U.S. government has lost more than 10,000 STEM Ph.D.s since Trump took office

From ScienceMag:

Some 10,109 doctoral-trained experts in science and related fields left their jobs last year as President Donald Trump dramatically shrank the overall federal workforce. That exodus was only 3% of the 335,192 federal workers who exited last year but represents 14% of the total number of Ph.D.s in science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM) or health fields employed at the end of 2024 as then-President Joe Biden prepared to leave office.

The numbers come from employment data posted earlier this month by the White House Office of Personnel Management (OPM). At 14 research agencies Science examined in detail, departures outnumbered new hires last year by a ratio of 11 to one, resulting in a net loss of 4224 STEM Ph.D.s. The graphs that follow show the impact is particularly striking at such scientist-rich agencies as the National Science Foundation (NSF). But across the government, these departing Ph.D.s took with them a wealth of subject matter expertise and knowledge about how the agencies operate.


2024

48,304 years

of federal work experience were lost across the 4576 employees with Ph.D.s who departed STEM or health roles 1 January–30 November

2025

106,636 years

of federal work experience were lost across the 10,109 employees with Ph.D.s who departed STEM or health roles 1 January–30 November


Losses surged in 2025

Every one of the 14 agencies that Science analyzed lost far more STEM Ph.D.s in 2025 than in 2024, before Trump took office. The National Institutes of Health tops the list with more than 1100 departures, compared with 421 in 2024. On average, the 14 agencies lost roughly three times more of these experts in 2025 than in 2024, with the highest percent increase in departures at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), and the U.S. Forest Service (USFS). At the same time, the number of STEM Ph.D.s hired at every agency was dramatically lower last year than in 2024.



Where the losses were greatest

Although the payroll for both STEM Ph.D.s (red bars) and non-STEM Ph.D.s (gray bars) shrank across the agencies that Science examined, research roles at four were hit particularly hard. NSF, EPA, the Department of Energy, and USFS all lost a greater percentage of that highly trained workforce than workers with less education. At NSF, the net reduction of 205 STEM Ph.D.s between 1 January and 30 November constituted 40% of its total pre-Trump Ph.D. workforce of 517, by far the largest percentage at any agency. STEM Ph.D.s also make up a larger percentage of the total workforce at NSF than at any other agency—some 30% in the waning days of the Biden administration. The losses reduced that percentage to 26% by 30 November 2025.



Why they left

Science’s analysis found that reductions in force, or RIFs, accounted for relatively few departures in 2025. Only at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, where 16% of the 519 STEM Ph.D.s who left last year got pink RIF slips, did the percentage exceed 6%, and some agencies reported no STEM Ph.D. RIFs in 2025.

At most agencies, the most common reasons for departures were retirements and quitting. Although OPM classifies many of these as voluntary, outside forces including the fear of being fired, the lure of buyout offers, or a profound disagreement with Trump policies, likely influenced many decisions to leave.

Many Ph.D.s departed because their position was terminated. At NSF, 45% of the 204 STEM Ph.D.s who left last year were rotators—academics on leave from their university to work for a few years at the agency. Last year, NSF eliminated three-quarters of those positions.



Graphics and data analysis by Monica Hersher.

Data

Departures and hires reflect all employees in monthly accessions and separations data published by the U.S. Office of Personnel Management (OPM) as of 12 January 2025.

Departures include all federal civilian employees who quit, retired, were terminated because of reductions in force, were fired, transferred out of an agency, or who left for any other reason. Hires include all federal civilian employees who were newly hired or transferred into an agency.

Changes in the number of personnel across agencies in December 2024 and November 2025 reflect all employees recorded in OPM’s monthly employment data as of 12 January 2025. These data include all active employees in either a pay or nonpay status as of the last day of each month.

Personnel were classified as an employee in a STEM or health role with a Ph.D. if they had an education level of doctorate degree or postdoctorate and were in a job classified as a STEM or health occupation, per OPM’s Enterprise Human Resources Integration (EHRI) Dynamics data.

Years of federal service experience lost includes “the number of years of federal civilian employment, creditable military service, and other service made creditable by specific legislation,” also per OPM’s EHRI data.

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How chasing a high-impact publication nearly broke me

From ScienceMag:

When a paper I had spent years working on tirelessly was published in Science, others expected me to be happy. One senior scientist immediately urged me to work on securing my own funding for a follow-up project and added, “If you want to become a PI [principal investigator], you now have to give 150%.” The advice was well-meaning; in his view, the Science publication was a step toward a job leading a lab. But it wasn’t clear how I would find the energy to keep going. After 8 years pouring myself into one postdoc project and submitting to Nature and Science, I barely had 50% left.

Years earlier, when I moved to France to start the project, I was full of enthusiasm and happy to work long hours. But as time went on and I struggled to get my project off the ground, pressure and insecurity became my main motivators. If I failed, I feared I would never get a job in academia.

Haunted by low self-esteem, I put pressure on myself to work harder and felt guilty whenever I took a break. Weekends disappeared into experiments, vacations shrank to a few days, and my mind no longer knew how to rest.

Nearly 3 years into the project, I finally saw a glimmer of hope: Under specific conditions, my mutants began to show a phenotype. It wasn’t the dramatic breakthrough I had imagined, but as I followed these early hints, the findings deepened.

Around that time, our group realized another lab was poised to potentially scoop us. That ramped up my anxiety even further. After some time working separately, we decided to join forces with our competitors. That eased the pressure. But I constantly feared they’d end the collaboration and submit first, as my experiments were perpetually behind schedule. Eventually, though, we submitted a joint paper to Nature.

