From ScienceMag:

The crowd gathered in an auditorium in the Swiss village of Villars on Tuesday applauded as, one by one, three scientists—two women and a man—stepped onto the stage to accept a plaque and their prize of 1 million Swiss francs ($1.1 million) for research into solutions for the ongoing climate crisis. It marked the first time in the Frontiers Planet Prize’s (FPP’s) 3-year history that a woman, let alone two, has won.

Gerard Rocher-Ros, a 2024 finalist and ecologist at Umeå University, was an outspoken critic of the lack of women winners in previous years. This year’s lineup—Arunima Malik, a University of Sydney sustainability researcher; Zahra Kalantari, an environmental and geosciences engineer at the KTH Royal Institute of Technology; and Zia Mehrabi, a climate and agriculture data scientist at the University of Colorado Boulder—“was very comforting to see,” he says.

The women winners also view the award as an important step for highlighting women’s contributions to science. “I see this award as a recognition that we are also among the men, that we are [also] working hard to come up with solutions … to address the social challenges that we are facing,” says Kalantari, whose work focuses on reducing the carbon footprint of cities. And Malik’s winning paper, about the sustainability of supply chains and global trade routes, was written with multiple women as co-authors, she points out.

In the first 2 years the prize was awarded, all seven winners were men, a trend that led a group of women finalists to pen an open letter last year to FPP Director Jean-Claude Burgelman and others, criticizing the committee’s process for disadvantaging and failing to reward women scientists. (Science was unable to reach the authors of last year’s letter for comment.)

Prize administrators say there was no intentional change in the award process, chalking up the difference in this year’s results to “pure coincidence.” The FPP jury does not consider the gender of the lead scientist while deliberating, says jury chair Johan Rockström.

Despite the positive change this year, systemic inequities in scientific research awards can persist because the prize rules require that research institutions nominate a single representative from the team behind a published paper. These representatives are part of a pool to be the sole national champion representing their country and finalists for the FPP. The structure effectively means these solo winners are also the sole recipients of the prize money; a strategic choice meant to facilitate investment into the winning project and optimize real-world impact, organizers say.

But with this winner-take-all system, nominating bodies may be likelier to elevate more established, senior researchers—who are predominantly men—to increase their chances of winning the money. The FPP website urges nominating bodies to actively confront unconscious biases. Still, more than half of this year’s 19 finalists were men or from countries in the Global North.

Prizes that award single researchers can also reinforce “the great man myth”—the idea that scientific knowledge is built on the discoveries of solitary genius scientists, rather than the collaborative efforts of many, says Cassidy Sugimoto, who studies gender disparities in science at the Georgia Institute of Technology. Mehrabi’s winning paper, for example, about diversifying crops and animals on individual farms to improve biodiversity and costs, had 60 co-authors, involved hundreds of other researchers, and partnered with thousands of farmers. A solo-winner prize “pushes people towards a certain hierarchical division of labor, a certain competitiveness within teams, that doesn’t necessarily create the most robust systems of science,” she says. “We have to think about giving prizes to scientific teams rather than to the individual.” For his part, Mehrabi plans to use the prize money to expand this coalition to implement his paper’s climate solutions across the world.

Despite some of the criticism, Burgelman emphasizes that the current process is the best way to invest in climate science and planetary boundaries research. Previous winning projects have gone on to save 15 million hectares of the Amazonian forest, he notes, and have saved hundreds of thousands of lives from parasitic disease in Senegal. “What I am really looking forward to seeing, as the prize enters its fourth year, is the impact of the research that we have funded.”

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From ScienceMag:

When I started my Ph.D., I believed I had found my true purpose. My research focused on how digital tools could help prevent burnout among clinicians—something I’m passionate about. I spent my days immersed in research about workload, stress, fatigue, and the fragile tipping points that push people beyond their limits. As my workload grew, I started to feel the pressure. But even as I worked later and later into the night, I kept reassuring myself: I was only studying burnout. It wasn’t something that could happen to me.

Unlike many in my cohort, I settled on my dissertation topic early in the first semester, thanks to my prior research experience and a quick alignment with my adviser’s interests. I hit the ground running, and at first, the work energized me. I loved feeling I was part of a broader research community and knowing my work could one day help people on the front lines of health care. But the challenge of balancing my research with teaching responsibilities and the required coursework was intense, and before I knew it, my preliminary exam—a big hurdle to continuing my studies—was right around the corner.

