I dropped out of high school. Now, I’m living my dream as a fish scientist

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From ScienceMag:

It was just after lunchtime service in a restaurant. The heat was stifling and the air smelled of grease and strong detergent. I was standing on a stepladder and scrubbing the extractor hood, which had been blackened by cooking fumes. Despite my gloves and protective gear, the chemicals had caused superficial burns on my hands, and my face stung as sweat trickled down it. In that moment, I realized I couldn’t keep doing these kinds of jobs for the rest of my life. I needed a career I was passionate about—and my biggest passion was fish.

I’d been obsessed with fishing since I was young, when my older brother would take me to the Sorgue and the other wild rivers of southern France to catch trout. Fishing was a way for us to be together and to communicate without words. At first, I learned the basics, such as how to cast a line and how to approach fish without frightening them. Over time I became fascinated with the trout’s behavior, learning to predict where they might feed depending on water conditions and the season, for instance. But I never even entertained the notion that I might be able to make a career out of this interest.

I grew up in a large working class family; my mother was a cleaner, my father a house painter. In high school, my teachers said I wouldn’t make it, not even in vocational training, and my school counselors gave up on me. So I left school at 19, disillusioned and without a diploma.

For several years, I was an anonymous worker, sanding floors in shopping malls in the middle of the night, degreasing restaurant hoods, cleaning pest-infested kitchens. I took pride in doing difficult, invisible jobs—but something still stirred in me whenever I went fishing.

I was 24 when I began to feel I needed a change. Even if it meant starting from scratch, I decided I would turn my hobby into a career. Somehow, against the odds, I would become a fish scientist.

After completing a science-based diploma for adults, I started a biology degree at university, sustaining myself with money I had saved while working. My first semester was brutal. I failed physics, biostatistics, even introductory ecology. But I was determined to pursue my dream, and gradually my grades improved.

Eventually I got into a master’s program in ecological engineering and biodiversity management. During the first week, my supervisor handed me a paper on brown trout in the Kerguelen Islands. I was overjoyed. “They’re paying me to read salmonid research!” I told my parents that night. They were speechless. For the first time, I felt like I’d truly made it.

I credit the hours I spent cleaning kitchens for giving me the discipline, patience, precision, and endurance to push on as I struggled through those first years of studying. But my working class roots have also been an obstacle. In Ph.D. interviews, I faced questions about my age and my family situation that seemed inappropriate. I’ve even been told not to talk about my background when speaking with other researchers in the lab, as if it might discredit my science—even though I have the same degrees as my colleagues. It is hard enough to enter science from a background like mine, without the added stigma. No one should be made to feel inferior or that they do not belong in science because of their origins.

I’m now in the middle of a Ph.D. studying how climate change is affecting arctic char, a cold-water salmonid. I’ve hiked to more than a dozen alpine lakes, sometimes carrying 30 kilograms of gear. I’m living a dream, but I also know it took a lot of hard work to get here. Every day, I still feel the same desire to learn and improve.

The last time I visited an alpine lake, my brother joined me to help. We spent 2 days by the water, just like when we were kids. But this time, he saw me leading the work, managing the team, and taking responsibility. I had come full circle. Life had brought me back to where it all began, this time as a scientist, with a passion that had become my profession.

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

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In red states, many academic researchers feel fear–and resolve

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From ScienceMag:

For years, little rainbow stickers adorned the doors of offices and laboratories at the University of Alabama (UA). The emblems indicated the space was a Safe Zone, run by a professor who had been trained that year to support students experiencing discrimination, harassment, or other challenges because of their gender identity or sexual orientation.

One UA biologist had displayed the emblem proudly since their lab colleague first took the training in 2009, refreshing their knowledge annually. But this fall, the biologist says, their door and others are notably more barren. After a 2024 Alabama state law banned diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs at public entities including universities, UA stopped offering Safe Zone training—meaning no new stickers, and the removal of the old ones.

“That kind of [looks like] a minor thing, but I don’t actually view it as one,” says the biologist, who requested anonymity because of worries about politicization. They see it as a larger message about whom schools are meant to serve. “Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about [helping] students in need.” But now, the “prevailing mindset is: Don’t cause a problem.”

