How a devastating flood changed my career path

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From ScienceMag:

Four years into my undergraduate degree in the southern Indian state of Kerala, I awoke to a friend urgently shaking me, telling me the heavy rain the previous night was flooding our area. We rushed outside to a chaotic and distressing scene. Families were stranded on rooftops. Children were crying for help. Hospital patients were being evacuated. My friends and I immediately joined the rescue teams, volunteering to distribute food to the affected people. I had intended to devote days or weeks to the effort—however long it took to help my community. But the event had a more lasting effect: propelling me toward a new career path.

I had gone to college to study civil engineering. Growing up in an impoverished rural area, I was fascinated by architecture in cities, and I hoped to design buildings myself someday. However, as my degree progressed, I became enthralled with research and wanted to continue my academic journey. I wasn’t sure what to study. Then the flood came, and it all became clear.

After spending much of my summer volunteering in affected communities, I decided to focus my career on natural disasters, exploring the various factors behind them, as well as their impacts on society. As a first step, I applied for a master’s program in development studies—a multidisciplinary program that included coursework in sustainable development, geography, and economics, as well as hands-on community projects. This decision shocked my friends and family. Relatives kept asking my parents why I was leaving engineering to study social sciences. They warned my parents, who only have a primary education, that this path might make it hard for me to find a job. However, I was determined and went ahead with what I thought was right for me.

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The opportunity to delve into an issue I care so passionately about … makes it all worthwhile.
  • Muhammed Rashid
  • Indian Institute of Technology Bombay

The program, which exposed me to projects that helped communities plan for climate change and other disruptions, convinced me I was on the right path. I decided to apply for a Ph.D. It was a bold move given my uncertain finances. I also found that many universities preferred candidates who had consistent academic backgrounds and hadn’t moved around between engineering and the social sciences. During interviews, faculty members often questioned why I chose to risk my career by changing fields. I received multiple rejections, both in India and abroad. But one program agreed to accept me, and I set out to study how better water resource management and policy can help vulnerable populations adapt to the uncertainties posed by climate change.

I was excited to start the program and be surrounded by some of the brightest minds in the country. It wasn’t easy, though. Most of my peers had followed a traditional path, without jumping around between fields, and had family members with degrees in higher education. I sometimes felt unsure about my depth of knowledge. I also had trouble connecting with my peers at times, leaving me feeling lonely.

My feelings of isolation began to change with the arrival of a new Ph.D. student who also had a multidisciplinary background and a similar family situation. Meeting him was a huge relief. We connected easily because we had both dealt with rejections from Ph.D. programs and faced mockery for our career decisions. Opening up with one another didn’t make our problems go away. But from that point on, I felt less alone.

Sharing what I’ve learned with people in my community has also given me satisfaction. A barber from my hometown whom I have known since childhood now regularly talks with me about the increasing frequency of extreme weather events. Despite only having a primary education, he’s filled with curiosity, excitement, and deep respect for the research I discuss with him.

Now, 3 years into my program, I am confident in my decision to pursue a Ph.D. There have been challenges along the way, but the opportunity to delve into an issue I care so passionately about and try to help people makes it all worthwhile. Above all, my journey has taught me that it’s OK to follow your heart, even when the path seems unconventional.

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

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The games scientists play: How fun can help preserve our humanity

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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

When I was in grad school, a new postdoc brought a valuable import from his own graduate lab: a game called Septa. Here’s how it worked: We would each take a septum—the little orange-brown rubber stoppers that were ordinarily used to cork glass test tubes—and draw a face on it in permanent marker. We would then open the cell culture incubator, which was a large box, about the dimensions of a piano bench whose floor held a steel platform that shook when the lid closed. With the platform immobile, we’d each place our septum in the middle, then stick a pencil inside a little hole to deceive the incubator into thinking we had shut the lid. The platform would shake, septa would gradually rumble off to the sides, and whoever’s septum stayed on the platform the longest was the winner and would collect $1 from every other player. Think of it like horse racing, if the horses were inanimate until acted on by an outside force, and instead of a linear track, the horses ambled stochastically off the racetrack and into the surrounding environs. We often played the game right before lunch or a coffee break, so one lucky grad student or postdoc ended up with their sandwich or latte paid for.

Amid everything happening right now, the insignificant games we played with rubber stoppers in the mid-aughts hardly seem important. Or, maybe the games we play in the lab, taking breaks from our research to shout encouragement at bouncing pieces of rubber, are the small slices of humanity that keep our days sane.

