From ScienceMag:

One sunny spring afternoon, I was sitting on a bench outside work, crying on the phone to my parents after yet another panic attack. The happiness I once took from academia had disappeared, and all that remained was an overwhelming sense of guilt. I had left home to chase a dream overseas while my mum was dealing with a debilitating illness, but staying away for a job I did not enjoy was starting to feel unbearable. Then my parents asked me a question I had already begun to ask myself: “Do you think this career is still right for you?”

Leaving the United Kingdom to pursue a scientific career abroad was never part of my plan. But in 2019, I was offered an incredible opportunity to do a Ph.D. in Paris. I was elated—but very unsure about moving. My mum had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) several years previously, and daily life was becoming very challenging for her. I wasn’t sure I should leave, but with my parents’ encouragement, I took the plunge.

In France, I found a home away from home. I built friendships, learned a new language and grew in ways I never imagined. I genuinely loved my Ph.D.—even the tedious, mundane tasks that researchers often complain about. Most of all, I felt lucky to be part of an incredibly supportive group where people shared knowledge, celebrated everyone’s wins, and checked in on one another. I often felt sad about not being home, especially during difficult times, but the environment kept me steady. As long as I was doing well, I felt I was making my parents proud.

Things changed after I graduated. I naïvely thought my passion for research would sustain me anywhere. But when I started a postdoc at a new institute, I felt isolated. The lab culture was difficult to integrate into, and lab members barely communicated with me. There was no one I could talk to openly, and more than ever I felt the strain of being torn between two places.

As long as I was doing well, I felt I was making my parents proud.

• Georgina Kirby
• Georg August University of Göttingen

During this time, my mum’s MS had also gotten a lot worse. Each visit home felt like a lottery; I never knew how her health would be. Every time I left to return to France I was wracked with guilt. Why was I staying in a job where I felt invisible, when I could be home, helping out and being present? I started having daily panic attacks. My motivation evaporated, and my work suffered.

The call home with my parents that spring afternoon was a turning point. I realized I needed to focus on my mental health and figure out what I really wanted from my career. Luckily I could afford to take a break from academia and get some professional help. I was able to spend quality time with my parents to do chores, cook, talk, and enjoy their company. The break also helped me see that I did still want a scientific career—I missed the excitement of being in the lab. I just needed to find an environment in which I could thrive, not just survive.

I’m now working as a postdoc in Germany, where I’ve started to rebuild the same kind of supportive community I enjoyed during my Ph.D. I’ve made an effort to connect with others, whether over lunch or a quick coffee, or just by checking in. In doing so, I’ve rediscovered my passion for lab life. Working together is so much more fulfilling when colleagues look out for one another. You just never know what people are going through in their own lives.

It’s still hard being far away from home and my mum. I often wish I could be more physically present so I could ease my parents’ day-to-day burdens. But we’re all finding new ways to manage the distance. Knowing they are still cheering me on, from a distance, gives me comfort. I still carry the guilt. But I have purpose again, too, and that’s what keeps me going.

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From ScienceMag:

When I started my Ph.D., I believed I had found my true purpose. My research focused on how digital tools could help prevent burnout among clinicians—something I’m passionate about. I spent my days immersed in research about workload, stress, fatigue, and the fragile tipping points that push people beyond their limits. As my workload grew, I started to feel the pressure. But even as I worked later and later into the night, I kept reassuring myself: I was only studying burnout. It wasn’t something that could happen to me.

Unlike many in my cohort, I settled on my dissertation topic early in the first semester, thanks to my prior research experience and a quick alignment with my adviser’s interests. I hit the ground running, and at first, the work energized me. I loved feeling I was part of a broader research community and knowing my work could one day help people on the front lines of health care. But the challenge of balancing my research with teaching responsibilities and the required coursework was intense, and before I knew it, my preliminary exam—a big hurdle to continuing my studies—was right around the corner.

At the time, I didn’t notice how I was letting work take over my life, bit by bit. Skipping lunch to finish “just one more” section of a manuscript. Working weekends because “I’m already behind.” Feeling my chest tighten when I opened my email each morning, dreading any new additions to my growing to-do list. At first, I called it normal stress. Then, a rough patch. Eventually, I stopped calling it anything at all.

One evening near the end of my second year, desperate for reassurance, I took a burnout “self-test.” To my surprise, I scored high on several classic symptoms. Emotional exhaustion? Check. Feeling numb and disconnected from my work? Check. Losing the sense of personal accomplishment? Check. I stared at the results, feeling exposed.

Still, I resisted the idea for weeks until I finally reached a breaking point. It arrived quietly one evening as I was staring at a paragraph I had rewritten 10 times. No matter how much I worked, the gap between what I wanted to write and what I could deliver only seemed to widen. I closed my laptop and thought, for the first time, “Maybe I can’t do this anymore.”

