From ScienceMag:

“Come in,” I said to the scientists at my doorstep, ushering them toward the kitchen. Our color­ful tunics—not our typical work wear—rustled as we mixed that month’s cocktail, a wintery take on an Aperol spritz. We bantered and laughed; one attendee asked which walkout song we would choose if we were professional mixed martial arts fighters. It was what I needed, and not just for relief after a long week in the lab. I’ve learned that levity helps me be a better scientist, mentor, and colleague. It is also what keeps me going during hard times—a lesson that was reinforced the very next month.

For much of my career, my fellow scientists only saw what I call my “resting science face,” which conveys the part of me that’s driven to spend hours obsessing over a conference talk or stay up all night putting the final touches on a grant. They didn’t see the side of me that loves alien kidnapping skits on Saturday Night Live. As a woman and mother, I felt I needed to prove I was serious about the job, lest others view me as too distracted by my personal life to excel.

My serious face worked. I landed a job at a great univer­sity, recruited brilliant graduate students, and won tenure. But I felt I had to split myself in two—the serious scientist in public, the goofball in private. Only later did I realize how much stronger my science, and my relationships, could have been if I’d let both sides show sooner.

The first crack in my public persona came in 2024 when, on a whim, I participated in a local live storytelling show. I took a risk and described an embarrassing moment from a solo trip to Thailand. To my surprise, when people laughed it didn’t feel bad or shameful. It felt like a hug.

The experience made me think I could start to experiment with being silly at work, too. So, when Halloween came around, I delivered a lecture dressed in a fuzzy pink axolotl costume. I began kicking off lab meetings by asking my gradu­ate students what brings them joy or makes them laugh. And I started the monthly get together with colleagues. The idea was to get out of our usual professional mode by enjoying fancy cocktails and lighthearted conversation. Donning out­landish garments helped set the mood.

To my surprise, I found that injecting fun and humor into my work life didn’t make me less effective or credible. Students seemed to find me more approachable. Humor also helped me open up with colleagues, which in turn led others to be more authentic and vulnerable with me, a key part of building trust. After one of my closest international collaborators and I discov­ered a shared love of humor, we began affectionately poking fun at each other. That brought us closer and made it easier for us to handle challenging issues.

But perhaps most importantly, humor has helped me be re­silient. Not long after the gathering at my house last winter, my grant from the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency was abruptly terminated as part of the federal government’s sci­ence cuts. After the shock and immediate grief wore off, I turned to my goofy side, writing several pieces of satire, mak­ing joke T-shirts, and letting colleagues distract me with dis­cussions about the set design choices in Sir Mix-a-Lot’s 1992 Baby Got Back music video.

That’s not to say I was living in denial. I knew I needed to find new ways to pursue my goals in an increasingly complex funding environment. But that pressure could easily feel overwhelming. Making jokes and sharing laughter helped me stay present. It also served as a reminder of how much joy I get from interacting with the people I work with, what­ever the circumstances.

In the end, I have come to realize that being authentic at work is not a weakness, but rather a strength. For other scien­tists, that may mean talking more about their hobbies or families, or showing off their other talents—whatever brings them joy and helps them connect with others. For me, that’s humor.

So that’s why, even as I reimagine my research plans, I’ll be putting on a colorful outfit, calling up some friends, and crack­ing jokes. Now, more than ever, it’s time to laugh.

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From ScienceMag:

I’ll never forget the tremor in my sister’s voice when she called me that Sunday evening last year. “Daddy collapsed,” she said. “He’s in the hospital.” My father, my biggest cheerleader, was in critical condition back home in Nigeria. The doctors suspected a stroke. In that moment, my world tilted. I paced my tiny apartment in Florida, wishing I could teleport home. I was a graduate student with barely enough money to cover rent, let alone a plane ticket to Lagos. My family needed me, and I felt powerless to help. For weeks, every WhatsApp notification sent my heart racing. Some nights I stared at my notes until the words blurred. My grades slipped. If I stayed on this path, the dream I had come here to pursue would be in jeopardy.