As academic researchers around the country reel from President Donald Trump’s administration’s attacks on universities, researchers in Republican-led states like Alabama are being hit with a one-two punch, navigating both federal pressures and state actions. A number of these actions extend beyond academics into the culture and inclusivity of schools, affecting many researchers who feel out of step with local politics. Scientists across these red states tell Science they are fearful, disheartened, and less able to focus on their research. All have had to balance personal and professional risks with staying true to their values and identities. Some are fighting back in small ways; others are looking to leave.

“I didn’t think it would get this scary this fast,” says a gender-minority postdoctoral researcher at Ohio State University (OSU) who requested anonymity because of uncertainty about political speech protections at the university. In March, Ohio passed a new law that applies to public universities and community colleges and bans faculty strikes and DEI, including in the form of women’s centers and diversity scholarships. It also restricts classroom discussions of topics such as abortion, electoral politics, and climate policies. Fear for their job has led the postdoc to withdraw from efforts to make science more accessible to gender minorities. “Being afraid now for my ability to make rent, my ability to stay employed, my ability to do work as my full self has been really eating at me.”

Researchers have similar fears in Florida. A 2023 state bill banned DEI, and the Association for Women in Science disbanded its southeast chapter earlier this year, says a neuroscience postdoctoral researcher at the University of Florida (UF) who requested anonymity to avoid employment consequences for herself and others. “There’s a lot of uncertainty about what can be said, what can’t be said, and what retribution could be.”

Being a scientist in Florida “feels a little bit like being a political football,” says Sarah, a UF postdoctoral ecologist who asked that her last name be withheld for fear of retribution. Trump’s second term has emboldened the state government, which was already targeting higher education, she says, including by removing general education courses and prohibiting collaborations with “countries of concern.” “There’s been real concerns about intellectual freedom.”

University administrations are caught in the middle. “Not only is the university administration not standing up [to the Florida state government], but it’s complicit by design,” Sarah says. Others acknowledge the pressures on university leaders. “I’d like to think that the administration is doing the best they can,” the UA biologist says. “We’re, as faculty, just cognizant of the sensitive nature of their positions … their hands are tied as well.” And University of Utah neurophysiologist Karen Wilcox, who has worked there for more than 25 years, says her administration has been “very communicative” about how the university is coping with the record cuts in federal research programs.

Still, Wilcox says, “[To] my worldview, there’s been a lot of unsettling things that have been happening.” In 2024, the Utah State Legislature passed a bill banning DEI offices and trainings, followed by a bill this year prohibiting the display of pride and Juneteenth flags on government property, including public colleges and universities. She worries these decisions could offer “a little bit of a preview of what changes might be coming down the pike” nationally.

Perhaps counterintuitively, working in a red state may help insulate scientists from some of those changes. The states’ conservative policies keep them “out of the glaring eye of the [Trump] administration,” says Mike Boylan-Kolchin, an astrophysicist at the University of Texas at Austin.

Kevin Liévano-Romero, a parasitology Ph.D. student at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln originally from Colombia, says that effect has eased some of his anxiety about immigration enforcement. Although simply following the national news “definitely adds a layer of tension or stress to my daily work,” he says, “I think we feel protected in Nebraska” compared with places with large Immigration and Customs Enforcement presences. However, he and other international students still avoid campus cultural events such as festivals and performances for fear of immigration enforcement, even though they have valid academic visas.

Nearly every person interviewed for this story knew someone who had moved to escape the new state policies. Wilcox plans to retire in Oregon, a blue state, partly because her transgender daughter-in-law does not feel safe visiting her in Utah. “If I were younger, and were trying to figure out the next 15 years in my career, certainly I would be looking elsewhere,” she says. As the postdoctoral neuroscientist in Florida looks for faculty positions, she is avoiding “states that have extreme limitations on reproductive rights access,” as well as places where her husband, a Black man, might not feel safe.