An internet search shows I’m hardly the only scientist who has taken time away from important research to act like a kindergartener. Reddit is replete with discussions of Lab Olympics–type games—shooting pipette tips into a bin, guessing the mass of a powdered chemical, quickly robing and disrobing in personal protective equipment.

In my graduate lab, we built massive desserts for the department holiday party. We played billiards in the grad student lounge. We formed a softball team. We posted comics and articles from The Onion on the walls. Our lunches became epic storytelling fests. We wrote and rehearsed skits and songs for the department retreat. We kept a deck of cards and chips at the ready, often taking a break for a quick poker tournament.

Listing the many ways we didn’t do science makes me feel a bit guilty that maybe we should have, um, done more science. But we didn’t neglect science, we just kept ourselves mildly entertained on the side. That’s not a deficiency as a scientist, it’s a prerequisite for being human.

I’ve tried to bring this mindset with me after leaving academia—though at times I’ve wondered whether I’m doing myself a disservice by committing any energy to them. Once, within my first couple weeks at a new job, we learned that every department would need to enter some sort of fun potluck/decorating competition. I ended up being quasi-volunteered as part of the small group coordinating our department’s entry—which, ordinarily, I would have found fun and exciting. But because I was so new, I wondered: If I do a great job with this, will people resent the time I’m spending baking a pie and making our table look beautiful? Will they think I’m more interested in the distractions from science than I am in science? Or is the distraction an integral part of the endeavor—and by baking a pie and decorating a table, I’m helping build community and positive feeling among colleagues and give talented scientists one more reason to want to stay at this job? In the end, I compromised: I baked the pie and decorated the table, but I kept a look on my face that indicated I was doing this somewhat against my will.

I was afraid of being labeled as that guy who takes the fun too far. When I worked at a small biotech company, we hired a recent college graduate who was quite a jovial fellow—but then one day a co-worker texted to let me know they’d seen him tossing around a football in the lab. (He agreed to put the football away and luckily didn’t break anything, but we kept a closer eye on him after that.)

More recently, after seeing colleagues decorate their offices with Star Wars figurines, diplomas, and vacation photos, I decided to bring in a full-size vintage pachinko machine. (Pachinko, for the uninitiated, is Japanese vertical pinball.) It’s not like we play pachinko instead of working—the machine mostly sits there and looks awesome. But every now and then, when we’re discussing Serious Scientific Matters, someone will notice the pachinko machine in the corner and ask what it does. I’ll sproing a little steel ball up into the workings, and we’ll watch it tinkle down through a field of brass pins. And for a few moments, we’re all reminded that there’s a world outside our office walls.

I’ve been back to visit my graduate lab a couple of times. The cell culture incubator is still there, sitting in the same spot, probably still susceptible to the same pencil hack to start it shaking with the lid open. I don’t know where my rubber septum is, though. Maybe I left it for a future student. Maybe I threw it away. Maybe I kept it to treasure forever, a symbol of a more carefree time, then forgot that I intended to treasure it forever, and it’s in a box in my basement with a pair of lab goggles and stack of business cards people handed to me at a networking event in 2006. Regardless, 20 years after the postdoc introduced Septa, I remember the rules of the game—and I kind of wish I was back there, dollar bill in hand, playing.

I know you have more important things to do today. But if you have a minute or two, find some colleagues and play a stupid game. Tell your boss I said it was OK.

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To write successful scientific grant proposals, I had to learn to take risks

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From ScienceMag:

The Slack message caught me by surprise. It came from my Ph.D. adviser as I was sitting in the lab trying to make progress on my latest experiment. He wanted to know whether I would be interested in applying for a fellowship from the U.S. National Institutes of Health (NIH). “Do you really believe I would be a competitive applicant?” I replied in disbelief. Two years earlier, I had written a mock proposal for the very same award—a requirement for passing my department’s Ph.D. qualifying exam. And I had failed miserably. The experience left me feeling I was not cut out for academia. I didn’t want to waste my time writing another mediocre research proposal. But I knew my adviser had my best interests at heart, so I decided to give it a shot and apply.

Before my qualifying exam, I had never written a full, detailed research proposal. I had been working for a year on projects my adviser had received funding for. But for my mock proposal, he wanted me to take the lead in conceptualizing a brand-new project. The process felt frustrating and confusing, like trying to figure out how the pieces of a complex puzzle should fit together. To make matters worse, I was haunted by cautionary tales from more senior graduate students, who recalled faculty members tearing apart their proposals.