That dream wasn’t mine alone. My family had sacrificed a lot to help me pursue my goal of studying abroad at a world-class university. I earned a bachelor’s degree in Nigeria, published research, saved every naira I could, and sent out several graduate applications. When I received an offer from the University of South Florida I was elated. But reality soon kicked in—although the offer came with a tuition waiver, I would still have to cover visa fees, flights, and living expenses. I took on freelance gigs and sold off electronics, furniture, and clothes, but I still fell short. Just as I was about to turn down the offer, my big sister learned of my dilemma and my family rallied to support me. They pooled resources, giving up things I knew they couldn’t easily spare.

When I landed in Miami, I carried the weight of their hopes with me, and that responsibility became my compass. Knowing how air pollution had scarred the community where I grew up, I chose a project on carbon sequestration. Whenever I was tempted to settle for “good enough,” I heard my father’s voice urging me on.

Then, a year into my program, came the news that he was ill. After agonizing for several weeks, I finally came to accept that flying home wasn’t realistic. Money aside, traveling on a student visa was too risky—if something went wrong with the paperwork, I might not be able to return. Instead, I emptied my bank account and sent the money home to cover hospital bills, maxing out credit cards to cover my rent and other bills. The guilt continued to gnaw at me, but I kept it to myself.

A couple weeks after my sister’s call, one of my professors noticed something was amiss and called me into their office. For the first time, I told someone in my professional world what was happening. They listened without judgment, offered encouragement, and connected me with the university counseling center. Those counseling sessions steadied me. My friends did, too, showing up with groceries when I couldn’t afford them and dragging me to the library so I wouldn’t be isolated. They reminded me that I wasn’t carrying this weight alone.

Their support helped me keep showing up, one day at a time. So did my mother’s words. On every call, she said in Igbo, “Stay in school for your father, inugo? That’s what he would want.”

Eventually, my father’s health stabilized. I’ll never forget the relief of seeing him smile on a video call, or the pride in his voice when he called me “the American scholar” again. When I told him months later about the choice I’d faced, he chuckled softly and said, “Why would you drop out of school? Did I not teach you better?” His comment lifted a weight I didn’t realize I still carried.

Looking back, that season taught me lessons I’ll hold forever. I learned to ask for help without shame and lean on my support system of friends and classmates. Most importantly, I learned to keep sight of why I came here in the first place. Now, when I feel overwhelmed, I pause and remind myself that I’m not just chasing a degree—I’m trying to solve scientific problems that matter beyond myself, and I’m honoring my family. That perspective keeps me grounded and pushes me to give my best even on the hardest days.

Like so many Africans chasing big dreams across the Atlantic Ocean, I walk on the wings of sacrifice and love. When I earned my master’s degree in August, it felt less like a personal victory and more like giving my family the win they deserved. Their belief in me will carry me through the next phase of my journey.

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From ScienceMag:

After more than 40 years in academia, I felt optimistic about the path ahead when I retired in 2012. I intended to continue working, focusing on research and writing now that I no longer had administrative and teaching responsibilities. But as I downsized my office and changed my email signature to Emeritus Professor, I was unprepared for the reality of retirement. I found it difficult to adjust to no longer holding decision-making roles. Colleagues were less likely to seek my opinions than before, which ate at my sense of self-worth and left me feeling that my ideas were no longer valued. Regaining my equilibrium and appreciating the positive aspects of retirement took months.

I had leadership roles throughout my career. After spending 27 years at a U.S. university, I pivoted to working as the deputy director of a natural history museum for 2 years followed by 15 years as a faculty member at a European university. In these positions, I had a range of decision-making responsibilities—departmental chair, botanical garden director, journal editor, secretary-general for an international scientific organization.

As I reached 68, I was ready to let those roles go. After so many cycles of dealing with administrative hurdles and other challenges, I had lost some of my drive. It seemed appropriate for more junior faculty to step into those shoes. But I hadn’t fully processed what that might mean for me.

I was excited to have workdays free of the meetings and classes that broke up my days as a professor. I expected to have more time to finish manuscripts, start collaborative projects, and dive into book writing. That turned out to be true. But it was hard to ignore that meetings were being scheduled to which I was not invited. I was no longer an essential cog in the system.