Some faculty have left because they require larger labs and more state funding than theirs can offer, says Bharat Ratra, a cosmologist at Kansas State University. But a Kansas house bill raised earlier this year also threatened the job security of tenured faculty. Meanwhile, Boylan-Kolchin says applicant pools for faculty and graduate student positions are skewing more male and less international. “I think that restrictive abortion policies and access to health care have played a big role,” he says. He also notes that a state bill passed this summer has eroded the power of university faculty by abolishing existing faculty senates. These bodies, which typically advise university administration on academic policies, must now allow the university president to appoint all of their officers and up to half of their members. “We’re seeing more consolidation of power,” he says.

Amid their worries, researchers have also found ways to uphold their values. Wilcox, in response to the flag-banning law, wears a lanyard decorated with rainbows. Ratra volunteers for the Nature Conservancy and donates money to politicians he supports. Sarah has joined a local political activism group. And Liévano-Romero volunteers as a Spanish translator at a health clinic, where staff provide students with advice on what to say if approached by immigration officials.

For the OSU researcher, simply continuing to note their preferred pronouns in their email signature and when meeting new people is an act of resistance, as is decorating their office with art featuring rainbows. They hope these steps “can express to folks who need it that I haven’t abandoned them—and express to me that I haven’t abandoned myself.”

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Embracing my silly side makes me a better scientist. I wish I’d done it sooner

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From ScienceMag:

“Come in,” I said to the scientists at my doorstep, ushering them toward the kitchen. Our color­ful tunics—not our typical work wear—rustled as we mixed that month’s cocktail, a wintery take on an Aperol spritz. We bantered and laughed; one attendee asked which walkout song we would choose if we were professional mixed martial arts fighters. It was what I needed, and not just for relief after a long week in the lab. I’ve learned that levity helps me be a better scientist, mentor, and colleague. It is also what keeps me going during hard times—a lesson that was reinforced the very next month.

For much of my career, my fellow scientists only saw what I call my “resting science face,” which conveys the part of me that’s driven to spend hours obsessing over a conference talk or stay up all night putting the final touches on a grant. They didn’t see the side of me that loves alien kidnapping skits on Saturday Night Live. As a woman and mother, I felt I needed to prove I was serious about the job, lest others view me as too distracted by my personal life to excel.

My serious face worked. I landed a job at a great univer­sity, recruited brilliant graduate students, and won tenure. But I felt I had to split myself in two—the serious scientist in public, the goofball in private. Only later did I realize how much stronger my science, and my relationships, could have been if I’d let both sides show sooner.

The first crack in my public persona came in 2024 when, on a whim, I participated in a local live storytelling show. I took a risk and described an embarrassing moment from a solo trip to Thailand. To my surprise, when people laughed it didn’t feel bad or shameful. It felt like a hug.

The experience made me think I could start to experiment with being silly at work, too. So, when Halloween came around, I delivered a lecture dressed in a fuzzy pink axolotl costume. I began kicking off lab meetings by asking my gradu­ate students what brings them joy or makes them laugh. And I started the monthly get together with colleagues. The idea was to get out of our usual professional mode by enjoying fancy cocktails and lighthearted conversation. Donning out­landish garments helped set the mood.

To my surprise, I found that injecting fun and humor into my work life didn’t make me less effective or credible. Students seemed to find me more approachable. Humor also helped me open up with colleagues, which in turn led others to be more authentic and vulnerable with me, a key part of building trust. After one of my closest international collaborators and I discov­ered a shared love of humor, we began affectionately poking fun at each other. That brought us closer and made it easier for us to handle challenging issues.

But perhaps most importantly, humor has helped me be re­silient. Not long after the gathering at my house last winter, my grant from the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency was abruptly terminated as part of the federal government’s sci­ence cuts. After the shock and immediate grief wore off, I turned to my goofy side, writing several pieces of satire, mak­ing joke T-shirts, and letting colleagues distract me with dis­cussions about the set design choices in Sir Mix-a-Lot’s 1992 Baby Got Back music video.

That’s not to say I was living in denial. I knew I needed to find new ways to pursue my goals in an increasingly complex funding environment. But that pressure could easily feel overwhelming. Making jokes and sharing laughter helped me stay present. It also served as a reminder of how much joy I get from interacting with the people I work with, what­ever the circumstances.

