Blog

I've wanted to write a blog for years, but I've always talked myself out of it. The main reason? A voice in my head asking, 'Who the f--- do you think you are? What could you possibly have to say that anyone else wants to read?' Yet, here I am, finally writing one. So, what's my answer to that question?

Honestly, I don't have a perfect response. I'm a cis-het white man, and a first-year PhD student. My experiences aren't exactly unique; people who look like me are the majority in science, and I'm not far enough along in my career to offer profound wisdom. I'm tempted to say, 'But I'm not like the others, I grew up poor.' While that's partly true, hear me out, and I'll circle back to try and answer that core question.

Since I first applied to college, I've often felt like I didn't belong. This feeling is also partly rooted in truth. I never really cared about grades; my main concern was just passing to avoid failing or retaking classes. As you can imagine, my grades were awful. After high school, I knew I wanted to go to college but, due to laziness and apathy, I waited until the last possible moment before applying to the university in my hometown. I'm fortunate I didn't live near a university with higher admission standards because, for some reason, they accepted me last minute despite my abysmal grades and 75th percentile ACT scores.

In classic millennial academic fashion, I was in some advanced courses in middle and high school and had always found school easy. My attitude was, 'Why do homework? That's a waste of time. I want to climb trees and play video games.' Eventually, my advanced classes actually became challenging (how exciting!). I took pre-calculus and started learning about cosines and tangents, and my mind was blown; I actually struggled to follow along. Was my response to take advantage of this challenge? No. I had a blast following along in class and still had no interest in homework, but I managed to do just enough to study minimally and barely pass the class.

Maybe college would be different? Not yet! It's far too early in this story for the 'revelation' stage. Okay, I know I keep doing this, but to really understand why I question my voice and the point of all this, let's rewind again. Let's frame my childhood – who was this kid, or at least, what's the story I'm telling myself now about who he was?

The story in my head is that both of my parents were drug addicts. When my older brother was around six and I was around three, my parents divorced and both got clean. I ended up living with my dad, and then he had a stroke, and we grew up on welfare. Some people who haven't experienced anything like that are bewildered by this background, while others, like me, just see it as part of normal life. I want to be absolutely clear: I want zero pity about this story. Not in a 'pitiful person not wanting pity' way, but in a 'you don't understand, it wasn't actually pitiful' way.

I grew up living with my dad and older brother, visiting my mom every other weekend. When I say my life was filled with love, you truly have no idea. Do you know what having an older brother felt like to me? It felt like having a hyper-intelligent fairy godparent who occasionally (often) beat me up while wrestling over a toy or during an argument, or just because I was being an annoying little brother. When you see someone only four days a month, they can only have so much impact, but my mom definitely had a positive impact on me. While both my parents consistently told us they loved us no matter what and that we could be anything we wanted, my father spent most of his days in a recliner watching TV. In contrast, when I was with my mom, we would eat home-cooked meals and do things as a family. And let me tell you, having three people who love you and make you feel safe, even if it were in a warzone, is still better than most people had it.

Granted, this is the version of my childhood I'm remembering as a 33-year-old. I could be wrong about a lot of it, but this is the story I hold (without asking for verification from anyone else who was around). Without going into further details, that was my life: being carefree. So, why would grades matter? Nothing bad ever happens, right? What's the worst that could happen?

Back to college. Things weren't much different at first. I liked most of my classes, attended most lectures, didn't study, and did minimal homework. Then, my father had another stroke during my first semester. He was in a coma for months and has been in a nursing home ever since. He can't communicate verbally, and his cognition is confusing, limiting other forms of communication. It was too late in the semester to drop classes without a refund, and I believed my financial aid wouldn't allow me to drop without one. Then I made the mistake of enrolling the next semester, lying to myself that everything with my father was handled and I could go back to class like nothing was wrong. Consequently, I was put on academic probation and lost financial aid for a year.