As time wore on, I also had a nagging sense of being left behind scientifically, standing beside the track after the train had left the station. I continued to attend national and international conferences, but fewer than before. I didn’t always hear about new developments, and I drifted away from old friends from other universities.

On my own campus, where I had a small office, the lack of daily chats in the laboratory with students and colleagues and discussions in the classroom left me feeling isolated. Retirement is a haven for the solitary worker, and working alone has never been a problem for me. But I did find that when bad news struck—such as learning that a paper had been rejected—I had no class later that day where a successful lecture could recharge my self-confidence.

Slowly, though, I began to ease into my new rhythm. Structure helped. I gave myself deadlines for completing manuscripts, and I set a schedule to get to the office by 10 a.m. each morning, which stimulated me to get out of bed and keep going. I also learned to see my isolation as a privilege rather than a penalty. In addition to being able to complete shorter manuscripts, I could focus on larger projects, such as review papers and books, which have proved very satisfying. Although retirement means I have lost influence with university decision-making, having the time to step back and take a broad, synthetic view of my field more than makes up for it.

For me, success in retirement has involved mapping out a realistic plan that is both enjoyable and academically fulfilling. When I do attend a conference, I go with reduced expectations—not to capture all the newest advances, but to learn about broad new trends and catch up with as many old friends as possible. The good news is that I am no longer being constantly evaluated by others—I am only being evaluated by myself. I have learned to keep pushing forward, at a more relaxed pace, and working with, rather than fighting against, these new challenges.

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From ScienceMag:

It was 19 June 2024, and I was 1 year into my Ph.D. Three years earlier, President Joe Biden had designated Juneteenth National Independence Day, recognizing the freedom of enslaved African Americans—a declaration that brought joy, relief, and a sense of pride to my community. But Juneteenth, though a federal holiday, does not receive the same recognition as other holidays, including at many academic institutions. On this day meant to celebrate my freedom to exist fully as a citizen, my department had scheduled a crucial laboratory demonstration. I looked around for someone, anyone, to express my grievances to, but I realized I only had myself. I was the only African American in my department. I had to carry this burden on my own.

It’s been a familiar feeling throughout my scientific training. I was one of the few women and Black Americans in my classes at the primarily white institution where I pursued my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in engineering. I was self-conscious; I am well aware of the stereotypes about people who look like me. I felt I needed to stand out and be the brightest, but also blend in and not draw attention to myself. In class I would only participate when I was confident I knew the correct answer; otherwise I sat in silence and refused to make eye contact. On the rare occasions when I spoke up and got an answer wrong, I perseverated on what others may have thought about me. I got good grades and felt I had convinced my teachers and peers I was good enough. But in the back of my mind, I questioned my own worth.

Then, I started my Ph.D. in a diverse department full of international students. I was still the only Black student, but I thought the feeling of being “other” would fade away. Except it did not. I still felt like an outsider who did not deserve to be in the program. And I still found myself trying to control others’ narratives of me—which, in this new environment, meant I was even quieter than before. I don’t think many of my peers even knew my name or what research team I was part of.

This isolation pushed me to look inward and gave me a chance to reflect. And I ultimately saw ways to allay my insecurities and stop worrying about others’ perceptions.

Growing up I had always been involved in community service, and I love talking about topics I am knowledgeable about. It boosts my confidence and reminds me why I fell in love with science in the first place: because it provides a level of truth we all so desperately need. During this time of frustration and fear, I thought reincorporating these activities into my life might be exactly what I needed. I began to participate in outreach opportunities through my department, visiting local high schools, hosting demonstrations, and speaking to the community about the work we do and how we got here. Seeing students’ interest in my knowledge and experience reminded me of what I have accomplished. I felt I was finding my place.

Then came that Juneteenth lab demonstration. I quietly attended, tamping down my feelings. But after this holiday that is so meaningful to me was effectively ignored, I realized I needed to reflect on the source of my insecurities. Instead of focusing on things outside my control, I chose to shift my effort into expanding my knowledge, speaking up when I want, and asking for help when I need it without worrying I will be seen as inferior, incompetent, or troublesome.