In the end, I have come to realize that being authentic at work is not a weakness, but rather a strength. For other scien­tists, that may mean talking more about their hobbies or families, or showing off their other talents—whatever brings them joy and helps them connect with others. For me, that’s humor.

So that’s why, even as I reimagine my research plans, I’ll be putting on a colorful outfit, calling up some friends, and crack­ing jokes. Now, more than ever, it’s time to laugh.

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

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Thank your science teachers while you still can

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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

One day this summer I was washing dishes when I discovered my son had placed in the sink a dirty bowl that still contained a popsicle stick and a napkin. He should have known what was coming. I held up the stick and the napkin.

“What don’t we put down the sink?” I asked, hoping he’d remember prior admonitions. He didn’t, so I continued: “We don’t put insoluble solids down the sink. Say it with me: Insoluble. Solids.” Again, a blank expression. “Insoluble means that they don’t dissolve. Wood and paper don’t dissolve. Solids are not liquids or gases. Wood and paper are solids. So, what don’t we put down the sink? Insoluble solids.”

At this point, he probably asked whether he could go watch Paw Patrol, because he’s 5.

Maybe it’s foolish of me to use slightly scientific jargon to teach kitchen etiquette to someone who still thinks dogs can fly helicopters. But I will always, always think of what should stay out of the drain as insoluble solids. And that’s because of my ninth grade science teacher, Ms. Newsom—who, I learned a few weeks ago, recently passed away at age 79.

I can say without reservation that she was one of the most influential teachers I’ve ever had. My first introduction to her came when I was her student in a course called Introductory Physical Science, or IPS, which was basically chemistry, physics, and biology rolled into a neat little ninth grade package. After IPS ended I continued to learn from her, as she also coached our school’s Science Olympiad team and was the faculty adviser to the Newspaper Club. For Ms. Newsom, “ninth grade science teacher” was more than a title. This is a little hard to explain, but she was the sort of person who, if you had asked me to briefly describe her as a human being, I would have said she was a ninth grade science teacher. She just exuded that aura: a friendly, open, didactic, pragmatic woman who sometimes wore a broad-brimmed gardening hat, and no matter how hectic a room of 30 freshmen became she was always firmly in control. She was named teacher of the year, at one point became president of the national Science Olympiad, and helped our school—a middle-of-the-road public high school in suburban Delaware—flourish.

And yet.

It’s been 28 years since I graduated, and in that time, I never once emailed her to tell her what a great teacher she had been. I never looked her up on social media or tried to find her contact information. I went off to college, graduated with a degree in molecular biology, started grad school, earned a Ph.D. in molecular biology, started writing this column, worked at a biotech company, worked for the federal government. I got married, had three kids, bought a house, bought a pinball machine, adopted cats. Life moved forward. I took her lessons into everything I do. And especially in this age of abundant information, looking her up and sending a message of thanks would have taken me five damn minutes.

She taught us “Do as you oughta; add acid to wata.” In case it’s unclear in print, that last word is a deliberate mispronunciation of “water,” and you have to trust me that it sounds better out loud. At least, until you pronounce the word with my school’s native Delaware accent, and it comes out as “wooder,” which has to complete the rhyme by making “oughta” sound more like “ooder,” and by this point you’ve completely forgotten what you were doing with acid.

She assigned us “the sludge,” for goodness sake. That was a legendary ninth grade lab. Older students spoke about it with reverence. We each received a bottle of greenish blackish goo and we had a few weeks, using all the lab techniques we’d learned—filtration, distillation, titration, you name it—to identify all of the ingredients in the bottle. That lab taught us, maybe for the first time, that science doesn’t just mean mixing X and Y to make what you know will be Z; it means learning enough practical methods to solve a mystery without a road map. My friend Steve and I spent an entire weekend writing up our lab report in a unique style (including an audio cassette in which we described our lab techniques in Beavis and Butt-Head voices—hey, it was the early ’90s). We went completely overboard not because we needed to, but I think because we had felt Ms. Newsom’s exuberance for the sludge, and we wanted to respond in kind.