Eventually, I obtained associate, bachelor's, and master's degrees, making many more mistakes along the way (that's a story for another time). But there I was again, applying to colleges with unimpressive grades, and somehow, again, making it into a PhD program.

My challenges can't compare to anyone else's. I told you how lucky I was to grow up feeling safe and loved; I also told you about my crappy grades being a product of laziness and apathy. But I made it, didn't I? I've met countless people who have accomplished and overcome so much that I can't even comprehend the emotional, mental, and physical energy it took. Some people are born with a silver spoon, and some people work their lives to obtain one, but if we're discussing how to obtain a silver spoon, both people should have a seat at the table.

I unfortunately have a tendency towards classism and elitism. I feel jealousy towards the 'haves' while angrily placing myself among the 'have-nots'. It's not fair that some people got into a good school because someone taught them the importance of good grades. It's not fair that some people got prestigious opportunities because they knew where to look while I did not. But it's also not fair that I had healthcare as a child because my family was poor enough for government benefits, while my low-income friends and peers had to choose between food and a doctor. It's not fair that I had a carefree childhood while SO. MANY. other children never knew what safety felt like.

So, back to the original question: why am I even talking to you? Why do I feel like I have something to say? I don't think I'm special, but I do think transparency can improve all our lives. I'd like to think I deserve everything I've gotten, but in reality, it often feels like I just come across as a genuine and likable guy, and maybe other people deserved the chances I received more.

Perhaps the people who feel they missed the opportunities I received will be able to compare themselves to me in a more transparent way, rather than blaming themselves. Maybe someone reading this was literally my competition for an opportunity I received, and they can decide more confidently that they deserved it more. Or maybe they'll realize that the world isn't a pure meritocracy, and luck and social connections play an important role. Maybe someone who provided me an opportunity is reading this and realizing they made a mistake, and will change how they select people in the future. Or maybe (hopefully?) that person is thinking, 'I like this guy's transparency, I like what he's doing here. Maybe I didn't make a mistake.'

And that brings me to the heart of it. I'm not special, and most of us aren't. I don't think I'm dumb (though I don’t like the whole concept of comparative intelligence), but I often feel lazy and frequently not nearly smart enough for the spaces I find myself in. But perhaps that's precisely why I'm talking to you. If my story, with all its perceived flaws, its strokes of luck, and its undercurrent of self-doubt, resonates with even one other person who feels like they're just winging it, then maybe that's reason enough.

Maybe by sharing our unpolished, non-heroic narratives, we can collectively build a more honest picture of what it means to navigate academia, or life in general. Perhaps it's less about offering "sage advice" from a pedestal of achievement and more about providing a hand-drawn map of a messy, ongoing journey.

So, yes, I'm talking to you because I hope that in this shared vulnerability, we can all feel a little less alone in our imperfections and a little more entitled to our own unique paths, however we stumble upon them.

A piece of advice I've sometimes offered to help others with imposter syndrome is this: instead of building yourself up, tear others down. Not in a mean 'they're all stupid and don't belong here' way, but in a 'they're all human' way. This is probably awful advice, but it sounds moderately profound, gets a few laughs, and seems to just fall out of my mouth whenever the topic comes up. While I don't actually follow this advice myself, it's, in a way, part of a two-step process I seem to practice on a near-daily basis with varying levels of efficacy. From my impression, most grad students feel imposter syndrome, and some post-docs and PIs have admitted it never truly goes away. Many of us feel like we don't belong here and we're not smart enough (though, granted, not all of us).

But, if it walks like an academic and talks like an academic, does that sort of make it an academic? If I get kicked out of my PhD because my work is inadequate, then perhaps I would be an 'imposter'. Until then, however, I'm here. Maybe they made a mistake admitting me, maybe they didn't, but either way, let's see if this gamble pays off, right?