I focused on creating a bulletproof plan, with experiments that were all but guaranteed to work. The result was a proposal that was feasible scientifically, but that didn’t take any great risks. That didn’t go over well with the faculty members who reviewed it. I vividly remember logging in to view my exam scores and seeing the devastating result: fail.

The next day I sat in my adviser’s office trying to remain stoic as we went over the stinging comments, which noted my proposal lacked innovation. I had always heard a Ph.D. was about learning how to generate important new knowledge. I was not making a promising start.

I revised my proposal to make the case that my project broke new ground—and on my second try, I squeaked by. I was relieved not to be tossed out of my program. But I felt defeated. I sheepishly thanked people when they congratulated me, still embarrassed that I had only passed by one measly point. The reviewers’ comments stung this time around, too: It was clear I still hadn’t convinced them my ideas were novel and interesting.

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I wanted to write something more daring and create a project I would be proud to present.
  • Allison Boboltz
  • University of Maryland

In the years that followed, I focused on working through the experiments I had proposed. I mastered lab techniques and challenged myself to learn new skills. I problem solved when experiments went awry. I felt the intoxicating thrill of discovery. And I gained practice submitting applications for several small grants, one of which I received funding for. Bit by bit, my confidence grew.

So, when my adviser convinced me to apply for the NIH fellowship, I was determined not to play it safe this time. I didn’t want to write a proposal tailored to avoiding criticism. I wanted to write something more daring and create a project I would be proud to present on the day of my thesis defense.

When I began writing, the harsh criticisms I received during my qualifying exam echoed in my head, threatening to drag me into a whirlpool of self-doubt. But I did my best to disregard them. And eventually, I landed on a plan that built off the work I’d already done but used fresh ideas. Regardless of whether my hypothesis proved to be correct, I felt that my project would push the frontiers of my field.

Still, I expected the worst as I submitted my application. Five months later, I braced myself for heartbreak once again as I fumbled to log in to view my scores. But this time, the result was different: I had earned a fellowship.

I can’t claim to have mastered the art of writing an NIH proposal. But the award showed me how far I had progressed since my qualifying exam. It also underscored that I need to let go of worrying about creating a scientifically infallible proposal. Avoiding negative reviewer comments shouldn’t be the sole aim. Exciting projects, with big, bold ideas, are the ones that will both move our science forward and capture the curiosity of fellow scientists.

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

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Moving for a postdoc can be expensive. This pilot program shows one way to help

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From ScienceMag:

When Ashlynn Boedecker started her postdoc, the moving costs—renting a truck, gas, a security deposit, rent—were more than she had available in her bank account, she recalls.

The aquatic biogeochemist, like many academics, wasn’t a stranger to financially stressful moves. When she relocated to start her Ph.D. at Baylor University after finishing her master’s degree, she couldn’t afford to buy a mattress for the first few months. “I slept on the floor … on a makeshift bed,” she says.

But this time around, Boedecker was more fortunate: She was one of 51 Ohio State University (OSU) postdocs awarded $5000 to cover or reimburse moving costs. “It was super helpful,” she says. “Moving is expensive.”

The OSU pilot program, which began in 2022 funded by the W. K. Kellogg Foundation, was the brainchild of Zakee Sabree, a former faculty director for OSU’s office of postdoctoral affairs. Sabree, an associate professor and microbial ecoevolutionary biologist, was inspired to take action after speaking with postdocs about their financial challenges and reading a 2019 Nature Careers story entitled “How a long-distance job move can leave early-career researchers short of cash.” “I remember my own experience of having to fund all of my moves,” he says. “When I saw that postdocs are still doing the exact same thing I was doing, oh gosh, nearly 20 years ago, it was surprising to me.”

Early-career scientists are often expected to uproot their lives and move to a new location every few years. But given the low pay of many graduate student and postdoc positions, “financially, it’s not always possible,” notes Veronica Farrugia Drakard, an ocean science postdoc at the University of Alaska Fairbanks and member of the National Postdoctoral Association’s postdoc council. Some universities, programs, and individual faculty members provide support to postdocs who relocate for the job, she notes. But according to an analysis of policies at 49 research-intensive universities Sabree and colleagues published last month in Applied and Environmental Microbiology, it isn’t very common, at least at the university level.

The OSU pilot program shows one way it can be done. Science Careers spoke with Sabree to find out more about the program and why funding for postdoc relocation expenses is needed. The interview was edited for clarity and brevity.

Q: What are the challenges and constraints for faculty who are trying to fund this on their own? I imagine it’s hard given that salaries are going up and budgets have remained relatively flat.

