From ScienceMag:

In front of me was a sandwich. On the other side of that sandwich was my state’s director of public health. What was a second-year Ph.D. student doing in this situation? Despite the fear and excitement that left me feeling like I was riding a unicycle on the edge of a canyon, I did my best to appear easygoing and professional. This lunch had been my idea, after all. I had been struggling to approach the more experienced and prominent scientists I worked with, and I had thought asking them to lunch might offer a way in. I planned to follow specific talking points to avoid any awkward silences, but instead I found myself ad-libbing everything. Would this lunch be an embarrassing dead end rather than the opening I was hoping for?

I had recently joined a group full of world-class investigators—an exciting environment to be a trainee in, but also pretty intimidating. I felt compelled to make the most of the great wealth of knowledge around me. But the days were chock-full of bench work, meetings, and closed office doors. Asking basic questions in group meetings or requesting investigators’ time for a discussion felt almost impossible. How was I supposed to make inroads without being obnoxious?

Eventually, I began to notice something: When lunch time came around, the busyness subsided, the conference room was empty, and I often spotted investigators eating in their offices. Holding important meetings or conducting lab work with a mouthful of turkey sandwich was frowned on, but it was quite common to sit down with someone and have a conversation over a meal. It occurred to me that offering lunch could be an acceptable way to connect with a busy principal scientist.

I decided to test out my theory, with the state official as my first attempt. I had seen him speak on several occasions—my research institute adjoined the laboratories he ran—and I found his vision for public health inspiring. I seriously doubted he would have the time to meet with a graduate student. Still, I figured I had nothing to lose. So, when I passed him in the hallway one day, I stopped him, introduced myself, and asked whether he would be willing to have lunch with me some time. I worried I would come across as a bother and that I was overstepping some unspoken social rule. But to my surprise, he didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he answered.

Offering lunch could be an acceptable way to connect with a busy principal scientist.

• Luke Childress
• University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences

The lunch lasted a little less than an hour, but it had an enduring impact on me. Despite the awkward small talk I inflicted on him, we found we had many common interests and intellectual passions. He shared that when he had been in grad school, he had also struggled to connect with midcareer professionals. We exchanged contacts for future correspondence, and I left invigorated and full of insights. Something about sitting down for lunch with him made everybody seem a little less godlike and a little more human. It gave me faith in my ability to fit in around accomplished scientists. And all I had done was ask.

With the confidence born of this experience, I made a mental list of people to invite to lunch and worked through it, week by week. I explained I was a student who wanted to learn about their professional experiences. I generally asked in person, often suggested a restaurant to reduce friction in the interaction, and always offered to pay (though the more senior invitees usually insisted on footing the bill). And no matter how preoccupied they seemed, few people have been unwilling to offer me an hour of their time over the pretense of a meal. I’ve lunched with my thesis committee members, the head of my division, postdocs, lab mates, and collaborating scientists. Each time, it got easier to ask good questions and make a genuine connection. By the time our plates were empty, we’ve often gone from professional topics to more intimate personal conversations.

In my final year of graduate school, I now have a wealth of lunchtime mentors whom I feel comfortable approaching for advice or references. For the next stage of my career, I’m already looking into the tastiest bistros nearby.

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From ScienceMag:

Standing on the stage at my first overseas conference, I remember feeling dazzled. The marble hall glistened under the soft light. Experts from around the globe exchanged thoughts in low, confident tones. And I had been invited here to give a talk about my own research. It should have been a major boost to my confidence. But as I fumbled with my notes, I heard a familiar whisper: What if they find out you don’t really belong here?

I’d been experiencing impostor syndrome since long before the conference. It first crept up on me after I failed my final year of high school. I didn’t value learning then, and being surrounded by classmates who had already given up—and teachers who didn’t seem to care—only reinforced my apathy. Changing schools and then starting university gave me a fresh chance, but I was worried I would be exposed as someone who didn’t belong.

Even after I hit my stride as an undergraduate in Morocco, I often felt far removed from the global scientific community. In Morocco, at public universities, science is taught in French, and I found this a barrier to connecting with the wider, predominantly English-speaking field. The limited funding and scarce opportunities for international collaboration or career development only deepened this feeling.