The sludge wasn’t even the coolest lab we did that year. That honor goes to the Rube: an assignment to build a Rube Goldberg machine and run it in front of the class. Hands down, whole career, the Rube was my favorite science project I’ve ever done. For three glorious weeks, I met with my team and built this excruciatingly complicated gizmo, a monument to plywood and hot glue, with no fewer than 61 individual steps. Even though our machine caught fire during the classroom demo (I continue to blame my teammate Steve for being overly generous with the lighter fluid while cackling “huh huh” in a Beavis voice—and I blame all of us, I suppose, both for introducing a machine component that needed lighter fluid and for trusting it to Steve), the Rube was a defining experience in my development as a scientist. I still think of it as the most excited I’ve ever felt about a science project, and when choosing a career, a little part of me knew I had to become a scientist on the slim chance that such a path could recreate that excitement.

I could have told her this when she was alive. I could have looked her up, called, emailed. I could have let her know how her lessons have never left me. I could have thanked her for her wisdom, her imagination, her kindness. I could have told her that, as a science communicator, I understand how challenging it can be to convince children that science is the most fun part of their day. I could have told her that she transformed an obligatory class like IPS into a creative experience I’ll never forget.

I could have told her all of these things any time in the past 28 years. I could have told her all of these things last month.

And yet.

I’ve taught classes myself, and almost none of my students have looked me up as adults to follow up in any way. I get it now. We don’t think of teachers as needing any kind of follow-up. We think we can move on after we’ve finished receiving their services. We don’t think our own success or gratitude will matter to them, or, to be completely honest, we just don’t think about them much at all.

Ms. Newsom, you taught us that an object at rest tends to stay at rest. I suppose a high school graduate mired in the inertia of daily life tends to stay in the inertia of daily life.

You taught us how to calculate an atom’s charge, why mass differs from weight, how to balance a ceramic crucible above a Bunsen burner. You taught us lessons we’ve forgotten and lessons we’ll never forget. You taught us to love science almost as much as you did.

And yet.

I can’t tell you how influential you were, because I missed my chance. But it’s a mistake I won’t make twice.

While writing this article, I tracked down Harry Kreider, my 12th grade Advanced Placement Biology teacher. (It was easier than I thought—maybe because Delaware only has, like, five people.) If Ms. Newsom introduced me to high school science, Mr. Kreider was the other bookend. He had secured some kind of grant to let us try gel electrophoresis, a DNA-viewing technique that felt like rocket science at the time. I remember making him laugh when I asked whether crossing two wild-type genes would yield Gene Wilder. He and Ms. Newsom were among the few teachers I invited to my high school graduation party.

Mr. Kreider, it turns out, is still alive and has email. I’m going to send him a message right now.

If you had a special teacher whose energy and enthusiasm set you on your way to a career in science, I highly recommend you do the same.

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As an international scholar, my academic dreams belong to my family, too

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From ScienceMag:

I’ll never forget the tremor in my sister’s voice when she called me that Sunday evening last year. “Daddy collapsed,” she said. “He’s in the hospital.” My father, my biggest cheerleader, was in critical condition back home in Nigeria. The doctors suspected a stroke. In that moment, my world tilted. I paced my tiny apartment in Florida, wishing I could teleport home. I was a graduate student with barely enough money to cover rent, let alone a plane ticket to Lagos. My family needed me, and I felt powerless to help. For weeks, every WhatsApp notification sent my heart racing. Some nights I stared at my notes until the words blurred. My grades slipped. If I stayed on this path, the dream I had come here to pursue would be in jeopardy.

That dream wasn’t mine alone. My family had sacrificed a lot to help me pursue my goal of studying abroad at a world-class university. I earned a bachelor’s degree in Nigeria, published research, saved every naira I could, and sent out several graduate applications. When I received an offer from the University of South Florida I was elated. But reality soon kicked in—although the offer came with a tuition waiver, I would still have to cover visa fees, flights, and living expenses. I took on freelance gigs and sold off electronics, furniture, and clothes, but I still fell short. Just as I was about to turn down the offer, my big sister learned of my dilemma and my family rallied to support me. They pooled resources, giving up things I knew they couldn’t easily spare.

When I landed in Miami, I carried the weight of their hopes with me, and that responsibility became my compass. Knowing how air pollution had scarred the community where I grew up, I chose a project on carbon sequestration. Whenever I was tempted to settle for “good enough,” I heard my father’s voice urging me on.