A: I think faculty are recognizing that it’s harder to just recruit postdocs because fewer and fewer Ph.D.s are doing postdocs. So even though the budgets have been flat, faculty who want postdocs are having to be a lot more creative and are trying to do things like this to stand out. That’s particularly true for junior faculty that are trying to compete for the best postdocs with labs that might be more well known and well established. Faculty are also using these kinds of incentives in efforts to try to recruit postdocs that are maybe from underrepresented backgrounds, who may not have independent wealth to be able to support them traveling from place to place.

Q: Incoming postdocs are often coming straight out of grad school, so they probably don’t have a lot on their bank account.

A: Exactly. I learned from the questionnaire that we administered to recipients of the award, that some of them were like, “I came from a family where I’m the first person to go to college, and there just wasn’t any money. So this was really nice, because it meant that I didn’t have to put this on a credit card.” Many of them had very little, if any, savings. Some of them had debt from grad school.

Q: How did you select who received the funding?

A: We wanted faculty to use this as a way to recruit really competitive postdocs. And so when we put out the call, we told faculty, “You don’t have to have hired someone. You can tell them that, ‘If you do come to OSU, this is one of the things that I could offer.’” So it was available for faculty to use as an incentive. It was also available for postdocs that had been here for less than a year.

Then for who we selected, we were looking to support postdocs that were going to labs where faculty had a record of having done some kind of training in postdoctoral mentoring, or had some history in having mentored a lot of postdocs. Because we wanted to ensure that we were funding postdocs that were going to be getting a lot of support. We were also interested in postdocs that were doing research that asked questions that impacted underrepresented people in some kind of way. In the end, we were able to fund about 40% of the applications.

Q: You got this funding from Kellogg for the pilot project. Are you going to continue it and scale it up? What’s the plan going forward?

A: We reached out to some university leadership about scaling up this program, because it’s fairly inexpensive to run, and we were informally encouraged to continue to seek external support for this program. I’m no longer the faculty director, and so it’s not clear to me if the current director is going to try to pursue external support for it. It’s uncertain what will happen.

Q: In your paper you recommended incoming faculty think about negotiating postdoc relocation expenses in their startup budgets. Are there other creative ways to fund this?

A: That’s right, it was one of my co-authors who had suggested that. It made all the sense in the world to include that as a part of the startup package negotiations. Another idea we had, but didn’t put in the paper, was that faculty could apply for this kind of funding every few years—for example, every third or fourth year the university could provide them with support to hire a postdoc like this. So it wouldn’t be something for all postdocs being hired at all times, but all faculty would receive this kind of relocation support occasionally. This way, it wouldn’t have to be quite so expensive for central budgets.

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How to share science with the public when your research is secret

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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

At a holiday party last week, I found myself chatting about a topic that probably makes me a terrific party guest: extolling the virtues of scientists sharing their work with the public whenever possible. I even think of it as a sort of obligation: If you have the privilege of working in science, it’s your responsibility to do at least a little outreach to promote openness, humanize scientists, and interest future generations.

The person I was talking to, a science communication specialist, agreed. She lamented that she often advises scientists to get out there and talk about their work, but many times, scientists will push back, saying, “I want to, but I can’t.”

They didn’t mean they lack communication skills or don’t have time, or their colleagues would judge them as unserious if they spent time on communication and outreach, though all may be true for some scientists to some extent. They meant their institution explicitly forbids them from sharing their results, and if they tried to sidestep the hierarchy dictating when they are and aren’t allowed to communicate, they could lose their jobs.

It sounds almost Orwellian, but I understand. When I worked for a startup biotech company, we had very strict rules about what we could say in public, not because we’re enigmatic scientists cackling over a cauldron in a back room, but because we had intellectual property to maintain. We had grants to renew, publications that might be threatened if information leaked early, and trade secrets our company depended on to remain financially solvent. Any concealment wasn’t a product of science, it was the fault of capitalism.

Even now, as a molecular biologist working for the government, I can’t talk about my work in public without a lengthy review process. Heck, I can’t even specify more about my position than “working for the government” in this article, lest my outside activity as a freelance columnist be construed as somehow related to my day job, which it isn’t.

All of this sidestepping, the whole “I can talk generally but can’t give you details about such and such,” understandably gives the public the impression that we don’t want to invite them in, reinforcing our reputation for being secretive. It’s akin to how we decorate our buildings with “KEEP OUT” signs, biohazard warnings, badge access—not because we don’t want anyone to know what we’re doing, but because our buildings often hold dangerous materials and sensitive equipment. It’s just a sensible restriction. It’s the same reason the restaurant chef doesn’t typically invite you into the kitchen: The cooks aren’t deceiving you behind that swinging door, but at the same time, they don’t want you spitting in the salad or tossing oily paper towels onto a gas burner to see what happens.