My Ph.D. work made me feel like even more of an impostor. I set out to use artificial intelligence to better understand the proteins in snake venom. My background was in mechanical design and bionics, yet suddenly I was plunged into the world of neural networks, biomolecules, and data sets, struggling to connect the dots. As I tried to catch up by teaching myself the basics, I was once again terrified that someone would call me out.

However, something changed in me at that conference. Despite my fears, my presentation went well, and the encouragement I received from senior researchers gave me a muchneeded spark of validation. But the real boost came later in the meeting, after I attended a session for early-career researchers that featured talks by established scientists.

Maybe impostor syndrome wasn’t a sign of failure, but a sign of growth.

• Anas Bedraoui
• Mohammed VI Polytechnic University

I had expected the session to be filled with advice and strategies for those starting out. Instead, I got raw honesty. A highly accomplished scientist from Germany—someone whose papers I had cited—leaned forward and said, “I still feel like an impostor sometimes.” You could feel the collective sigh of relief ripple through the room. We were all thinking the same thing: Wait, you feel it, too?

One after another, the speakers shared stories of doubt. Researchers with decades of experience, prestigious awards, and countless publications all admitted to moments when they felt they didn’t measure up, that they weren’t really qualified, that they’d somehow tricked the world into believing they were experts. I couldn’t believe it. These were people I admired, people whose work defined fields. And yet, they, too, wrestled with the same ghost that haunted me.

That moment reframed everything for me. Maybe impostor syndrome wasn’t a sign of failure, but a sign of growth. These people were deeply knowledgeable—but that also meant they could see the vastness of what’s still unknown, and were all the more humble for it. If that’s what made them feel like impostors, then I was happy to be a part of that club.

Now, when I’m writing an article or giving a talk, I still sometimes hear that voice asking me what I’m doing here. But thanks to the supportive community I found at that conference, I know I’m in good company.

Still, academia needs to do more to ensure that early-career researchers feel they belong in the scientific community—particularly those from the Global South, who often don’t have access to the same networks and resources as those in more affluent countries. More international societies could provide discounted membership rates, for instance, and increase support for travel and visa applications; conference organizers should also consider holding more events in the Global South.

This kind of support opens doors, makes us feel invited and welcome, and tells us: You are needed here. And maybe that’s how we finally silence the whisper for good.

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From ScienceMag:

Late one evening, I stared at a rejection email for yet another grant proposal. I had hoped that securing independent funding would improve my chances of landing a tenure-track position at a research-focused university; years of training had ingrained the belief that such institutions were the only place one could make a meaningful contribution to science. Yet, after countless job applications, I hadn’t been invited to a single interview, and the rejection of my latest grant proposal added salt to the wound. My career objective felt increasingly out of reach. I still wanted to conduct impactful research and foster students’ critical thinking and scientific curiosity, but maybe it was time to look for another path toward those goals.

I had started my academic journey as a university instructor in Ethiopia, where I found immense satisfaction in mentoring students. However, the limited resources and opportunities there made it difficult to pursue my own growth, so I went to the United States for my Ph.D. and postdoc. As I progressed in my training, I internalized the dominant narrative that success meant securing a faculty position at a research-intensive R1 institution.

This wasn’t about settling … it was about finding a space where I could thrive.

• Salahuddin Mohammed
• Notre Dame of Maryland University

But during my postdoc, I realized I needed to change my perspective. I am a husband and father of two daughters, one of whom requires ongoing medical care. My modest salary and limited benefits made every day feel like walking a tightrope over an abyss of financial instability and emotional exhaustion. Professional stress bled into my home life, where I couldn’t be fully present for my family. In turn, the weight of my personal responsibilities made professional setbacks feel even more crushing. Trapped in this exhausting cycle, I began to reconsider my career path.

I read articles and browsed job postings. LinkedIn and academic networking platforms provided insights into the experiences of faculty at non-R1 institutions. I was particularly drawn to smaller universities that, although they still support research, place a greater emphasis on teaching. I reached out to professors at these institutions and gleaned invaluable insights. I liked that these universities emphasize expertise and vision, along with the opportunity to build meaningful academic programs. They also offered adequate pay and comprehensive benefits—factors that were becoming increasingly important as I considered my long-term career stability. The fog began to lift. This wasn’t about settling for a less prestigious or less impactful institution—it was about finding a space where I could thrive. It was about choosing an environment that would allow me to pursue my professional aspirations while also attending to my personal life.