The manuscript was rejected. But the editor left a small back door open, so we worked through about 50 reviewer comments, running new experiments and rewriting the paper—an effort that consumed 1 year of work. After another rejection, we fought on for another year. In the end, the appeal was denied. The editors offered to send the manuscript to one of Nature’s sister journals, which could have been an easier path to publishing. But we opted to submit to Science instead.

When the next round of reviewer comments—some very negative—came back, I almost cried. “Not again,” I remember thinking. Again it took well over a year to address another long round of revisions. But in the end we received an acceptance letter.

When the paper finally appeared in print, I was in no condition to rejoice. An old tic disorder had returned. My back and neck ached constantly. Skin rashes appeared. I struggled with focus, depression, and exhaustion. My creativity and energy had deserted me. I tried to write a follow-up grant but I couldn’t finish it. I was spent in body and mind.

After my postdoc contract was not renewed, I decided not to seek a new position in academia because I feared the stress would overwhelm me. I spent 2 years sending applications to biotech and pharma companies, without success.

Unemployed and receiving basic social welfare, I felt worthless and like an even bigger failure. This was the lowest point of my life, and I sought psychotherapy. It helped me see that I had tried to mold myself to academic expectations and lost sight of who I was and what I needed to thrive.

Now, at 44, with the help of my therapist, I have rediscovered myself through writing, dance, volunteering, and working as a barista. I also decided to dip my toes back into science. I wrote a grant proposal with a former colleague, and I plan to start doing some work in her lab next month. If our proposal is funded, I’ll lead a small team, on my terms.

The relentless pursuit of academic success through publications in prestigious journals nearly broke me. Looking back, I’m not sure it was worth the sacrifice. I might not have felt the need to step away from academia had we aimed for a lower impact journal. After taking time for recovery, I have come to appreciate that success isn’t solely a matter of high-impact papers or the steep climb up the academic ladder. For me, it now means tracing my own path, one that is sustainable and isn’t defined by what others expect of me.

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How Trump’s moves could dramatically reshape the scientific workforce

From ScienceMag:

In some ways, Jessica* and her husband were ahead of the curve. Months before Donald Trump was elected U.S. president for a second time, the chemistry postdoc began to submit applications for faculty jobs in Europe. “We were noticing the momentum in Florida,” she says of the overhaul of public universities that Republican Governor Ron DeSantis had implemented in her home state. The pair was also “very concerned” about Project 2025, the blueprint of presidential priorities laid out by a conservative think tank. “That’s when we thought, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to look outside the U.S.”

By the time she received an offer from a German university in March 2025, many of her worst fears had started to materialize. The Trump administration had begun to cancel grants touching on politically sensitive topics as part of a major shake-up at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) and the National Science Foundation (NSF), agencies she saw as potential funders of her work. The rise of anti-LGBTQ rhetoric also didn’t sit right with her as someone who wanted to form a diverse lab. She accepted the offer and moved overseas in September. “Our plan is to stay in Germany full time for the rest of our lives,” she said recently while walking to a German language class. (*Jessica requested Science not use her real name because her husband, who has yet to move to Germany, works for the U.S. government.)

It’s still not clear how much of the administration’s transformation of science will endure. And some researchers, especially established ones with large labs and multiple funding streams, may ultimately see little impact on their work. But the turmoil that has gripped the U.S. scientific community over the past year has led others to look abroad for opportunities, like Jessica, or to consider abandoning their STEM career ambitions entirely. “Some of my peers have left science,” says Emma Stauffenberg, a research technician at Stanford University who plans to apply to graduate programs in the fall.

Meanwhile, uncertainty about future funding has left university administrators and principal investigators, some of whom spoke with Science on the condition of anonymity, considering limits on hiring and grad school admissions that would squeeze the pipeline of new scientists. The composition of the people flowing through that pipeline might change as well with the decline in funding for diversity efforts and rising barriers to foreign students and researchers.

Just how many scientists have abandoned careers in the United States may not emerge for years. But to many, the administration has already dealt a major blow to the workforce by making it harder for many scientists to plan for the future—to envision the path forward for themselves, their labs, and their departments. “There have definitely been some cuts and delays in getting funded,” one chemist says of how her field has fared over the past year. But “what we’re more seeing is the toll of the uncertainty.”

Last year, the Trump administration stunned the scientific community with its swift and wide-ranging moves to upend federal funding programs that dole out roughly $60 billion in research support every year to institutions of higher education. Universities across the country were hit with pauses or outright cancellations of their grants. Harvard—one of several universities targeted with accusations of antisemitism—saw its entire $2.2 billion portfolio frozen. Some funding was later reinstated after a series of court cases and settlements, and the country’s two main funding agencies—NIH and NSF—spent their full budgets by the end of the fiscal year.

But U.S. scientists are fearful of what might be on the horizon. Last year, the Trump administration proposed slashing 2026 funding for many science agencies, including a roughly 40% cut at NIH and more than 50% at NSF. It also announced federal agencies would lower the indirect cost payments to universities that cover research overhead, such as building maintenance and administrative costs. The reductions, in some cases by 50% or more, could devastate universities’ ability to support research.

The U.S. Congress seems unlikely to go along with most of the proposed cuts. And the indirect cost cap is on hold as legal challenges work their way through the courts, several of which have already upheld challenges to the change. But in the meantime, it’s difficult for many labs to figure out how many trainees they can support in the coming years.

“On our campus we’ve had to have some very serious conversations about the size of our Ph.D. programs,” says Suzanne Barbour, dean of the graduate school at Duke University. “When our students are admitted, we promise them 5 years of support—and that’s stipend, it’s tuition, it’s fees, it’s health insurance, it’s dental insurance. And we have to make good on that promise.”

But admitting too few graduate students also carries risks. One department chair—who likened research teams to “massive locomotor trains” that, once slowed down, take time to get going again—has been advising faculty to continue to take on lab members as usual and reassess in a year or two. “Especially for early-career faculty, if they pump the brakes right now, that will have lasting impacts—they will be feeling that 5 or 10 years into the future,” she says.