As public distrust for science and scientists continues to plague society (sometimes potentially leading to literal plagues), how do we shed the implication that this is the dynamic we want? How do we safely invite the diners into the kitchen?

Even if we can’t disclose details of our current research, we can and should trumpet from the hills all the things we can talk about. We can talk about how we became interested in science. We can describe our career paths. We can discuss what a scientist’s daily schedule is like. Beyond showing the public our good intentions, we can show STEM careers are accessible, and even fun, to the next generation of scientists.

We can talk about the general scientific principles we’re familiar with. We can talk about the work of other scientists. We can examine the way science is portrayed in books and movies. We can teach, we can demonstrate, we can analyze whole fields. We can make a case for funding basic research. Until we’ve exhausted what we can share, let’s not use what we can’t share as an excuse to share nothing.

There are so many ways that you, as a scientist, can open our doors wider without divulging trade secrets. Talk to your child’s (or someone else’s child’s) class about science (bonus points for a liquid nitrogen demo). Blog your thoughts about science in the news. Judge science fairs. Speak at science cafes.

There are some things we can’t talk about, but the more we’re heard saying, “I can’t talk about that,” the more shadowy and untrustworthy we seem, and the less likely it is the public will trust our advice. For everything we can talk about, let’s annihilate all barriers, real and perceived, logistical and intellectual, to welcoming the world into science. Many of us became scientists because we realize that the world is science.

Let’s share it with as many people as we can.

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I took a break from work to protect my health. This should be more accepted in academia

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From ScienceMag:

I vividly remember the day I realized I couldn’t keep going as I was. I was sitting in my office, the late afternoon sunshine casting long shadows across my desk. My hands were trembling, not from nerves, but from the sheer exhaustion that had been my constant companion for months. I had just finished a long consultation with a patient when a sharp pain shot through my chest—a not-so-subtle reminder from my body that I was pushing it too far.

I had always prided myself on being strong and resilient, someone who could handle anything thrown my way. As a doctor and skin researcher, I was always busy: My days were filled with the demands of the clinic and the lab, my evenings spent poring over the latest studies.

I was also living with a chronic illness. When I first received my diagnosis, I brushed it off. “I can handle this,” I told myself. “I’ve handled worse.” And for several years I did, pushing through the pain and fatigue, convinced that slowing down in my work would mean falling behind.

But the chest pain, it turned out, wasn’t only a symptom of my illness: I was also pregnant. I was overjoyed when I found out—but also terrified. How could I continue to work at this pace while also nurturing a new life? I had to make a choice: Continue to push myself to the brink, or take a step back.

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I began to see my time off not as a failure, but as a necessary pause.
  • Monisha Madhumita
  • Saveetha Medical College

Deciding to take a yearlong break from my work was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. I felt I was letting everyone down—my colleagues, my patients, and worst of all, myself.

The dismissive reactions of some of my colleagues made it worse. In India, where I work, women doctors normally take just 6 weeks of maternity leave, right after delivery. It’s unheard of to take a full year off, or stop working a few months into pregnancy, as I did. One colleague remarked that taking so much leave “isn’t a great look for someone aspiring to leadership.” Another told me, “Women have been working through pregnancies for generations. Why should you be any different?”

Repeatedly justifying my need to take time off to protect my health and my baby’s was exhausting. And with no clear policies to rely on, my institution was uncertain about how to handle the situation, so I had to draft multiple requests, consult experts, and appeal to my employer’s goodwill—not for special treatment, but simply to meet my basic needs.

In the early days of my break, I often lay awake at night, wondering whether my decision would indeed derail my career. I watched my colleagues continue their research and publish papers, while I missed out on an important promotion opportunity and had to give up a large multicenter grant. It was hard to watch others advance while I stood still.

But as time went on, something shifted. I began to see my time off not as a failure, but as a necessary pause. I realized it didn’t mean I was any less capable or ambitious, but that I valued my health and wellbeing enough to prioritize them. And it meant that when I returned to work, I was able to give my best—not just the remnants of someone who had been running on empty.