I applied to several positions—and was relieved and delighted when I started to receive invitations to interview. The campus visits, which included teaching demonstrations, discussions about mentoring, and an emphasis on how I would integrate research into a student-centered environment, were challenging but invigorating, helping confirm that I was heading in the right direction.

Once I started my current position, any lingering doubts quickly faded. The rhythm of my days shifted: Instead of spending long, uninterrupted hours in the lab, I had to balance lecture preparation, student advising, and scattered moments for research. But with my institution’s ample support, I felt clarity for the first time in years. The students’ engagement and curiosity reignited my passion for mentorship. And research didn’t disappear—it evolved. Summers became dedicated windows for focused experiments and writing manuscripts, and during the academic year I delved into analysis.

Now, 2 years into my position, I’ve learned to redefine success. For me, it isn’t solely about high-impact publications or prestigious grants—it’s about creating opportunities for students to thrive, asking meaningful research questions, and maintaining a balance between professional aspirations and personal well-being. In this space—where teaching, research, and mentorship converge—I’ve discovered not just success, but significance.

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From ScienceMag:

When I started on the tenure track, I knew securing external funding was crucial to my success. And for health equity research, my specialty, NIH is the obvious choice. In graduate school, I spent countless hours refining my grant-writing skills, knowing that no matter how strong my research was, none of it would matter without funding to support it. I worked with mentors and researchers who invested in me, who believed in my ability to become an independent researcher. They guided me through NIH’s proposal process, helping me sharpen my ideas, strengthen my applications, and navigate the often-opaque world of grant review. In my first year as an assistant professor, I was elated to be awarded the prestigious NIH Director’s Early Independence Award. It was supposed to be a launch pad to accelerate my research and career.

But now, I submit proposals into a system where even NIH officers don’t know what will happen next. Will my grants ever be reviewed? What can I research?

Every researcher understands rejection—that’s academia. At least it came with a clear timeline: feedback would arrive, resubmission would be encouraged, and the next steps were relatively predictable. I used to tell myself that every unsuccessful grant was a learning experience—that even if I didn’t get funded, the process of writing the proposal would help me sharpen my research questions.

How do you strategize around an unpredictable funding landscape?

• Violeta J. Rodriguez
• University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign

The sheer ambiguity of the current situation, on the other hand, is much harder to manage. This uncertainty is affecting every aspect of my work—and my current and potential future students. Every week spent writing grant proposals that may never be reviewed is a week not spent mentoring my students, analyzing data, or publishing. As early-career researchers, we are told to be strategic in how we allocate our time—one of our most valuable resources—to make sure we are focusing on the tasks that will advance our careers. But how do you strategize around an unpredictable funding landscape? What does it mean to “work smarter” when there’s no clear path forward? I recently made the difficult decision not to recruit a new graduate student for next year; given the unpredictability of my research funding, I can’t justify bringing someone in when I’m not sure I’ll be able to provide the stability graduate school requires.

And then there is the added layer of identity. I am a Latina scientist, an immigrant, and a non-native English speaker. I have felt the pressure of those labels throughout my career. And now, I can’t help but feel that weight even more keenly. In the broader context of what is happening to my community in this country, it feels trivial to worry about my personal funding and career progression. But it’s larger than me. So much of the support for minoritized scientists has come through targeted funding initiatives, mentorship programs, and institutional commitments to increasing diversity in research—opportunities that are disappearing.

Where do we go from here? I don’t have an answer. I don’t know what the next year will bring, what paylines will be, whether future proposals—or my research—will find a home. For now, my NIH application portal remains filled with blanks. I’ll keep checking. I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep doing what I can to move my research forward. But I, and so many others, can’t do this indefinitely. Something has to give.

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From ScienceMag:

The National Science Foundation (NSF) is shrinking its support of a long-running program that offers summer research opportunities to thousands of college students—many from groups historically underrepresented in science.

Within the past few weeks, several universities have had to cancel plans to host these students this summer after getting word they won’t be funded through NSF’s Research Experiences for Undergraduates (REU) program. The reasons are not clear, and NSF is not commenting. But it appears to be a combination of belt tightening while NSF awaits word on its final budget for this fiscal year and concern that the program may clash with the new administration’s ban on activities that promote diversity.

