say not only in how the content of a course is taught, but also in shaping the content itself. But the teaching moments that truly stand out for me are the discussions with students that take place after class or during office hours. The most challenging aspect has been figuring out how to ensure that my teaching style is accessible to students with different learning preferences. Balancing teaching and research has been deeply rewarding for me, as I’ve found my research has informed my teaching and vice versa.

Lahnsteiner: The communication skills I have developed through teaching have been invaluable in my research collaborations and grant writing. And I really enjoy being reminded that I’ve made a positive impact by following the progress of my students over the years. However, it’s easy to spend countless hours, even on weekends, preparing lectures and research materials. Finding a healthy balance between work and life is essential—not only to stay motivated but also to generate fresh ideas for both teaching and research.

Welch: Teaching helps my research by engaging another part of my brain and increasing my overall life satisfaction (it is very rewarding to help students!). However, it is not always perceived as high value in academia, so I have had to be wary of my time spent.

Gazaki: Having students tell you this was the most fun math class they’d taken or share with you their successes have been truly rewarding moments for me. Still, even years after moving to the United States, I sometimes feel significant cultural differences with my students. It took several years until a friend told me that I can come across as very blunt when telling students how I see things. Now that I know about this, during one-on-one office hours I explain what my feedback means and that it’s only meant for them to grow and succeed in the class. This feeds into another challenge: having a positive impact on all students. No matter how much I try, there are always students who might need a different approach. But it’s not always easy to figure out how to help them, nor do I always have the patience. I’ve made numerous mistakes over the years, but I hope that every mistake I make also helps me grow as a teacher.

Q: Any misconceptions you would warn against, or final words of advice?

Kailer: When I started teaching, I believed that I only needed to reserve the timeslots for my lectures; I had no idea of how much time I would need to prepare the course material and grade or to help students outside of class. Be aware of these “invisible” responsibilities, and make sure to ask the professor responsible for the course what are the expectations and time commitment.

Kelton: For me, the realization that lecturers don’t always need to provide immediate answers has been particularly helpful. Initially, I found this concept uncomfortable given the expectation of lecturers as subject matter experts. But I learned you can use these questions to create deeper discussion with the class, or tell the students you will get back to them after doing some more reading. Then, enthusiasm is contagious, so try to bring energy to your classes. But remember it’s perfectly normal to have days where your teaching doesn’t go to plan or feels a bit flat.

Welch: Do not go into teaching thinking that since you aced the class years ago or are a great researcher you will automatically be great at it. If half of your class is confused, that’s a good sign that it’s not the students’ fault. Many researchers see teaching as a burden or a distraction, but it can genuinely help you grow, so keep an open mind.

Lahnsteiner: Start teaching early. When I applied for my second postdoc position, I was explicitly asked about my teaching experience, and my 5 years gave me an advantage that many others were only beginning to develop. Also, be patient; many skills develop with experience. Confidence and authenticity are key; be yourself and don’t try to fit a mold. Then, it’s easy to blame students for an apparent lack of interest, but it’s our responsibility to make learning exciting and meaningful.

Gazaki: During grad school, I thought I had everything figured out for a course I had already taught once. I was obsessively working on my thesis, and I postponed preparing a midterm exam until late the night before. I ended up making a typo in a problem that made it impossible to solve. Most embarrassingly, I did not catch the error until after I started grading. The moral of the story is that we are not perfect. But if we build a relationship of trust with our students and we show them that we care, they can be very grateful and forgiving even when we mess up.

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