For most STEM fields, graduate enrollment for the fall 2025 semester was roughly on par with what it had been the year before, according to a report released last week by the National Student Clearinghouse Research Center that looked at data from institutions across the country. But some fields saw declines, the largest of which was a 14% drop for the computer sciences. Enrollment of international graduate students was also down by 6%. That number had risen steadily over the previous several years, notes Matthew Holsapple, senior director of research at the Clearinghouse, “making this year’s downturn a pretty meaningful shift.”

It’s too early to tell what the numbers will look like this year. Some universities, including Harvard, plan to admit fewer students. But many academics told Science that final decisions haven’t been made, or that they’ll be made by individual departments and faculty members, rather than by the institution as a whole.

quotation mark
What we’re … seeing is the toll of the uncertainty.
  • Anonymous chemist

Positions further along the academic pipeline may also get harder to come by. Postdoc openings are difficult to track because many are filled by word of mouth and not posted publicly. But tenure-track job openings appear to be down at U.S. institutions in three fields for which crowdsourced tracking documents are available: ecology and evolutionary biology, where openings dropped by 18% during the fall 2025 semester compared with 2024; biomedical engineering, which dropped by 16%; and chemistry, which saw a 25% decline. “We’ll be right at or above COVID levels,” predicts Chemjobber, a chemist who anonymously blogs about careers in the field and maintains the chemistry job list. Fewer faculty positions could create a backup in the system, leading some promising early-career researchers to stay on in postdoc positions hoping they’ll land a tenure-track job the following year, the blogger notes. That could leave fewer openings for new lab members.

Some may pivot to industry, which has increasingly become the destination of choice for many Ph.D. graduates. But hiring is also slowing at some companies—notably those in the biomedical sector, which have been hit by changes in the federal funding landscape and a reduction in venture capital investment. And any early-career scientist coming out of academia will be up against applications from the flood of researchers who left the federal workforce over the past year. “It’s all a compounding effect,” the chemistry blogger says.

The complexion of the U.S. scientific community could also change as a result of an executive order the Trump administration issued in January 2025 that targeted diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs throughout the federal government. Since then the administration has cut millions of dollars in funding for programs aimed at broadening participation in research. The loss of that funding could cause promising students from groups underrepresented in science to miss out on a career in the field.

Néstor Carballeira saw the impact of those funding cuts firsthand. In the spring of 2025, the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras chemistry professor received word that NIH was canceling two programs, known as URISE and GRISE, that helped institutions offer research, mentorship, and career development training to a diverse pool of undergraduate and graduate students, including racial minorities and those from lower income families. Programs Carballeira had overseen at his institution for more than 20 years were abruptly halted, meaning fewer internship opportunities, the loss of an invited speaker series, and no funding to send students to scientific meetings outside Puerto Rico. “You have the momentum going,” Carballeira says, “and then the momentum is lost.”

He says current grad students at his institution remain “quite committed” to pursuing careers in science, but he worries about undergrads who missed the chance to get their first taste of research. Many science majors start out with medical school in mind, he notes, so “they need to be hooked into the scientific enterprise very early.”

NSF has canceled similar funding streams, as well as research grants to develop STEM educational approaches that reach as many U.S. students as possible. The White House Office of Science and Technology Policy did not respond to a request for comment on the administration’s stance. In an address last year about the administration’s push to support “gold standard science,” its director—Michael Kratsios—said DEI initiatives “degrade our scientific enterprise” and represent “an existential threat to the real diversity of thought that forms the foundation of the scientific community.”

quotation mark
You have the momentum going, and then the momentum is lost.
  • Néstor Carballeira
  • University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras

 

Many in the scientific community see it differently. “It’s been a terrible loss,” laments one university administrator who has studied the STEM workforce. The eliminated programs aimed to “broaden who has access to science and the opportunities that come with a science career,” she says. “As a society, we would be better off if everyone had that opportunity.”

Brandon Jones, who until September 2025 worked on workforce development and broadening participation within NSF’s directorate for geosciences, says he was disappointed to see NSF shutter a program called Cultural Transformation in the Geoscience Community that helped institutions make their research environments more welcoming and supportive, including by improving mentorship, antiracism and antiharassment practices, and accessibility. The program “was supporting the transformations in the system that are necessary for individuals to thrive,” he says.

Jones, who took an early retirement from the federal workforce last year and serves as president of the American Geophysical Union, worries U.S. competitiveness will flag if the country fails to invest in supporting its pipeline of researchers. “We have global competitors who are doing that, and we are backing away,” he says. “We’re shooting ourselves in the foot.”

Also at risk is the flow of researchers from outside the country. U.S. labs increasingly rely on early-career researchers born elsewhere: Temporary residents make up 41% of U.S. Ph.D. students and 58% of postdocs in science, engineering, and health fields, according to data collected by NSF in 2023. But many academics Science spoke with said they expect the numbers to contract—both because the administration has made visas harder to get and because working in the U.S. may simply become less appealing to international researchers.

“U.S. universities are [still] the place where top research is being done,” and they draw many talented early-career researchers from abroad, says Ina Ganguli, a professor of economics at the University of Massachusetts Amherst who studies the scientific community. But in the years ahead foreign researchers may look at the volatile funding landscape and anti-immigration rhetoric and decide to apply for jobs elsewhere. “What would it take for the U.S. to lose its position as the leader in global science?” she asks. “I think that’s the question that we don’t know.”

A drop in international applicants could create openings for U.S. citizens. But one university administrator noted that unless salaries for early-career researchers go up at U.S. institutions, U.S. nationals may not rush to apply. “Graduate students have been really poorly paid for a long time. And a lot of international students are willing to take those jobs because they are a pathway to a life in America.”