The next day, I had my regular meeting with my adviser. As we wrapped up our discussion, he paused, looking at me for a moment longer than usual. “Xames, you should take a break!” he said lightly, but with real concern. He had sensed what I hadn’t yet fully admitted to myself.

That comment unlocked something inside me. For the first time, I allowed myself to admit that I was not OK. From my research on burnout, I knew the risk factors—long hours, poor boundaries, chronic stress. But I had completely ignored them creeping into my own life.

In the weeks that followed, I did something that felt both terrifying and necessary. I scaled back. I started to set real boundaries—no more writing emails after dinner, no more glorifying 60-hour workweeks. I went back to hobbies that had nothing to do with my dissertation. These are the kinds of restorative activities the research recommends.

It wasn’t an instant fix. Some days, the old voices still whispered: You should be working harder. You’re falling behind. But slowly, I learned to answer them differently: I am a person first, and a researcher second.

Ironically, or maybe inevitably, my work improved. Ideas came more freely when I wasn’t drowning in anxiety. Writing felt less like extracting teeth and more like creating something real again. I was no longer studying burnout from the safe distance of an observer—I had lived it. It was a reminder that behind the abstract models and metrics are real people.

Today, my research remains centered on burnout, but my focus has shifted to also include recovery, sustainability, and compassion. The work feels deeper, messier, and more honest—and it no longer consumes my life. Most of all, what my experience taught me is that even when work feels urgent and important, so is your well-being. That lesson didn’t come from a study. It came from the long, slow, humbling process of realizing that I am human—and that’s not a flaw.

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From ScienceMag:

I remember the moment my mentor in medical school told me she wouldn’t be writing me a letter of recommendation for my Ph.D. application—my planned next step. “You’re too sensitive,” she said. As if something at the core of who I was—something I couldn’t change—disqualified me from the future I had worked so hard for. At the time, I was devastated. Honestly, 4 years later, I still am. It felt like a punch to the gut, delivered by someone I respected and trusted. That moment planted a doubt I’ve carried ever since. But it also ignited a spark that led me to realize what others see as a weakness is ultimately a strength, albeit one that comes with daily challenges.

After six intense years of medical school, my mental health had slowly deteriorated without anyone, including myself, noticing. Right after graduating, I jumped into a Ph.D. program abroad, intending to pursue a career that would combine medicine and research, satisfying both my altruistic side and my fascination with human physiology and disease. That period was full of firsts: first time on a plane, first time living away from my family and boyfriend, first time stepping into the unknown of academic research.

Things quickly unraveled. I was anxious, constantly distracted, and overwhelmed by tasks others seemed to do with ease—such as pipetting, or handling animals during experiments. I’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced I’d left the cell incubator open, even though I’d checked it several times. The stress built up until I reached a breaking point. I switched labs, effectively starting over, and finally began to take my mental health seriously. In the second year of my Ph.D., I saw a psychiatrist and received a diagnosis: bipolar II disorder.

Living with bipolar disorder as a Ph.D. student means sensitivity isn’t optional—it’s part of how I move through the world. Science is meant to be thrilling, but for me, every new experiment brought waves of stress and doubt. I’d dive deep into the research, trying to eliminate every unknown—sometimes so much that I’d miss deadlines. People saw this as procrastination, and I kept hearing the same message: “Toughen up.” So, I learned to hide my struggles, even if it meant pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. But once I began treatment, I began to feel I was finding some stability for the first time.

Then, in October 2023, conflict came to Israel, where I was studying. With air raid sirens and drones overhead, I made the hard decision to return home to Serbia. But coming back brought its own pain. As a queer person, I didn’t feel safe or seen in my home country. My newfound stability began to unravel, and I knew I couldn’t stay. I left again, this time for Denmark—to start my Ph.D. anew in a place where I could live more freely.

Since arriving here, I’ve figured out ways to make this journey more sustainable, through trial and error. At the suggestion of a friend, I take pictures and record videos of my experiments, so I don’t have to stress about taking perfect notes. I’ve learned to accept criticism without interpreting it as a personal attack. I take my medication and reach out when I need help. Most of all, I speak up for myself, letting my supervisors know which situations will likely be a challenge for me.

My mentor’s comment about sensitivity still echoes in my mind when things get hard. Sometimes I wonder whether she was right. But with time I’ve come to see my sensitivity as something other than a weakness. It’s the source of the empathy that compelled me to become a physician in the first place, and it’s what pushes me to do research and learn more about the patients I will one day treat. My own experience with a chronic condition has convinced me that patients need doctors who can combine scientific precision with compassionate practice.