At the time, I didn’t notice how I was letting work take over my life, bit by bit. Skipping lunch to finish “just one more” section of a manuscript. Working weekends because “I’m already behind.” Feeling my chest tighten when I opened my email each morning, dreading any new additions to my growing to-do list. At first, I called it normal stress. Then, a rough patch. Eventually, I stopped calling it anything at all.

One evening near the end of my second year, desperate for reassurance, I took a burnout “self-test.” To my surprise, I scored high on several classic symptoms. Emotional exhaustion? Check. Feeling numb and disconnected from my work? Check. Losing the sense of personal accomplishment? Check. I stared at the results, feeling exposed.

Still, I resisted the idea for weeks until I finally reached a breaking point. It arrived quietly one evening as I was staring at a paragraph I had rewritten 10 times. No matter how much I worked, the gap between what I wanted to write and what I could deliver only seemed to widen. I closed my laptop and thought, for the first time, “Maybe I can’t do this anymore.”

The next day, I had my regular meeting with my adviser. As we wrapped up our discussion, he paused, looking at me for a moment longer than usual. “Xames, you should take a break!” he said lightly, but with real concern. He had sensed what I hadn’t yet fully admitted to myself.

That comment unlocked something inside me. For the first time, I allowed myself to admit that I was not OK. From my research on burnout, I knew the risk factors—long hours, poor boundaries, chronic stress. But I had completely ignored them creeping into my own life.

In the weeks that followed, I did something that felt both terrifying and necessary. I scaled back. I started to set real boundaries—no more writing emails after dinner, no more glorifying 60-hour workweeks. I went back to hobbies that had nothing to do with my dissertation. These are the kinds of restorative activities the research recommends.

It wasn’t an instant fix. Some days, the old voices still whispered: You should be working harder. You’re falling behind. But slowly, I learned to answer them differently: I am a person first, and a researcher second.

Ironically, or maybe inevitably, my work improved. Ideas came more freely when I wasn’t drowning in anxiety. Writing felt less like extracting teeth and more like creating something real again. I was no longer studying burnout from the safe distance of an observer—I had lived it. It was a reminder that behind the abstract models and metrics are real people.

Today, my research remains centered on burnout, but my focus has shifted to also include recovery, sustainability, and compassion. The work feels deeper, messier, and more honest—and it no longer consumes my life. Most of all, what my experience taught me is that even when work feels urgent and important, so is your well-being. That lesson didn’t come from a study. It came from the long, slow, humbling process of realizing that I am human—and that’s not a flaw.

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From ScienceMag:

When I interviewed for my current tenure-track job, I had a stellar training background and solid publications over my 20-year career. But I was unemployed. I didn’t mention that fact, but my CV had other gaps shaped by events beyond my control: shifting politics, economic crises, a mentor relationship that turned bad, and COVID-19. I had stayed on the academic path—if only barely—through sheer determination. The interviewers were friendly and I felt good about my performance, but I wasn’t expecting the offer I received a month later. To my surprise, I later learned the committee had valued a factor rarely considered in an academic world obsessed with publications and impact factors: my resilience.

Growing up in Puerto Rico prepared me well for life’s challenges. I witnessed my parents working hard to provide for our family, despite the ongoing economic turmoil that plagued the island. My mother, an elementary school teacher, taught me to believe in myself and offered unwavering support. The rigors of graduate school and the responsibility of becoming a father at a young age also helped build my resilience—which has turned out to be the defining feature of my career.

The first test came in 2004, when I was a graduate student in a well-funded lab, conducting research I was passionate about—until suddenly, Congress slashed the National Institutes of Health’s (NIH’s) budget. Our lab had to scale back, and I needed to put in a lot more hours to graduate before my adviser’s grant dried up. Some days, I didn’t see my 4-year-old daughter at all because I got home long after her bedtime.

My wife at the time was in school as well, and my income supported our family. But as I looked for a postdoctoral position in the midst of the NIH budget crunch, most labs told me they had no funds to take on a new trainee. With persistence, I secured a postdoc at the Neurosciences Institute, a place fueled primarily by private donations. For a while, things looked stable.

Then came the 2008 recession. The private donations dried up. Staff were laid off, and several prominent investigators left. Morale plummeted. The writing was on the wall: I had to leave.

Job hunting in 2008 was brutal. I sent out applications, knowing my family depended on me, but opportunities were scarce. Finally, a last-minute interview at a conference led to an offer for a lab in France. It meant uprooting my family and stepping away from the research path I had carefully built, but it was the only way forward. So, we packed up our lives and moved. For a while, things were good, but several years into my project, my relationship with my adviser soured, and I had to leave.