Barbour says the squeeze on academic careers could lead to needed conversations about how to train scientists for nonacademic jobs. It’s not a new issue, she says: Most graduate students today aren’t aiming for a faculty position, and are instead interested in careers in industry and other sectors. “But up until now I’m not sure how attentive we’ve been to make sure students have the skills they need in that nonacademic workforce.” Trump may provide an additional spur.

Adjusting to a new funding landscape will inevitably be painful, Barbour says. “But I think there are things we can learn that will help us to be even more impactful for our students. It’s foolish to waste a good crisis.”

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As a new assistant dean, I felt out of my depth—until I looked to my past for guidance

From ScienceMag:

In my first month as assistant dean, two people cried in my office. Both times I froze. Their problems were so much bigger, messier, and more complicated than anything I’d had to tackle as a faculty member. I had pursued a doctorate in geology rather than medicine largely to avoid sensitive conversations with people—rocks don’t talk back. Yet here I was, essentially a midlevel manager, overwhelmed and feeling like I was starting over. But looking to my past helped me find my way forward.

This wasn’t the first time I had doubted myself. I remember sitting in class the first year of my Ph.D. program, listening to a discussion of a paper I had read but not understood. Another student asked an intelligent and insightful question, sparking a lively debate. I followed none of it. I wondered how I could possibly write a paper myself, when I couldn’t even understand one I had read.

Determined to find my way, I started to emulate grad students I admired, asking them an insane number of questions. I put my trust in my adviser, even when I thought she was wrong. Two years later, I finished the first draft of my first paper. Distilling an unwieldy pile of data and ideas into one concise piece of work was deeply satisfying.

After I finished that first paper, I was hooked. I wanted to keep chasing that intellectual satisfaction, so I decided to give academia a try. But once I became a faculty member, I felt at sea again. I was unprepared to support students facing complex problems such as mental health and familial crises. Designing new courses overwhelmed me, and I struggled to connect with my students.

But I got my bearings the same way as before: by leaning on my peers, now other professors. I quickly learned that although new courses were fun to daydream about, they were an inordinate amount of work to prepare, and my time was better spent improving courses already in my load. I also learned to crack jokes in class, because even if students didn’t laugh, humor kept them engaged. By the time I was an associate professor, I felt like I knew what I was doing.

When my dean offered me the role of assistant dean, I didn’t want to take the job—I had finally figured out the one I had! But I knew I probably should accept it; my dean and provost had their reasons for asking me, and I trusted them. I didn’t even know what deans really did, so I went home and searched for the answer on Reddit. I discovered many others had asked the question, but no one seemed to know. Three months later, I took up the part-time role, juggling my research with my new responsibilities.

At first, I stumbled my way through technological hurdles and interpersonal dilemmas. I was now supervising faculty members who were also my friends, a tricky balancing act. I second-guessed myself constantly. But for the first time, I was confident that I would eventually feel comfortable in the role. I’d been through similar big jumps before, and always come out OK.

I now knew any career growth would come with self-doubt and uncertainty—and that as I’d done before, I needed to learn from my peers and mentors. So, I asked for help constantly and leaned on other deans’ advice. After a few months, I’ve figured out what deans do: We’re untrained therapists, helping people solve their own problems. I’ve learned to listen, point people to resources and university policies that could help, and to reassure. I soon stopped having to escalate every question to my dean, and then came a week where I felt comfortable handling every question and problem that landed on my desk.

There’ll still be hiccups, like the time I got a call from payroll—on Labor Day, ironically—because I had forgotten to approve time sheets, prompting me to rush home so staff would be paid on time. Regardless, I know how to find my way forward, by tapping the insights and experience of others. I wish I could tell my grad school self it’s OK to feel out of your depth; even deans can feel that way.

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AI has supercharged scientists—but may have shrunk science

From ScienceMag:

As artificial intelligence tools such as ChatGPT gain footholds across companies and universities, a familiar refrain is hard to escape: AI won’t replace you, but someone using AI might.

A paper published today in Nature suggests this divide is already creating winners and laggards in the natural sciences. In the largest analysis of its kind so far, researchers find that scientists embracing any type of AI—going all the way back to early machine learning methods—consistently make the biggest professional strides. AI adopters have published three times more papers, received five times more citations, and reach leadership roles faster than their AI-free peers.

But science as a whole is paying the price, the study suggests. Not only is AI-driven work prone to circling the same crowded problems, but it also leads to a less interconnected scientific literature, with fewer studies engaging with and building on one another.

“I was really amazed by the scale and scope of this analysis,” says Yian Yin, a computational social scientist at Cornell University who has studied the impact of large language models (LLMs) on scientific research. “The diversity of AI tools and very different ways we use AI in scientific research makes it extremely hard to quantify these patterns.”

These results should set off “loud alarm bells” for the community at large, adds Lisa Messeri, a sociocultural anthropologist at Yale University. “Science is nothing but a collective endeavor,” she says. “There needs to be some deep reckoning with what we do with a tool that benefits individuals but destroys science.”

To uncover these trends, researchers began with more than 41 million papers published from 1980 to 2025 across biology, medicine, chemistry, physics, materials science, and geology. First, they faced a major hurdle: figuring out which papers used AI, a category that spans everything from early machine learning to today’s LLMs. “This is something that people have been trying to figure out for years, if not for decades,” Yin says.

The team’s solution was, fittingly, to use AI itself. The researchers trained a language model to scan titles and abstracts and flag papers that likely relied on AI tools, identifying about 310,000 such papers in the data set. Human experts then reviewed samples of the results and confirmed the model was about as accurate as a human reviewer.