The rigid, high-pressure environment of academia isn’t easy for people like me. But I’m stronger for having learned how to protect my well-being while pursuing my passion. My mental health struggles have forced me to check in with myself, respect my limits, and make space for emotion in an environment that treats it as a liability.

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From ScienceMag:

I stepped out of the car, travel backpack in hand, returning from winter break rested and rejuvenated by seeing friends. I was feeling optimistic about my health, too. A recent appointment with an ear specialist had offered some hope that doctors would be able to diagnose the cause of the dizziness that had plagued me since nearly the beginning of my Ph.D. and finally treat it effectively. But what I found in my mailbox made my heart race: a stack of medical bills, the latest additions to the pile of unpaid invoices already sitting on my dresser.

When I first arrived in the United States from Brazil to pursue my Ph.D., I felt nothing could stand in my way. But a few months into my studies, a persistent dizziness crept in. Walking to campus, reading papers, and even grocery shopping left me unsteady. I rushed to the university clinic, where the doctor said I had vertigo and recommended rehab. But I had heard countless stories of graduate students paying thousands of dollars out of pocket for treatment of various ailments, and I was hesitant to rack up bills that would certainly outpace my meager stipend. Instead, I turned to YouTube, where I found at-home exercises. For weeks, every night before bed, I moved my head from side to side, then up and down. Eventually, the symptoms disappeared. I thought I was in the clear.

Two years later, the dizziness returned. This time, the exercises failed, and over-the-counter medications offered little relief. With my worsening symptoms making it difficult to keep up with my Ph.D. work, I didn’t see any alternative but to seek medical treatment despite my worries about the cost. I went back to the doctor, who referred me to an ear specialist. I called to book an appointment, only to be told the wait was 4 months. Far from my family, with no clear treatment plan, I felt helpless and frustrated.

Shortly afterward, I traveled out of state for winter break in a larger city, where I secured a last-minute appointment with an ear specialist. After being referred to one medical center, then another, I was given a steroid shot and orders for a brain MRI and more ear tests. No final diagnosis yet, but a clear message: The dizziness would likely return until I found the cause. Still, the steroids brought my first moment of relief in months.

Back home, after collecting the pile of medical bills from my mailbox, I contacted the university’s health insurance office for a cost estimate for the recommended tests. Even with my student insurance, the out-of-pocket amount was far beyond what I could afford. Then came another blow: The referrals from the out-of-state doctors weren’t valid locally. I would still need to wait for the in-state ear specialist appointment. There I was, facing the imminent return of my symptoms, medical bills piling up, and unable to schedule or afford the tests I needed. My stress levels soared.

In the weeks that followed, I began to experience heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and insomnia. After I wore a doctor-ordered heart monitor for 2 days, the diagnosis came back as sinus tachycardia—in other words, stress-induced anxiety. My body was sounding an alarm I could no longer ignore: This situation was unsustainable.

That was 3 months ago. Since then, I finally had my in-state appointment; with it came new referrals and, of course, more bills. This time, however, I have found a stopgap solution: I travel to Brazil yearly to conduct fieldwork, and during those trips I also attend medical checkups. This year, with multiple U.S. medical referrals in hand, I was able to schedule tests that will finally get me closer to a diagnosis. It’s unbelievable to think that, even with travel costs, care can be so much cheaper or even free through Brazil’s public and universal health care system. I know I’m lucky to have this option. Many other students face similar challenges without it.

Medical expenses can be overwhelming, especially for international students whose visas often restrict us from earning income beyond our stipends. No student should have to choose between financial survival and medical care. No student should lose valuable time and mental energy over something as fundamental as health care. Universities must step up and provide more comprehensive health coverage for their students so we can focus on our work.

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From ScienceMag:

In February, shortly after U.S. President Donald Trump was inaugurated, Rebekah Tromble launched a program to advise scientists and journalists targeted for intimidation and harassment. But she announced it quietly, fearing the very kind of attacks the initiative was meant to counter. “We were truly concerned that trying to draw too much attention to our work would jeopardize our funding,” says the George Washington University social scientist. “It’s a bit counterintuitive for a program that is actually trying to reach and help people.”

Tromble’s paradoxical situation is emblematic of the fear and self-censorship coursing through the nation’s scientific establishment today. As the Trump administration fires swaths of government researchers, cancels scientific grants, and targets leading universities with punishing funding freezes, scientists who might once have welcomed public attention for their work or spoken up on issues affecting their field are instead opting for silence.

“The lived experience of a scientist right now is terrifying,” said one prominent health researcher who asked not to be named out of concern their funding would be targeted. “We love getting our research in The New York Times and Science. You can imagine how much fear is involved if we are saying ‘no.’”