I've met some truly remarkable people in academia so far. I've encountered many students I'm supposed to advise or supervise in some manner, and I'm consistently impressed and intimidated by how much they know. I've had mentors who seem to know everything and somehow accomplish so much in the same days that I accomplish so little. Of course, I feel like an imposter; I am an imposter by comparison. I'm not as good as them. I haven't worked at an Ivy League school while completing groundbreaking experiments, raising kids, maintaining a family and house, being actively involved in outreach projects, and somehow also being a cool and friendly person on top of all that. My days often consist of a little bit of coding, then I go home, drink beer, spend time with my partner, and sometimes cook a little. BUT, maybe that's okay?

Those students and mentors aren't actually superheroes; sometimes they make mistakes (like maybe hiring me). Sometimes I mention a paper they haven't heard of (so even though it feels like they know everything, that's obviously not possible). Sometimes I disagree on an experimental design. Sometimes I'm useful. Sometimes I provide insight. Sometimes I'm not a waste of money or time. Sometimes I accomplish impressive things. Sometimes I don't suck.

I'm not saying I'm not an imposter; maybe I am. But I see four possibilities:

I am an imposter. I'll be found out, I'll be kicked out of academia, and then I won't have to struggle with 'imposter syndrome' anymore; I'll have my answer.
I have imposter syndrome, but I'm actually awesome, just like everyone else here. I belong. I'll be fine.
I have imposter syndrome, but I get kicked out of academia by mistake regardless, and that's a problem for another time.
I am an imposter, but I'm such a good imposter that I trick everyone, get a PhD, and even stay in academia, fooling people every step of the way.

Honestly, scenario 4 is what I hope for the most. That way, I get to keep feeling the way I feel, nothing has to change, and I keep moving forward. If that is the case, then that's okay, right? If I pass the tests, if I get accepted into each stage of my path, does that mean 'I belong in academia' or not necessarily? My argument is for the latter. While the 'walks and talks like an academic' argument might hold some truth, I also think that diversity of thought is critical to science and philosophy. Maybe we should let a dummy be a professor every now and then. As long as they're able to fake it well enough, if the students are passing the classes, if their lab students are accomplishing tasks, maybe let them sneak on by.

I don't need to list the evidence that diversity improves science; I'm likely preaching to the choir on that topic, and I'm no expert. But typically, when I think of diversity in science, the focus is on people who belong here but don't get the chance to show it. Who can argue with that? Not only should we ethically and morally try to recruit everyone who is smart, talented, and hard-working, but those diverse individuals improve the science as well. But is there room for an imposter? Someone who doesn't belong but snuck in? I don't want to argue that smart, hard-working people should be replaced by lazy dummies, but maybe that lazy dummy can offer something too. Give that lazy dummy a job as a professor, and maybe fewer people will experience imposter syndrome. Or maybe, that lazy dummy can get lucky by trying to fake it until they make it, and stumble upon tremendous success. Or perhaps, if there were more transparency, we would simply see that success looks like many different things.

I often feel like someone who doesn't belong. Sometimes I don't feel that way. Sometimes, when I solve a problem in the lab, or I finish writing a script, or I just generally feel good about myself, when those things happen I can feel like the smartest person on the planet. In those moments, the dumbest thing about me seems to be the very idea that I don't belong. So maybe when I'm feeling down, I need to remind myself that I belong by humanizing everyone I feel I don't measure up to. Maybe sometimes I can feel better by convincing myself that it's okay to be an imposter. But what helps the most is realizing that there is no single definition of "belonging" in academia. I can't thank enough the wonderful scientists who have shared their experiences with me, either personally or by broadcasting them to the world, who have shown me that there is no single right path in science, no one way that success looks. There are just people invested in science. And I can feel like that. There is nothing I love more than the learning, experimenting, and troubleshooting that comes with science. I am SO incredibly lucky to have spent time in comfortable poverty, because I know what I want to do regardless of income. I'm going to do science, maybe as an imposter, but I'll either be a scientist or the best imposter I can be.

Why are You Even Talking to Me?

Space for an Imposter