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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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From ScienceMag:

“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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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.

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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From ScienceMag:

Early mornings in my family’s home in Lebanon had grown quiet. With my parents working abroad and my siblings studying elsewhere, I often found myself alone, walking through empty rooms that once buzzed with life. I had stayed behind to attend medical school despite the economic hardships that had pushed family and friends to leave, seeking opportunities far from home. Yet, for all its challenges, Lebanon taught me to find strength in adversity and pride in my heritage. That foundation sustained me as I embarked on a new journey: transitioning from clinical medicine to the uncharted territory of research, a leap that tested my resilience in unexpected ways.

Growing up, I learned about Lebanese scientists, artists, and poets who made lasting contributions to the world—figures like Hassan Kamel Al-Sabbah, whose work in solar cell technology predated their widespread adoption. Lebanon’s educational system instills a strong appreciation for intellectual pursuits, and my schooling there inspired me to work toward a better world.

So, too, did my parents. My mother, a doctor, completed her medical training in the early 1990s under the constant threat of bombings during the armed conflict that rocked Lebanon in those days. My father, an engineer, was passionate about learning, often immersing himself in engineering books to stay up to date on the latest technology. He taught me that the pursuit of science and taking care of loved ones were the most important commitments I could make. Inspired by their example, and captivated by the intricacies of the human body, I decided to become a physician.

While I was a medical student, the resilience I learned from my parents was tested by the chaos of the Lebanese Revolution of 2019—when citizens took to the streets to protest government corruption—followed by the pandemic and an economic crisis rooted in a Ponzi scheme orchestrated by Lebanon’s banking system. Many people, including my parents, lost their life savings as the economy spiraled into collapse. Despite all that, I remained focused and completed my degree.

My memories of Lebanon and the resilience of its people strengthened my resolve.

• Peter Kfoury
• University of Utah

Finally, it was my turn to leave home in search of a brighter future. I arrived in Utah as a postdoctoral fellow, hoping to gain research experience to bolster my application to U.S. medical residency programs. However, research proved far more challenging than I anticipated. In medicine, I was trained to diagnose and treat patients, with clear and often immediate outcomes. The lab was a different world—experiments took time to set up, data had to be carefully analyzed, and results often didn’t come out as expected. One set of experiments failed entirely at first—then took months of diligently controlling one variable after another to get running. And while I was grappling with the complexities of research, I faced new challenges, including leading projects and mentoring students.

The transition to life in the United States was also difficult, and, at times, lonely. On quiet evenings, I would find myself doom-scrolling on social media, yearning for good news about Lebanon as the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel widened. To me, Lebanon remained a place of inspiration, but the world saw it primarily through the lens of war and bombs. This disconnect deepened my sense of isolation.

Yet some people around me provided vital support. A postdoc taught me the importance of meticulous note taking and strict protocols, technicians helped me design robust experiments, and my advisers expressed faith in my ability to complete projects. Sharing meals and laughter with colleagues as we explored Salt Lake City created a sense of belonging that enriched both my work and life. And my memories of Lebanon and the resilience of its people strengthened my resolve.

Initially, I viewed my postdoctoral position as a steppingstone to my medical career. But now, 2 years into it, I am seriously considering becoming a physician-scientist. This transition will bridge my past and future, enabling me to stay grounded in the values that shaped me while embracing the potential and complexities of research. I don’t know whether or when I’ll return to Lebanon, but the lessons I learned there will be with me for life.

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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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