My experience also made me realize how far academia still has to go to better support women and people with disabilities—both in India and around the world. I was able to make a strong case for myself, but not everyone is in such a position—and the onus shouldn’t be on the individual. Taking time off for health reasons, pregnancy, or mental well-being should be not only accepted, but encouraged. This means both governments and employers need to implement policies that provide real support, such as flexible working arrangements, more generous paid leave, and resources for managing chronic conditions. And we shouldn’t have to apologize or feel ashamed for asking for these changes: They would lead to a more inclusive, productive, and humane workplace for everyone.

I’m grateful to have been able to return to my job, unlike many people who take long absences. Now that I’m back, I approach my goals differently. I no longer feel the need to tackle everything at once; instead, I have learned to focus on what matters most. And I’ve come to understand that stepping back isn’t a setback; it’s a strategy.

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

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Perfecting academic writing, facing fraud: Science’s top personal essays of this year

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“I hated writing growing up,” Rachel Yang lamented in an essay she wrote for Science Careers this year. “It felt like navigating a chaotic jungle, where creative types swung easily among the tangled vines, while I clung petrified on a low-hanging limb, unsure where to reach next.”

It’s a struggle that was clearly on many readers’ minds this year, given the popularity of Yang’s essay and others we published about academic writing and publishing. Some focused on the craft, including the back and forth with co-authors that is inherent to so much academic publishing. Others reflected on the content, asking whether it is OK to take risks in grant proposals or write papers about experiments that didn’t work.

As part of our Working Life section, a weekly series that explores lessons scientists learn as they pursue their careers, we also published essays about scientific fraud, moving internationally, mentoring, and more. Here are the most read ones from the past year, to offer some inspiration and reflection as we head into the new year.

I hated writing—until I learned there’s a science to it

Writing is a process of “trial and error,” Yang argues.

Amid my Ph.D. struggles I learned I am neurodivergent—and found ways to thrive

Charlotte Goeyers has embraced her neurodivergent brain—and all that comes with it.

When a postdoc in my lab committed fraud, I had to face my own culpability

“I had been duped,” Rosalind Coleman writes.

I struggled after moving internationally for a postdoc. Here’s how my family and I coped

Open communication and new experiences helped Adrian Beckert out of a rut.

When I left academia, I had to embrace starting over

“It was humbling and exciting, all at once,” Ashley Ruba writes.

I thought I could conquer academic writing on my own—until I learned better

As a postdoc, Yaowu Zhang realized that in the realm of academic writing, scientists are “all perpetual learners, forever refining our craft.”

To make it through my Ph.D., I had to escape ‘grad student guilt’

Will Hart writes about how he rewired his brain.

How I made a place for myself in academia—by focusing on my writing

For Violeta Rodriguez, scientific publications were key for boosting her confidence.

How I lost and found my scientific creativity

After reflecting on his career, Jeffrey McDonnell identifies when he was his most scientifically creative self.

To write successful scientific grant proposals, I had to learn to take risks

“I didn’t want to write a proposal tailored to avoiding criticism,” Allison Boboltz writes.

Other notable essays

As women in academia, having children can feel impossible. Talking about it makes us feel less alone

How I turned seemingly ‘failed’ experiments into a successful Ph.D.

When my lab members started to leave, I felt like a failure as a mentor

How asking my Ph.D. adviser for areas to improve transformed my career outlook

Amid the stress of academia, I missed signs I had bipolar disorder

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As an early-career researcher, I loved doing outreach. So I made it my career

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From ScienceMag:

When the call came for volunteers to visit local schools for Brain Awareness Week, I jumped at the opportunity. I had spent the past 3 years with my head down, focused on my neuroscience Ph.D., and I liked the idea of getting out and sharing what I was learning. The other graduate students and I brought a real human brain, using it as a guide to talk about the frontal lobe, hippocampus, amygdala, and other brain regions. “Where is creativity located?” one student asked. I found it deeply satisfying to help them understand even just a little bit about why their grandparents might not remember things or why the brains of their autistic brothers or sisters might work differently. The next day, I went back to my normal lab routine. But the experience planted a seed, eventually leading me to a new career.

I entered grad school with the same hope as many other students: to become a professor. I imagined myself running a research lab while teaching undergrads, inspiring them to become passionate about discovery.

I wasn’t required to teach, but I lobbied my department to make me a teaching assistant. I also volunteered here and there for outreach activities by judging science fairs, giving lab tours, and visiting classrooms. But mostly I focused squarely on research, which I was told should be the priority if I wanted an academic job.

I was perfectly happy with that for many years, as I loved making discoveries and publishing papers about them. But after I became a postdoc I realized something was off. I felt lost in the fine details of the research and yearned to see the big picture impact.