With this new mindset, I have noticed an increase in my productivity and passion. I am less drained at the end of the day, and my mind is freer now that I have taken away this imaginary power I gave to other people. Each day I move forward with a Bible passage in mind: “Whatever you do, do it well.”

When Juneteenth came around this year and was again largely overlooked by my academic community, I did not dwell on the hurt. I decided to plan the day on my own terms, to meet my own needs—without worrying about what others would think. I did some work in the morning to support my research team, and then spent the rest of the day with friends. Juneteenth represents historical freedom, and I’ve finally found my freedom to fully exist as myself.

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From ScienceMag:

“My name is …” The words stick in my throat, obstinately refusing to yield. The silence stretches on as I shake a stranger’s hand. Consciously relaxing my jaw, I breathe in and manage to release my name in a breathy tone, “Pppeeeettterr.” Typical responses range from awkward pauses to the joking “Are you sure?” or, in the worst case, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” As a child, I would imagine I just made myself look stupid. Now, I see it differently. My stutter is an invitation to humility.

I have been a stutterer since I was about 7 years old. It had no obvious cause; even the most current literature on the topic will admit the pathology of stuttering is “enigmatic.” When I was young, I avoided speaking. I learned speech therapy techniques, methods of breathing and forming my words, but I was comfortable in my own mind and didn’t really need to share my thoughts. When I couldn’t avoid speaking, my go-to strategy was to replace words with synonyms when I felt a block coming. Then I fell in love with science, where precision mattered not only in benchwork, but also in terminology. So, while in graduate school, I restarted speech therapy, worked on new strategies, and began to gain confidence in my own voice. I thought I had my stutter under control.

One postdoc and many job interviews later, I became an assistant professor, facing the standard challenges of starting a research group—and my speech was regressing. Using speech strategies is taxing: To avoid stammering on tricky words I must be aware of how I breathe, form words on my lips, and move my mouth. But between grants, papers, project management, paperwork, other principal investigator stresses, and being a father of four (soon to be five) young children, I had too little intellectual space left to devote to preparing to speak. In addition, the transition from the few planned and prepared speaking opportunities I had as a postdoc to endless obligatory communication overwhelmed my coping strategies. I have been so preoccupied with what I am saying that I cannot focus on how I say it.

The regression was gradual, and I didn’t notice it until one day, a few months ago, I was teaching my thermodynamics class and found myself unable to say “equilibrium.” Later that day I struggled to tell a colleague the name of my newborn daughter. The students seemed to shrug off my difficulty, and my colleague changed the subject after a brief awkward moment. Still, a feeling of humiliation remained, clashing with my self-image as a capable scientist. I began to wonder how anyone could respect me or my work if I was unable to communicate clearly.

A few weeks later, I found myself nervously ruminating on a commitment I had made to introduce a speaker at an upcoming conference. I began dwelling on worst-case scenarios in which I humiliated myself in front of my peers. This anxiety over 30 seconds of public speaking months in the future was not healthy. I began to wonder whether I had subconsciously begun to avoid speaking roles again, as in my childhood. I thought back to a conference opportunity I had passed up, telling myself I was too busy to apply. Maybe I just didn’t want to give a talk.

Eventually I came to a realization: I will probably never be free of my stutter. I will always face the burden of coaxing my body to do what comes naturally and effortlessly for most. The thought was both depressing and exhausting. At the same time, I began to wonder whether I can gain some good from this burden. If radiation can be used to cure cancer, why can’t my stutter make me better, too?

I have decided to reject feelings of humiliation and instead embrace humility; to accept my vulnerabilities and my limitations and welcome the new perspectives they provide. When my voice sticks and refuses to cooperate, I can’t force it. And I can’t control how others perceive me. Instead, I can choose to relax, breathe, and coax each syllable, gently yet diligently. This mindset can help my work as well. I can employ similar strategies when I receive grant rejections or belittling paper reviews. I am not in control, but I can, with proper effort, participate in the conversation.

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