Begun in 1987 and with sites at hundreds of research-intensive U.S. campuses, the $80-million-a-year REU program caters to students whose home institutions can’t provide opportunities to do the original research needed to launch their careers in science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM) fields. Potential host institutions apply to NSF for 3 years of funding to support a summer cohort of eight to 10 students from other colleges and universities; prospective students then apply directly to the sites. Many REU programs have been running for decades, and some universities offer programs in different fields thanks to multiple awards.

With renewal rates of 80% or higher, many sites with expiring grants had already begun accepting applications in the expectation the proposal they submitted in August 2024 would be funded for another 3 years. But 2 weeks ago, many of those REU sites began to post notices saying this summer’s program has been canceled because of a lack of funding from NSF.

“It’s a gut punch for the field,” says astronomer Ralf Kotulla, who runs an REU at the University of Wisconsin–Madison up for renewal and also coordinates an informal network of 80 physics and astronomy REU sites around the country. He predicts the list of cancellations will grow significantly in the weeks to come because of the continuing congressional impasse over setting final spending levels across the federal government for the current fiscal year, which runs through 30 September.

Brian Utter, a teaching professor of physics at the University of California (UC), Merced, is part of that affected cohort. Utter says he got an “encouraging message” about the status of the physics REU site he runs only a few weeks before a 13 February email from two NSF program officers dashed his plans.

“Although we [had earlier] sent many of you emails expressing our plans to recommend for funding, circumstances have changed,” it read, referring to the pool of hundreds of applications reviewed last fall in response to NSF’s most recent annual request for REU proposals. “We deeply regret that we are not going to be able to hold to all of those plans.”

“Everybody was surprised at how quickly the landscape had changed,” Utter says about the unwelcome NSF email, which was followed a few days later by an official declination of his grant application. REU sites with funding in hand for 2025 and 2026 appear not to be affected by the cutbacks.

As soon as UC Merced officials got the word, they posted a notice online citing the country’s new president as the underlying cause. “Due to the uncertainty stemming from a lack of support for science funding by the Trump Administration, the NSF is unable to proceed with the initial funding recommendation anticipated to support the REU program,” it read. “Therefore, the UC Merced Physics REU will not take place in summer 2025.”

Utter speculates that fiscal constraints aren’t the only reason NSF has pulled back on its support for the REU program. “I think NSF was worried about not having enough money, for sure,” Utter says. “But attracting more students into STEM careers from groups underrepresented in science is also a big part of what the REU program is trying to do. And that would have made it a target” for President Donald Trump’s executive order last month banning government funding of diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts.

Some REU directors affected by NSF’s pullback say they assumed reviewers had found flaws in their proposal that led NSF to end its support for their site. But others are willing to accept the budget stalemate in Congress as the proximate cause. “We regret to inform you that the BioREU program has been cancelled for summer 2025 due to budgetary uncertainties at various federal funding agencies,” reads an email from Johns Hopkins University (JHU) about its program for biology students.

For students whose home institutions aren’t major research universities, a summer REU may be the only way to get the research experience needed to be admitted to a high-quality graduate program. The JHU post also highlights the importance of the REU program as a recruiting tool for universities. “We hope you will consider reapplying, and we certainly hope you will keep JHU in mind as you consider graduate school.”

REU programs that haven’t yet been canceled face a ticking clock as they wait on Congress to pass a final spending bill and avoid a governmentwide shutdown on 14 March, when the current temporary spending bill expires. But even if that happens—and NSF escapes significant budget cuts and decides to sustain REU funding at current levels—Kotulla worries congressional action may come too late for many REU programs.

“The physics and astronomy sites agreed to set a deadline of 3 March for notifying students who have been accepted,” he says. “And with 450 applications for our program, I can’t wait until NSF makes up its mind to go through all of them and choose 10 to admit.

“It’s also not fair to keep students in the dark about whether they will have a paying job this summer,” he adds, noting the REU grant comes with a $7000 stipend as well as room and board. “So, unless they hear in the next week or so, a lot more sites are going to have to cancel for this summer.”

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