Amid my struggle, flyers and emails popped up announcing that my institute was going to hold its first ever career symposium. My curiosity was piqued. Could I find a meaningful career outside academia?

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I have loved finding ways to break down complicated concepts into simple parts.
  • Catherine Croft
  • the Nysmith School and Catlilli Games

The education panel captivated me. It was eye opening to hear scientists describe how they had transitioned to positions at museums or research institutes, where they shared scientific knowledge with children and other members of the public. It was my first inkling that science education could even be a career. Afterward, I asked the panelists for advice on how I could follow in their footsteps, although I admitted, “I don’t know if I’m brave enough.”

The panelists convinced me I could make a career out of my interest in outreach. But after my fellowship ended I faced a new set of obstacles. I quickly realized my new path wasn’t as straightforward as the academic route. “How do I find these jobs?” I wondered. I also worried about having to face the condescending looks of former colleagues, who I feared would view me as a failed postdoc. But, close to 40 years old at that point, with two young children, I chose to be courageous and do what was best for me.

I ended up following a winding path. Initially, I wrote about scientific discoveries for the public and worked at a science enrichment center. Eventually I found my way into a job teaching biology to public high school students. The first year was difficult, because I had to learn classroom management and best teaching practices. But I soon navigated my way through the ins and outs of my new profession and became confident in my choice.

In the 10 years I’ve spent as a teacher, I have loved finding ways to break down complicated concepts into simple parts. My science training has come in handy when guiding students through labs and helping them realize there is no “correct” answer to be found. And I have enjoyed telling them about my research experiences, including how often experiments fail. It’s gratifying to think I’ve done my best to guide their lives in new directions, however big or small.

I sometimes look back wistfully on my research career. But when I see the immediate impact that I am making on young people’s lives, I know my new path is a good match for my skills and passions. Scientists come in many forms and can serve society in different ways. It took me a long time to realize that, but I am at peace with it now.

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

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I thought being strong meant hiding my struggles—but I learned a better way

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From ScienceMag:

Moments before heading to teach a class, I received a call from my sister: My mother was going into emergency surgery and might not make it through the night. Five minutes later, I stepped in front of 68 MBA students to lecture without missing a beat, and even stayed a few minutes after to answer questions. I held strong until I got in the car to drive home. That’s when I fell to pieces. I fought to see the road through my tears as I spoke with my travel agent to book the next flight out. My mother pulled through the surgery. I didn’t miss any work, and none of my colleagues knew I spent the weekend with my mother in the intensive care unit. My career as an assistant professor continued as usual.

My response to my mother’s crisis was in line with my deep, enduring fear of showing vulnerability or admitting to feeling overwhelmed. As the youngest of 14 children from a Vietnamese refugee family, showcasing my strength seemed the best way to honor my parents’ and siblings’ sacrifices that have given me a better life in the United States. Through my higher education and well into my career as a professor, global speaker, and consultant, I avoided showing any cracks in my armor. I did not want colleagues to question my capabilities or friends and family to see me as anything less than unshakable. As waves of adversity crashed over me— multiple deaths in my family, career challenges, health scares, financial struggles, failed relationships—I maintained a facade of unwavering strength while inwardly crumbling under the weight of my own expectations and fears.

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My confidants … helped me see there is no disgrace in seeking help.
  • Lan Nguyen Chaplin
  • Northwestern University

The truth was, I yearned to pause, to catch my breath, to simply say, “I’m struggling.” I craved to be vulnerable. I wanted to acknowledge my mistakes, to honor a range of emotions, and to ask for help. But I was so used to being strong and conquering anything that stood in my way that I didn’t know how. It didn’t help that, in the rare cases when I hinted at my struggles, I was often met with well-meaning reminders of my strength—“You’re so resilient,” “If anyone can overcome this, it’s you.” These words, though said with kind intentions, made it even harder to admit vulnerability.

But about 15 years after that incident with my mother, as I approached the midpoint of my career, I hit a breaking point. I had lost my 15-month-long bid for a promotion, faced a health scare, and experienced a profound change in my family life. I realized my perpetual exhaustion, sleepless nights, migraines, and inability to concentrate were glaring indicators that my relentless pursuit of strength had become counterproductive.

I still worried about what people would think of me if I confessed to being exhausted or, worse, that I needed their support. But I dug deep to find a new kind of strength: the power to acknowledge my limits and seek a new path forward.