Then, a year into my program, came the news that he was ill. After agonizing for several weeks, I finally came to accept that flying home wasn’t realistic. Money aside, traveling on a student visa was too risky—if something went wrong with the paperwork, I might not be able to return. Instead, I emptied my bank account and sent the money home to cover hospital bills, maxing out credit cards to cover my rent and other bills. The guilt continued to gnaw at me, but I kept it to myself.

A couple weeks after my sister’s call, one of my professors noticed something was amiss and called me into their office. For the first time, I told someone in my professional world what was happening. They listened without judgment, offered encouragement, and connected me with the university counseling center. Those counseling sessions steadied me. My friends did, too, showing up with groceries when I couldn’t afford them and dragging me to the library so I wouldn’t be isolated. They reminded me that I wasn’t carrying this weight alone.

Their support helped me keep showing up, one day at a time. So did my mother’s words. On every call, she said in Igbo, “Stay in school for your father, inugo? That’s what he would want.”

Eventually, my father’s health stabilized. I’ll never forget the relief of seeing him smile on a video call, or the pride in his voice when he called me “the American scholar” again. When I told him months later about the choice I’d faced, he chuckled softly and said, “Why would you drop out of school? Did I not teach you better?” His comment lifted a weight I didn’t realize I still carried.

Looking back, that season taught me lessons I’ll hold forever. I learned to ask for help without shame and lean on my support system of friends and classmates. Most importantly, I learned to keep sight of why I came here in the first place. Now, when I feel overwhelmed, I pause and remind myself that I’m not just chasing a degree—I’m trying to solve scientific problems that matter beyond myself, and I’m honoring my family. That perspective keeps me grounded and pushes me to give my best even on the hardest days.

Like so many Africans chasing big dreams across the Atlantic Ocean, I walk on the wings of sacrifice and love. When I earned my master’s degree in August, it felt less like a personal victory and more like giving my family the win they deserved. Their belief in me will carry me through the next phase of my journey.

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

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How I recovered from a collaboration gone wrong

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The rejection email from an elite journal was still fresh when my two co-authors and I jumped on a Zoom call to commiserate. When I suggested another outlet we could try next, I was shocked by their immediate and vehement opposition. That’s when everything unraveled. They already had a paper under review there. I’d known about their other project using the same data set. But their paper had morphed substantially since I’d last seen it. Now, it looked disturbingly similar to ours. I was livid. This was my idea from the start. I had invested nearly 3 years working on it. Learning they had poached it felt like a huge betrayal—and transformed my approach to collaboration.

My academic career started auspiciously with two fast, singleauthored publications. But when I pivoted from economics to business and management, I got nothing but rejections for a couple long years. I was an outsider in the field of management studies, and I thought collaboration would help me out of this quagmire. Increasingly I worked with co-authors, seeking mentorship from senior ones and complementarities and energy from the junior ones. The result was multiple publications, conference invitations, and a growing network of collaborators. I thought I had mastered the game and that “we” was the answer—until that Zoom call.

I reached out to several senior journal editors for guidance and solutions. Dishearteningly, all advised me to drop it; authorship disputes, they said, are messy affairs where nobody wins. I felt utterly powerless. My health deteriorated, especially my mental state. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work, couldn’t even enjoy time with my family.

Nevertheless, I followed my heart and decided to fight back. I wrote to the journal where my former co-authors’ paper was under review. The journal ultimately rejected their paper—but based on reviewer recommendations, not ethical grounds. I contacted ethics officers at my institution and one of theirs. Though initially sympathetic, their message was consistent: Drop it, it’s messy, no one wins. Professional organizations to which we all belonged shrugged off my inquiries on the grounds of sporadic membership. I reached out to mutual co-authors from other projects, but they wouldn’t get involved either.

I finally decided to move on and focus on other research. For nearly 2 years I worked alone—until I finally considered reviving the original project, which had never been published. Again, I would have to collaborate with others to put together the underlying data set. This thought filled me with anxiety. But I also knew isolation was not sustainable, and my productivity would suffer.