With that subset of papers, the researchers could then measure AI’s impact on the scientific ecosystem. Across the three major eras of AI—machine learning from 1980 to 2014, deep learning from 2016 to 2022, and generative AI from 2023 onward—papers that used AI drew nearly twice as many citations per year as those that did not. Scientists who adopted AI also published 3.02 times as many papers and received 4.84 times as many citations over their careers.

Benefits extended to career trajectories, too. Zooming in on 2 million of the researchers in the data set, the team found that junior scientists who used AI were less likely to drop out of academia and more likely to become established research leaders, doing so nearly 1.5 years earlier than their peers who hadn’t.

But what was good for individuals wasn’t good for science. When the researchers looked at the overall spread of topics covered by AI-driven research, they found that AI papers covered 4.6% less territory than conventional scientific studies.

This clustering, the team hypothesizes, results from a feedback loop: Popular problems motivate the creation of massive data sets, those data sets make the use of AI tools appealing, and advances made using AI tools attract more scientists to the same problems. “We’re like pack animals,” says study co-author James Evans, a computational social scientist at the University of Chicago.

That crowding also shows up in the links between papers. In many fields, new ideas grow through dense networks of papers that cite one another, refine methods, and launch new lines of research. But AI-driven papers spawned 22% less engagement across all the natural sciences disciplines. Instead, they tended to orbit a small number of superstar papers, with fewer than one-quarter of papers receiving 80% of the citations.

“When your attention is attracted by star papers like [the protein folding model] AlphaFold, all you’re thinking is how you can build on AlphaFold and beat other people to doing it,” says Tsinghua University co-author Fengli Xu. “But if we all climb the same mountains, then there are a lot of fields we are not exploring.”

“Science is seeing a degree of disruption that is rare,” says Dashun Wang, who researches the science of science at Northwestern University. The rapid rise of generative AI—which is reshaping research workflows faster than many scientific institutions can keep up—only makes the stakes higher and the future shape of science less certain, he says.

But the narrowing of science may still be reversible. One way to push back, says Zhicheng Lin, a psychologist at Yonsei University who studies the science of science, is to build better and larger data sets in fields that haven’t yet made much use of AI. “We are not going to improve science by forcing a shift away from data-heavy approaches,” he says. “A brighter future involves making data more abundant across more domains.”

Further down the line, future AI systems should also evolve beyond crunching data into autonomous agents capable of scientific creativity, which could expand science’s horizons again, says study co-author Yong Li, who studies AI and the science of science at Tsinghua.

Until then, Evans says, the scientific community must reckon with how these tools have affected incentives across the board. “I don’t think this is how AI has to shape science,” he says. “We want a world in which AI-enhanced work, which is getting increased funding and increasing in rate, is generating new fields—rather than just turning the thumbscrews on old questions.”

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What business school taught me about running a research lab

From ScienceMag:

When I enrolled in an MBA in 2020, my colleagues were puzzled. The COVID-19 pandemic had just struck, and my group’s work designing ways to provide virtual medical care had suddenly become extremely relevant. I was getting grants, and my team had rapidly increased in size. So why was I choosing now to study business, my colleagues asked—was I leaving academia? But I wasn’t trying to escape. I wanted to learn how to lead.

I had launched my research group a year earlier, believing my dual training as a physician and engineer had prepared me for anything. I could diagnose disease, design medical devices, and translate ideas between clinicians and coders.

But within months, I realized there was one language I didn’t speak: management. Budgeting was challenging, meetings ran long, and communication between members of my lab, who came from a range of disciplines, was often messy. Our progress felt slower than it should have been. I had built a lab full of talent, but not yet a structure that could harness it.

The MBA felt like stepping into another world. In medicine and engineering, problems are solved by data and precision; in business, they’re solved by people and culture. Early on, one of my business professors said something that has stayed with me: Culture eats strategy for breakfast. I’d heard it before, but sitting among entrepreneurs rather than scientists, it finally clicked. A research strategy means little if your team members don’t trust one another, communicate openly, or share a sense of purpose.

When I returned to the lab after each MBA module, I began to apply what I was learning in an attempt to reshape that culture. I started by opening up our channels of communication. Previously, I had run siloed meetings with different specialists, thinking medical experts wouldn’t care about the intricacies of our engineering projects, for instance. But I realized there was merit in having everyone together, so all team members could see how their work fit into the larger vision.

I also built what I now call “waterfall mentorship,” to ensure support flowed more freely. Before the MBA I was the sole mentor for everyone, which created a bottleneck. Junior researchers would wait days for my feedback and midlevel team members had no formal role in coaching others. Under the new system, each team member helped mentor those below them, down to the most junior researcher, who mentored their peers.

Finally, we began to treat our projects more like commercial startups. Previously, I’d approached them like traditional academic research: Define a hypothesis, secure funding, execute the plan, publish the results. But this often meant we could spend months building something only to discover, too late, that clinicians found it impractical or patients found it confusing. The MBA taught me that successful innovations are built around clear customer needs. We began to enlist our “customers”—doctors and patients—early on, testing our technology with them and adjusting it based on their responses.

Many in my group were initially skeptical of the changes. There was a lot of eye rolling. But the benefits quickly became clear. People spoke up sooner when something wasn’t working. Breakthroughs happened thanks to the fresh perspective nonspecialists could offer. Lab members felt a stronger sense of shared ownership and responsibility for each other’s growth. And we ended up building technology people actually wanted to use, not just something that looked good in a grant proposal.

Not everything translated perfectly from business school to academia, of course. Unlike a business, we’re not focused on making a profit. But what I took from the MBA wasn’t a corporate playbook—it was a mindset. It taught me to view the lab as a dynamic organization whose success depends as much on trust, motivation, and leadership as on technical expertise.