Cautiously, I began to reveal slivers of my struggle to my personal and professional circles, watching closely for reactions. Some belittled my experience by saying things like “It could be worse” or “Everyone goes through tough times,” or thought the solution was to distract me from my worries to “cheer me up,” and I quietly stepped away from them. But a few met my disclosures with genuine empathy, and they became my confidants. I opened up fully to them that I was burned out after nearly 3 decades of pushing myself to be strong despite my hardships. To my great relief, they listened without judgment and respected my boundaries and coping process. They offered information about counseling services, legal help, support groups, and hotlines. They helped me see there is no disgrace in seeking help, that even professionals in leadership positions can need support. They also encouraged me to prioritize my mental well-being and physical health.

To anyone bearing the weight of constant strength, hear this: True strength isn’t about never faltering. It’s about having the courage to admit when we’re struggling, reaching out for support, and having the fortitude to piece ourselves back together and thrive.

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NIH postdocs, graduate students win union contract

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From ScienceMag:

After more than 3 years of rallying and union organizing, early-career researchers at the U.S. National Institutes of Health (NIH) saw a new contract go into effect this week. The agreement—the first to be negotiated by a union representing scientists at a federal research facility—includes provisions that limit work hours, guarantee paid parental leave, and provide protections against harassment for the roughly 5000 nonpermanent researchers, including graduate students, postdocs, and postbaccalaureates, who work at NIH facilities. The deal also promises to boost pay, which could set a precedent for other institutions—but raises will not be instated until 2026 at the earliest.

“We didn’t win everything we wanted,” says union bargaining team member Emilya Ventriglia, a neuroscience Ph.D. student at Brown University who is doing her research at the National Institute of Mental Health. “But I think we got somewhere that was really incredible and is going to really provide some transformative gains for not only fellows today, but fellows of the future.” In an email to Science, an NIH spokesperson wrote that the agency “looks forward to a positive labor-management relationship as we implement the contract.”

The union, called NIH Fellows United, struck the deal with NIH last month, almost a year to the day after the Federal Labor Relations Authority granted it approval to form in December 2023. The final 3-year contract, which was supported by 98% of union members in a vote last month and approved by the Department of Health and Human Services this week, will provide a range of protections and benefits, including the right to appeal to a neutral arbitrator in cases involving harassment, bullying, and other workplace disputes; paid leave for parents and others who need to care for a family member; up to $1500 in relocation benefits per union member; the right to adhere to a 40-hour workweek unless a project calls for a greater number of hours; a formal process for requesting remote work accommodations; dedicated time for professional development and training; and access to gender-neutral bathrooms.

The contract also increases pay. Graduate student stipends will increase from the current minimum of $46,100 to $50,400. Minimum pay for postbaccalaureate researchers—who work for NIH after receiving a bachelor’s or master’s degree—will go from $41,700 to $44,806. And postdocs, which make up roughly one-half of union members, will see their minimum pay rise to $68,544, a modest increase from the current $67,200.

William Herbert, executive director of the National Center for the Study of Collective Bargaining in Higher Education and the Professions at Hunter College, says the deal could be used as a reference point for early-career researchers who are negotiating contracts with their own universities. For instance, they could push for similar pay levels and benefits. They may also want to copy the contract provision that “makes a 40-hour workweek the baseline,” he says.

Pay was among the last contract details to be nailed down during the 8-month negotiation. At one point, NIH representatives told the union they could “not bargain over economics,” according to bargaining team member Marjorie Levinstein, a neuropharmacology postdoc at the National Institute on Drug Abuse. (NIH didn’t respond to questions about negotiations over pay.) Federal employees are legally prohibited from going on strike. But after union members held a rally in October 2024 to demand a fair contract, additional bargaining sessions were held to negotiate salary levels and other final details, such as health care benefits.

Still, union members won’t see changes to the paychecks until next year at the earliest; NIH told the bargaining team it will need to request new appropriations from Congress. The contract also includes language that allows NIH to “pause or reduce” the stipulated pay increases if there are “insufficient available appropriations.”

The delay and lack of a guarantee is frustrating, Levinstein acknowledges. “It was definitely something we were trying to push back on,” she says.

But the planned eventual pay boosts, which include annual increases, would be a welcome relief for NIH researchers in the future, Ventriglia says. “A large majority of us are in the [Washington,] D.C., … area, and it’s just, frankly, so expensive, and everything keeps getting more expensive.”

Having the overall contract in place also gives union members some peace of mind as change comes to the White House. “With any administration change, there’s always uncertainty,” Levinstein says. “Having our working conditions set in this contract before that happened was definitely an important thing to get done.”

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