How a lab accident changed my approach to science

From ScienceMag:

I had just wrapped up my experiments for the day and taken off my lab coat when upsetting news popped up on my phone: A lab explosion at a university in China had killed one student and injured three. I felt awful for the people involved and their families—and I couldn’t avoid painful memories. Years earlier, I had caused a lab accident myself while I was a master’s student in China. I was lucky I didn’t kill someone. It haunts me to this day.

Back then, I was always in a hurry. I wanted to get results fast, publish papers, and outperform my peers. I took on as many projects as I could, aiming to impress my supervisor and earn a strong recommendation letter. Speed and output felt like the only way to get into a top North American Ph.D. program. I rushed through lab work, too—causing an accident that forever changed my attitude and approach to research.

It happened on a Sunday night. I was running a reaction, trying to gather data for a lab meeting presentation the next day. I had run the protocol, which involved a high-pressure reactor, so many times I barely paid attention. Waiting for the reactor to cool completely before opening it was standard practice, but I considered it a waste of time. So, I forced it open long before it had cooled down.

Acidic liquid shot out. It hit a senior lab mate, who was working on her own experiment just a few meters away. The scalding liquid burned her neck and collarbone. She gave a shocked yelp, and clamped a hand to the wound. I stood there, frozen, the reactor valve still in my hand.

We rushed her to the campus clinic. The nurse cleaned the burn carefully and applied a thick ointment. She told us the scar would fade with time, but it might never fully disappear. I apologized over and over, my words shaky and meaningless. My lab mate just nodded, quiet and pale, and I knew I had broken more than a lab protocol. I had also broken her trust.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the moment over and over—the stupid decision to skip the cooling time, the hiss of the liquid, her cry of pain. Guilt overwhelmed me. I’d messed up experiments before—ruining data or breaking glassware—but this was different. I hadn’t just ruined work. I’d hurt a person, a colleague who’d helped me learn the ropes of the lab, who’d never hesitated to answer my questions.

In the days after, I couldn’t bring myself to step foot in the lab. I asked my supervisor for a week off, and spent those days alone with my guilt and regret. Ashamed that I had valued speed over the safety of the people around me, I thought about quitting lab work.

When I returned to campus, my supervisor called me into her office. She made it clear I needed to strictly follow protocols for any hazardous experiments.

From then on, I made a point to stop rushing. I read every protocol at least twice. I set timers for cooling and wait times, and I let them run to the very end, even if it meant missing a deadline. I checked every valve, every seal, every setting. Safety wasn’t just a list on the wall anymore. It was a promise, to my supervisor, to my lab mates, to myself.

Slowing down was essential from a safety perspective. But I found it changed my science, too. For the first time, I was fully present in the lab and focused on the work, not just the finish line. I started to catch small errors I might not have noticed otherwise. For instance, before the accident I had made a careless calculation that led me to use the wrong reagent ratio when synthesizing a key catalyst. Unaware of the mistake, I used this flawed catalyst for an entire month, generating unreliable data. Only after the accident, when I slowed down and began to pay full attention to every detail, did I finally notice and correct the error.

I am now a Ph.D. student in Canada, and this slow, careful rhythm has stayed with me. I still set the timer and let it run, check every step twice, pause, and breathe. As I have learned: Science is not only about data, results, and speed. It is about care, responsibility, and respect for the people beside us.

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