After I finished my MBA, a faculty colleague followed suit—and now one of my postdocs has also enrolled. Not everyone has the time, money, or inclination to do a full program. But there are plenty of opportunities for scientists to become better leaders, from microcredentials to courses run by grant agencies. It is unrealistic to expect new principal investigators to instantly know how to run a lab. I certainly didn’t. But with deliberate effort, we all have the capacity to improve.

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

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I almost quit my Ph.D. A lab mate gave me the confidence to continue

From ScienceMag:

Just 2 months into my Ph.D., I was on the verge of quitting. I felt out of my depth, and my broken English left me struggling to keep up with my colleagues. At lab meetings, the conversation progressed so quickly that by the time I understood a question, the discussion had already moved on. My difficulty following my supervisor’s instructions led to me using the wrong volume of water in a sample, ruining an experiment. In a presentation, I talked about “gene dilution” instead of “gene deletion,” the silence that followed making me blush with embarrassment. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through my studies. But amid my struggles, a caring colleague said something that would forever shape my approach to science and mentoring.

I’d moved to Hong Kong from my hometown in mainland China full of excitement. I remember stepping off the overnight train onto the humid streets of the city with a small bag, a notebook of English phrases, and a single conviction: I was here to become a scientist.

But I immediately felt out of place. The laboratory was intimidating, full of shiny instruments I had only ever seen in textbooks. On my first day, my supervisor handed me a pipette and asked me to set up a reaction I had never done before. I pretended to know what to do, then slipped into the corner and watched a senior student until my shaky hands could finally imitate her movements. I often stayed in the lab until midnight, afraid of being left behind.

Most of all, I struggled with the language barrier. I was used to classes taught in Mandarin, but in Hong Kong—a highly international city—everyone spoke English in the lab. After the presentation that left me red in the face, just as I was contemplating leaving science, a senior lab member pulled me aside. “You are not here because of your English,” he reminded me. “You came here because you can think.”

His simple words gave me the courage to continue. I started to carry a tape recorder with me to every class and meeting, replaying presentations late at night to fill in the gaps. My English progress was slow but steady. By the time I defended my Ph.D., I could express my ideas clearly, and I had come to see my accent not as a hindrance, but as a part of my identity that I was proud of. My confidence had skyrocketed.

After continuing my training in Hong Kong, Canada, and the United States, I eventually returned to China to run my own lab. My students all spoke Mandarin, and I assumed they wouldn’t struggle as much as I had during my Ph.D. because they didn’t face the same language barrier.

But gradually I saw that they still experienced many of the same doubts I had faced at their age. They grappled with anxiety about career development, confusion about identity, and doubts about the value of knowledge in an era of rapid technological development. I realized my job was to teach them to think critically, solve problems creatively, and, most of all, give them the confidence to succeed in science and in life.

One afternoon, I saw a student struggling with a Western blot. The bands were smeared and uneven, and her shoulders drooped, just like mine used to. I remembered my clumsy hands on the pipette, my own confusion between “gene deletion” and “gene dilution.” I told her what my lab partner once told me: “You are not here because your experiments always work. You are here because you can think.” Her smile told me she was buoyed by these words.

Today, what I value most in my job is the transformation I see in the students who arrive timid and uncertain, but who leave with enough confidence to challenge me, their professor. Every time I walk into the classroom, I see a younger version of myself—hesitant, afraid, and eager to belong—and remember the bridge I had to cross to get where I am today. For me, helping others cross that bridge is the true reward of scientific life.

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

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Can a video game mimic the highs and lows of life as a scientist?

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

I’ve never been much of a video game person. As a kid in the ’80s in a Nintendo-free household, my only digital entertainment was a system called the Magnavox Odyssey 2 that my parents must have purchased sometime before the evolution of Permian mammals. Not only did you have to literally wire the console to the back of the TV every time you wanted to play, but the “games,” such as they were, mostly consisted of arrangements of five or six squares doing battle against arrangements of five or six other squares.

So it all felt a bit my-lane-yet-not-my-lane when I learned that someone has created and released a video game based on science careers. (That’s science careers, lower case, not Science Careers the fabulous publication.) The game, The Scientist Battles, draws from challenges, obstacles, and lessons learned during the early career of a real-life biomedical researcher named Shaun. During a period of post-Ph.D. unemployment, Shaun—who asked that I not disclose his last name—decided to teach himself to code. As a fan of gamer streaming platforms, he thought he might as well enjoy it. But his work on the game was also an opportunity to explore and process his ambivalence about pursuing a job in scientific research.

“When I first started this project, I think it was more of a fun thing,” Shaun told me. “It felt pretty cathartic.” Shaun, now a postdoctoral fellow at a large research university, worked on the game for 2 years, layering it with his own rather universal frustrations—failed research, rejected manuscripts, and colleagues who never seemed to face failed research or rejected manuscripts.

At this point, you may be wondering what in the world a video game based on lab research looks like. With Shaun’s help, I downloaded the game from Steam, where its tagline is “Science used to be your purpose, but now it is your prison.” Dammit, Shaun, I feel seen.

Those who know anything about video games might call it a narrative-driven 2D top-down side scroller with a light role-playing element. It’s kind of like The Legend of Zelda—if Link’s goal were less about saving the kingdom of Hyrule from the evil Ganon and more about academic burnout and the importance of self-care.

The game begins with our hero, in a lab coat and jeans, narrating, “I’m so exhausted. Four months of nonstop work, and nothing feels finished.” This sets the tone for the game: Although there will be standard video game–style combat, puzzles, and missions, the protagonist isn’t a mighty warrior or a fearless knight. He’s an early-career scientist, facing the difficulties many of us share. He’s you and me.