Interviews with science advocacy groups and scientists working in a range of disciplines confirm that what Jen Jones, director of the Center for Science and Democracy at the Union of Concerned Scientists, calls “the fear factor” is rampant. Scientists “have been made to feel like they cannot open their mouth for fear of losing whatever they have left,” she says.

Jones sees it as an escalation of tactics already on display before Trump returned to the White House. She points to billionaire Elon Musk, enlisted by Trump to lead a campaign to shrink federal spending, who used his massive following on his social media platform, X, to target midlevel government officials, including scientists who would normally go unnoticed. “Trump and Musk have spent years perfecting their campaign of fear and intimidation,” she says. Well before the election, Tromble conceived her program in response to that mounting threat.

Now, the rhetoric is coupled with control of the vast levers of government, which the new administration has swiftly used to cut funding for specific research projects and institutions. Since Trump’s inauguration, the two premier federal science funding agencies, the National Science Foundation (NSF) and the National Institutes of Health (NIH), have together canceled more than 2000 grants totaling more than $1.5 billion.

White House spokesperson Kush Desai told Science in a statement that “the Trump administration is spending its first few months reviewing the previous administration’s projects, identifying waste, and realigning our research spending to match the American people’s priorities and continue our innovative dominance.” NSF declined to answer questions about whether agency officials have heard from scientists afraid of retribution, or whether they were concerned such fears might affect open discussions about research. NIH did not respond to a request for comment.

Although fields such as climate science and public health faced political attacks before this year, U.S. scientists of many stripes now feel at heightened risk, says Janice Lachance, CEO of the American Geophysical Union (AGU), which has nearly 60,000 members working in earth and space science. Some researchers have asked the organization to scrub their names from its public list of committee volunteers because of concern that being identified for their work might make them vulnerable to retribution. Others have demurred when AGU officials asked to share their stories of funding cuts with congressional staff trying to document impacts on active research projects.

Even scientists accustomed to controversy and the public spotlight acknowledge the fear factor. The threats are “so vast and capricious,” says Gregg Gonsalves, a Yale University epidemiologist and veteran of political struggles around AIDS research going back to the 1980s. “As I’m sitting here talking to you, I realize it’s not without its risks.”

Gonsalves was one of nearly 900 Yale faculty who signed an April letter calling on the university to resist any threats to academic freedom. He says many scientists worry their institutions won’t support them if they speak out. “They are very worried about whether their colleagues, universities, institutions have their back.” Lachance agrees, noting, “Scientists are seeing some major institutions—some very powerful private sector entities—proceeding with caution.”

Several senior scientists who asked not to be named said that even if they could weather any damage, they keep quiet because they worry about the impact of a lost grant on Ph.D. students, laboratory staff, and others. “It’s all the people who depend on you,” said a health science professor who asked not to be named.

There are signs that scientists are starting to feel emboldened. Gonsalves points to Harvard University’s resistance to demands from the Trump administration as a watershed moment. In April, Harvard President Alan Garber sent a letter to administration officials vigorously rejecting a list of demands for federal oversight of university operations. Harvard has since sued to overturn a federal funding freeze on more than $2.2 billion in research grants imposed by the administration—which in turn cut off all future grant funding to the university.

At 62, Gonsalves says he has concluded that any price he pays for speaking out is outweighed by the toll the current administration is taking on the future of scientists and research in the United States. “It’s the next generation we have to protect and care about,” he says. “That’s what keeps me going.”

Scientists might also be realizing that there’s little safety in silence, says Kate Starbird, a University of Washington computer scientist who for years has been targeted by right-wing activists and some Republican members of Congress for her work on digital misinformation. At a recent conference on computer-human interaction hosted by the Association for Computing Machinery, she met scientists whose NSF grants had been canceled even though their research had no obvious connection to conservative hot-button issues. “I just don’t know [that] there’s a lot of wisdom in keeping our heads down anymore,” says Starbird, who has been outspoken for years. “I never had the option of keeping my head down.”

Tromble decided to be more vocal as well after NSF canceled funding for the final year of a 3-year, $5 million grant to study online harassment of experts and design a system to help people who are targeted. “The big risk for us was losing the funding, and now we’ve lost the funding,” Tromble says of her earlier decision to keep a low profile. She is now discussing her research more openly and working to raise philanthropic money to help maintain Expert Voices Together, the program launched in February.

Starbird hopes others will feel emboldened. She fears the scientific community is in danger of missing the chance to shape public perceptions about what the new administration is doing to U.S. research—and she’s taking lessons from her own experience. After the 2020 presidential election, she and fellow researchers were accused of conspiring to censor right-wing claims that the election was stolen from Trump. At first, they decided to ignore the false charges—a missed chance to push back against them before they metastasized, she says. Four years later, she says, “I think we are at risk of missing the golden window.”

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