After much thought, I found someone who seemed like a good fit for the project. Before our first substantive conversation, I proposed something I’d never asked before: a formal collaboration agreement. We outlined roles, established authorship criteria based on concrete contributions, and agreed to document key decisions via email rather than casual chats. A couple of years later, we published the research together using a much larger data set and more sophisticated statistical analyses than before.

Beyond vindication, the lessons I learned have reshaped my approach to collaboration. First, safeguard self-sufficiency. Knowing I can execute and publish high-quality solo research has been my rock throughout these tribulations. Second, vet collaborators carefully. I now approach research partnerships like hiring decisions, checking collaborators’ work, asking around, and taking time to decide on new endeavors. Third, always protect yourself. Before sharing ideas, I establish clear collaboration agreements. I settle matters in writing, documenting key conversations and milestones, as these records prove invaluable if things go sideways.

After 16 years in academia, I’ve become more selective about collaboration. It remains a joy and a blessing, but I’ve also learned how quickly “we” can turn wicked. The key is choosing your partnerships wisely and keeping “I” as a strong safety net.

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

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Transitioning to ‘emeritus professor’ wasn’t always easy. Here’s how I adjusted

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From ScienceMag:

After more than 40 years in academia, I felt optimistic about the path ahead when I retired in 2012. I intended to continue working, focusing on research and writing now that I no longer had administrative and teaching responsibilities. But as I downsized my office and changed my email signature to Emeritus Professor, I was unprepared for the reality of retirement. I found it difficult to adjust to no longer holding decision-making roles. Colleagues were less likely to seek my opinions than before, which ate at my sense of self-worth and left me feeling that my ideas were no longer valued. Regaining my equilibrium and appreciating the positive aspects of retirement took months.

I had leadership roles throughout my career. After spending 27 years at a U.S. university, I pivoted to working as the deputy director of a natural history museum for 2 years followed by 15 years as a faculty member at a European university. In these positions, I had a range of decision-making responsibilities—departmental chair, botanical garden director, journal editor, secretary-general for an international scientific organization.

As I reached 68, I was ready to let those roles go. After so many cycles of dealing with administrative hurdles and other challenges, I had lost some of my drive. It seemed appropriate for more junior faculty to step into those shoes. But I hadn’t fully processed what that might mean for me.

I was excited to have workdays free of the meetings and classes that broke up my days as a professor. I expected to have more time to finish manuscripts, start collaborative projects, and dive into book writing. That turned out to be true. But it was hard to ignore that meetings were being scheduled to which I was not invited. I was no longer an essential cog in the system.

As time wore on, I also had a nagging sense of being left behind scientifically, standing beside the track after the train had left the station. I continued to attend national and international conferences, but fewer than before. I didn’t always hear about new developments, and I drifted away from old friends from other universities.

On my own campus, where I had a small office, the lack of daily chats in the laboratory with students and colleagues and discussions in the classroom left me feeling isolated. Retirement is a haven for the solitary worker, and working alone has never been a problem for me. But I did find that when bad news struck—such as learning that a paper had been rejected—I had no class later that day where a successful lecture could recharge my self-confidence.

Slowly, though, I began to ease into my new rhythm. Structure helped. I gave myself deadlines for completing manuscripts, and I set a schedule to get to the office by 10 a.m. each morning, which stimulated me to get out of bed and keep going. I also learned to see my isolation as a privilege rather than a penalty. In addition to being able to complete shorter manuscripts, I could focus on larger projects, such as review papers and books, which have proved very satisfying. Although retirement means I have lost influence with university decision-making, having the time to step back and take a broad, synthetic view of my field more than makes up for it.

For me, success in retirement has involved mapping out a realistic plan that is both enjoyable and academically fulfilling. When I do attend a conference, I go with reduced expectations—not to capture all the newest advances, but to learn about broad new trends and catch up with as many old friends as possible. The good news is that I am no longer being constantly evaluated by others—I am only being evaluated by myself. I have learned to keep pushing forward, at a more relaxed pace, and working with, rather than fighting against, these new challenges.

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University of California faculty push back against Big Brother cybersecurity mandate

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From ScienceMag:

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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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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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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