Not really knowing what I’m doing, I wander the avatar to a potted plant in the corner of the lab, mistaking it for a side quest. Nope. It’s a plant. Then I realize the game is directing me to begin an experiment on the lab bench, which makes sense, because that’s where you begin an experiment, not by wasting time with an irrelevant distraction. This already feels oddly like my actual lab experience.

I start to explore the game’s environment, which has a desk, a couple benches with pipettes, a centrifuge, and shelves of reagents. I choose a bench with what’s either a flow cytometer or a label printer, and I press “A” to interact. The narration explains that it’s now 3 days later, and “that did not work out, but what can you do.” I don’t know what I did. Or didn’t do. Which, again, feels oddly like my actual lab experience.

My next option is to “repeat the experiment.” And then again. After the third failed attempt, the character has an out-of-body experience and enters into conversation with a voice in his head, and it’s revealed (spoiler alert) that you are now trapped inside your own consciousness. Your consciousness apparently emits sounds that resemble a microwave. (Shaun told me he recorded real sounds in his postdoc lab to make the game feel more authentic.) It’s further revealed that you want to break out of your altered state. But only part of you wants to escape. Part of you wants to stay. To win the game, you need to “explore the parts of yourself that don’t want you to leave.”

This is the moment when I know, beyond a doubt, that this game was created by someone who has been to grad school.

After a bit more guided game play, I acquire a scalpel, a small chemical vial to use as a bomb, and a “pipette knife”—part pipette, part knife, 100% lab safety violation. My first lab room contains two spiderlike enemies, and when I stab them with the pipette knife, they turn into emeralds that I collect to purchase upgrades.

This part of the game feels less like my actual lab experience. I don’t recall my thesis adviser saying, “Hey, when you’re done editing that grant application, can you please stab those two spiders? And if they turn into gems, just, you know, hang onto those.”

Then, because I’m not very good at video games, another spider touches me until I die, and I become translucent and reappear at the entrance to the lab. It’s as though the spider is saying I failed my oral exam and need to repeat a year of my Ph.D. program. But maybe I’m reading too much into this.

Without giving too much away, as the game evolves, a backstory emerges. Lab equipment becoming unavailable when your time-sensitive samples are ready becomes a major plot point, and I have to say, the simplicity of that relatable holdup feels more devastating than any fatal spider bite.

Another mission requires you to collect 20 stacks of data before you can submit your publication to a scientific journal. “If only it were this easy in real life,” the game laments. Amen.

And you’ll never guess what happens after you collect 20 stacks of data. That’s right: You’re told immediately that you need to collect 40 stacks. And after you collect those? Sixty more stacks. And then your past self—a recurring grayscale figure in the thick of scientific anguish—assures you that the manuscript just needs a couple more tweaks.

I feel the spiky-haired protagonist’s pain as more past self scenes replay, such as when said manuscript is rejected by a top-tier journal, and his boss sounds so optimistic about gathering extra data to resubmit it to a second-tier journal. It’s like watching a horror movie, except instead of “Don’t go in there!” I’m yelling, “Supplemental data will delay your publication without guaranteeing the desired outcome!”

Sure enough, spoiler alert again, it does not go well. While our hero is knifing spiders, another lab publishes the same data first. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!” he screams, and man, I get it.

The game’s narration is peppered with lines that hit close to home: “It’s starting to feel like it’ll never be enough.” “Why do I feel like everyone else is soaring, while I’m just struggling?” “I just want to be … something.”

Just when I can’t imagine what challenge our hero will face next, he asks a couple colleagues how things are going in their labs, and guess what, things are going surprisingly well for colleagues A through C. The game’s enemies then switch from spiderlike thingies to shadows of faceless successful peers, and once you’ve successfully dodged enough of them, the game explains how their triumphs engender in you a feeling of constant helplessness. Which is how I actually feel at one point when I’m stuck on a particularly difficult level of the game, so I use the ultimate cheat code: I email Shaun and cajole him to tell me how to defeat it.

After a few hours of battling enemies both external (usually various iterations of the spiders, sometimes armed with spider lasers) and internal (feelings of inadequacy, impostor syndrome, and even a scientist’s most formidable foe, drowsiness), I defeat the final boss using a fun little twist that I won’t disclose. You’ll just have to spend $4.99 and play the game yourself.

Ultimately, The Scientist Battles is quite a thoughtful little game, and unlike most of the genre of science fiction, it’s clear this was produced by an actual scientist who has struggled with actual science setbacks. “I think this game was really helpful to help process these things,” Shaun told me, “and just make me feel less bad about myself.”

I think we all have those outlets, and if not, we need them. Shaun made a game. I write this column. I’ve known scientists who write poetry, draw comics, make jewelry, or perform improv comedy, all thematically related to their experiences in the lab.

If you’re experiencing the sort of angst that Shaun’s character feels, pick your favorite genre and create something. Then, if you’re bold enough, share it.

And upgrade your pipette knife early. You’ll thank me later.

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Academic betrayal, tapping into silliness: Science’s top personal essays of 2025

From ScienceMag:

“I’m an NIH-funded researcher, drowning in uncertainty.”

That was the headline of a powerful essay we published in February, a few weeks after U.S. President Donald Trump began his second term in office. The essay was written by an early-career faculty member who shared how hard it was to watch the changes that were taking shape at the National Institutes of Health (NIH), not knowing how they would affect her lab, research, and career. “Will my grants ever be reviewed? What can I research?” she asked.

As the year progressed, we published other anguished essays by researchers navigating changes to the U.S. political and funding landscape, as well as issues that can apply regardless of time or place—including essays that explored the advantages that come with being yourself at work, the similarities between bike riding and graduate school, and the downfall of focusing too much on prestige.

They were all published as part of Science’s ongoing Working Life series, which explores key lessons scientists have learned as they pursue their careers. Here, in chronological order, are the most read Working Life essays of the year.