I eventually got a job as a staff scientist at the University of Chicago. I had to prioritize my new lab’s research focus and could only work on my own research in spare moments, but by the end of 2018 my career was gaining traction once again. But the stress took a huge toll on my personal life, and my wife and I split up. Then COVID-19 hit. Labs shut down, slowing research and my own project. When I submitted a grant for review, it was rejected for what the reviewers said was a lack of relevant publications. I found myself once again facing unemployment.

When I finally landed my current position in 2021 it was a huge relief. A couple years later, I learned that one of the committee members had followed a path similar to mine and saw my commitment and perseverance as key factors in my favor.

But not everyone will have such an advocate. I believe we should be asking candidates for academic jobs what challenges they’ve overcome and how they have persevered. Applicants with CVs featuring high-profile labs and prestigious publications tend to be the ones who get jobs. But others of us have taken a slower, bumpier path, and I believe we deserve a closer look. We’re the ones with the resilience to get through tough times.

Right now, I’m anxious about our nation and the future of biomedical research in the United States, but I’m not worrying for myself. If my career has taught me anything, it’s that resilience alone doesn’t guarantee survival. But sometimes, it gives you just enough time to catch the next opportunity before the door closes.

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From ScienceMag:

I remember the moment my mentor in medical school told me she wouldn’t be writing me a letter of recommendation for my Ph.D. application—my planned next step. “You’re too sensitive,” she said. As if something at the core of who I was—something I couldn’t change—disqualified me from the future I had worked so hard for. At the time, I was devastated. Honestly, 4 years later, I still am. It felt like a punch to the gut, delivered by someone I respected and trusted. That moment planted a doubt I’ve carried ever since. But it also ignited a spark that led me to realize what others see as a weakness is ultimately a strength, albeit one that comes with daily challenges.

After six intense years of medical school, my mental health had slowly deteriorated without anyone, including myself, noticing. Right after graduating, I jumped into a Ph.D. program abroad, intending to pursue a career that would combine medicine and research, satisfying both my altruistic side and my fascination with human physiology and disease. That period was full of firsts: first time on a plane, first time living away from my family and boyfriend, first time stepping into the unknown of academic research.

Things quickly unraveled. I was anxious, constantly distracted, and overwhelmed by tasks others seemed to do with ease—such as pipetting, or handling animals during experiments. I’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced I’d left the cell incubator open, even though I’d checked it several times. The stress built up until I reached a breaking point. I switched labs, effectively starting over, and finally began to take my mental health seriously. In the second year of my Ph.D., I saw a psychiatrist and received a diagnosis: bipolar II disorder.

Living with bipolar disorder as a Ph.D. student means sensitivity isn’t optional—it’s part of how I move through the world. Science is meant to be thrilling, but for me, every new experiment brought waves of stress and doubt. I’d dive deep into the research, trying to eliminate every unknown—sometimes so much that I’d miss deadlines. People saw this as procrastination, and I kept hearing the same message: “Toughen up.” So, I learned to hide my struggles, even if it meant pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. But once I began treatment, I began to feel I was finding some stability for the first time.

Then, in October 2023, conflict came to Israel, where I was studying. With air raid sirens and drones overhead, I made the hard decision to return home to Serbia. But coming back brought its own pain. As a queer person, I didn’t feel safe or seen in my home country. My newfound stability began to unravel, and I knew I couldn’t stay. I left again, this time for Denmark—to start my Ph.D. anew in a place where I could live more freely.

Since arriving here, I’ve figured out ways to make this journey more sustainable, through trial and error. At the suggestion of a friend, I take pictures and record videos of my experiments, so I don’t have to stress about taking perfect notes. I’ve learned to accept criticism without interpreting it as a personal attack. I take my medication and reach out when I need help. Most of all, I speak up for myself, letting my supervisors know which situations will likely be a challenge for me.

My mentor’s comment about sensitivity still echoes in my mind when things get hard. Sometimes I wonder whether she was right. But with time I’ve come to see my sensitivity as something other than a weakness. It’s the source of the empathy that compelled me to become a physician in the first place, and it’s what pushes me to do research and learn more about the patients I will one day treat. My own experience with a chronic condition has convinced me that patients need doctors who can combine scientific precision with compassionate practice.

The rigid, high-pressure environment of academia isn’t easy for people like me. But I’m stronger for having learned how to protect my well-being while pursuing my passion. My mental health struggles have forced me to check in with myself, respect my limits, and make space for emotion in an environment that treats it as a liability.

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