How I found professional satisfaction by adjusting my definition of success

As a professor at a teaching-focused university, Salahuddin Mohammed realized success isn’t solely about high-impact publications or prestigious grants.

I’m an NIH-funded researcher, drowning in uncertainty

Violeta J. Rodriguez wrote that she’d “keep doing what I can to move my research forward. But I, and so many others, can’t do this indefinitely.”

Science used to be my safe space. But when I spiraled into depression, I quit my Ph.D.

Amid significant mental health challenges, Eric Martiné writes that “failing in academia was the greatest relief I ever experienced.”

As a laid off postdoc, I turned to a side hustle—and found a new career

To augment her postdoc salary, Gertrude Nonterah started freelance writing. It turned into a lifeline.

I thought imposter syndrome caused my Ph.D. struggles. I was wrong

When Andrea Lius discovered her true passion, she finally understood why she had felt like a fish out of water in academia.

My academic job offer was rescinded. I’ll keep going—but U.S. researchers are running out of road

Despite an uncertain future, postdoc Na Zhao plans to “keep doing the science I love while I still have a bench.”

How a Ph.D. is like riding a bike

Ehsan Hamzehpoor struggled in grad school until he embraced it as a time for learning.

How an academic betrayal led me to change my authorship practices

“Every cleaned data set, debugged script, and refined figure deserves acknowledgment,” argued postdoc Hari Ram C.R. Nair.

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

Professor Easton R. White had entered academia with hope and optimism, but those feelings faded over time.

I thought science hinged on prestige. Moving abroad made me reassess my priorities

After moving to Denmark, Ph.D. student Henry C. Henson fell in love with an egalitarian society that values work-life balance.

Other notable essays

I was worried I didn’t belong in science—until I discovered many researchers feel the same way

We started our Ph.D.s during COVID-19. Now, we’re graduating into political chaos

How I finally found my confidence as a scientist

I study burnout. I didn’t think it could happen to me

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

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A simple policy corrected pervasive gender imbalance in Ph.D. awards at Dutch university

From ScienceMag:

A Dutch university has successfully closed the gender gap in Ph.D. students graduating with honors—with potential lessons for other institutions looking to correct gender imbalances in academia.

Outstanding Ph.D. students in the Netherlands and a handful of other countries can be awarded their degrees cum laude. But after the Eindhoven University of Technology (TU/e) realized women were half as likely as men to receive this award, it quietly overhauled its policy, requiring thesis committees to recommend students for the award rather than their thesis advisers. Last week, TU/e released data in the Dutch newspaper Trouw showing the new policy has worked.

The results are “heartening to see,” says Kuheli Dutt, assistant dean of community engagement and student relations at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, whose own work has revealed differences in letters of recommendation for men and women on the postdoc job market. Although the cum laude award is not widespread internationally, the results suggest the university was able to mitigate bias by introducing a process with more transparency and careful deliberation of candidates’ merits, she says—something other institutions could learn from.

The university realized its cum laude awards were a problem in 2018, when the Dutch newspaper NRC published an analysis of the gap at a range of Dutch universities. It showed that 7.7% of men Ph.D. students at TU/e were awarded cum laude, compared with 3.3% of women students. Processes to recommend students for the award differ between universities, and TU/e administrators noticed institutions with a smaller gap tended not to give this power solely to the student’s head adviser, who is usually a senior member of their department, says René van Donkelaar, dean of TU/e’s doctoral school.

So TU/e changed the procedure, asking each member of the thesis committee—made up of academics from other institutions—to note whether they thought a Ph.D. thesis was suitable for the award. The adviser as well as a university cum laude committee could then agree or disagree with the assessment.

TU/e’s data show an immediate swing in the awards. In 2018, 2.6% of women graduating with Ph.D.s received the award; in 2019, this shot up to 10.1%. Numbers for both men and women have varied in subsequent years, but are generally close to parity, with women receiving slightly more awards than men in some years.

“I think it’s an example other universities should follow,” says University of Manchester sociologist Jessica Gagnon, who researches diversity in science, technology, engineering, and math. Attempts to close diversity gaps often stall at the phase of data collection, she says, so it’s inspiring to see an institute putting in place corrective policies. “We’re stuck spinning our wheels at the first step of finding out there’s a problem.” But this is just a start, she adds; if advisers were playing such a significant role in the cum laude gap, it’s worth exploring whether students are being treated differently in other ways.

With declining funding for science in some countries—including the United States—competition will increase, says Julie Posselt, a higher education researcher at the University of Southern California. “And usually when competition increases, so does inequality.” That makes it crucial for institutions to find ways to address imbalances, she says. The results from TU/e suggest the question of who evaluates performance is critical—and shows it’s important to dissect existing processes to see what could be going wrong.

TU/e has changed several other gender-related policies, including the introduction of fellowships initially open only to women applicants in faculties with a severe gender imbalance. This makes it difficult to tease apart exactly what caused the cum laude gender gap to close, says Thijs Bol, a sociologist at the University of Amsterdam whose work has explored the causes of the gap. It’s possible that more women professors or a greater awareness of biases at the university played a role, he says.

TU/e published its data after the University of Twente (UTwente), also in the Netherlands, announced on 7 November it had culled the cum laude distinction altogether because there, too, men were twice as likely to receive it. “We thought it was a sad decision,” Van Donkelaar says, because excellent students deserve the recognition. But the distinction was inherently subjective, and the process of awarding it had “several other imperfections,” says UTwente spokesperson Laurens van der Velde. Bol agrees. Subjectivity leads to “perverse effects, particularly for minorities,” and it would be better for Dutch universities to follow UTwente’s example and ditch cum laude, he says. “I would rather invest that time in making better procedures for things we actually do need competition for, such as research funding and positions.”

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