From research to science communication: One year in
This week marked the one-year anniversary of my scientific communication career. After majoring in molecular biology and neuroscience in university, staying on as a research specialist for two years in the lab where I wrote my senior thesis, and working another two years as a research assistant in a neurotechnology lab, I had moved across the pond to pursue something else entirely. For the past year, I have stayed in the world of neuroscience research, but not at the lab bench. Rather, I have interviewed leading neuroscientists, interacted with brain science enthusiasts around the world through social media, and with a dedicated team of scientists and professionals, brainstormed strategies for cultivating a transformation in research culture. I discovered skills that could never have been unearthed had I stayed in a lab full-time; I also saw limits and areas of growth that I am excited to work on in the coming months. In an ever fast-paced environment that is the internet, a piece of reflection frozen in time may come in handy, perhaps to someone who is at a similar crossroads where I found myself a couple years ago.
After another unsuccessful round of graduate school applications two winters ago, I was at my wit’s end. Pursuing a PhD in neuroscience was a path my heart had been set on ever since I began independent work in university, in a neuroscience lab that exposed me to the fascinating realm of recording from neurons in animals’ brains in real time. I also found an irreplaceable sense of belonging in a laboratory environment, where active collaboration was the norm and periods of intense focus married with hands-on tinkering bore the most original of fruits. I was elated to be at the frontier of knowledge every day, riding on the feeling of contributing something meaningful to our understanding of the mind. But, because of my academic and personal struggles during my undergraduate years, my applications to PhD programmes were continually rejected. I was crushed. Then, I was introduced to What Colour is Your Parachute. It was only by painstakingly going through the exercises in the book that I realised my skills, talents, and interests lay in the intersection between science, creative writing, and outreach. I applied for and somehow managed to secure a role as a science communicator at a neuroscience institute in London; that is where I have worked ever since.
This past year in this new job has brought a balanced mixture of pleasant surprises and unexpected challenges. Firstly, I cannot describe in words how grateful I am to be surrounded by colleagues who are kind, motivated, smart, and creative beyond what I could have ever comprehend with my siloed set of experiences in the lab. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I could speak with world-renown neuroscientists and publish those conversations for the general public to see. The opportunity to interact closely with researchers, understand their pain points and work together to come up with ways to solve them, is valuable beyond measure. With each new published paper from a group in the institute, I get to help with crafting the perfect combination of messaging, graphics, and sometimes photography to make the complex content digestible to a non-specialist audience. And with these delightful surprises also came morsels of not-as-pleasant but equally integral aspects of the job that I’m only now learning to embrace: shouldering the responsibility of communicating on behalf of 300 staff and students, including a Nobel laureate; coming to terms with my close friends and family being at least a 6-hour flight away; no longer being able to witness the lighting up of neurons in a two-photon calcium imaging rig in a dark experimental room on a regular basis.
Being a lab rat for five years (including my last year of university) has prepared me for the job of a science communicator in equally unexpected ways. Performing rodent brain surgeries for multiple microscopy projects at a time taught me about the weight of responsibility in a fast-paced team environment. Storing my data in an accessible way equipped me to be organised when managing numerous streams of information. Being constantly exposed to the limits of my skill set in the lab pushed me to not cower in the face of criticism, but rather peer further into the discomfort and stretch my boundaries in a healthy way. In the coming chapters of my journey as science communicator, I plan to leverage these unique experiences even further, finding confidence in being able to empathise with a researcher who may have failed multiple surgeries or experimental procedures in a row; in using the feeling of being mesmerised when looking at the live activities of a brain to draw in a curious audience; in understanding what is realistic or not when executing a project in the context of a research institute.
If you, dear reader, are thinking of transitioning from research to science communication, or contemplating doing both at the same time (which many do), then I hope these lessons of mine from the first year of transition have provided some perspective. The way that the 12 months unfolded have taught me so much already. But, if I could somehow merit a do-over, I would do some things differently. First, I would have made more use of the first couple months as a complete newbie to ask more questions, question the status quo itself, and be more courageous in proposing different ways of doing things. As much as I may have earned trust from following the established steps, I regret not having been a bit more reckless, breaking out of my shell and planting new seeds where the soil was fertile. Second, I would have gone out of my way more to forge connections outside of the neuroscience institute itself. It was indeed a difficult time to start a new job in the midst of a pandemic, but I could have taken more initiative in making the most of my lack of experience to tap into the existing networks. That said, I could be in an even more prime position to do that now. Third, I would have engaged more closely with the researcher community. Right now, I feel slightly removed from the labs, observing them from afar and only reporting on the end results of a paper when the entire review process is finished. But, having conducted first-hand research myself, I know that is not how real science works. There are ups and downs beyond count, off-hand conversations that lead to fruitful collaborations, and tiny daily rituals that eventually build up to culminate into a collective heartfelt memory. I wish I had plugged myself more deeply into this groaning, the losses and the triumphs, the beautiful ebb and flow of the teamwork that is scientific research.
And with this sobering resonance, like the quiet trailing off of a note after a poorly attended musical performance, I close this reflection on a one-year transition chapter. I feel grateful to be able to share this with anyone who has managed to read this far. I am also hopeful that in this economy of interdisciplinary careers, some may even find this piece encouraging in the face of uncertainty or failure. One closed door signals another door opening elsewhere. Through the rejections and unexpected forging of connections I have learned that the lines that seem to so definitively divide one world from another are actually easier to move than you’d think, that the identities we cling to are actually quite amenable to reincarnation, that in so doing we are much more capable of inspiring that same contagious adventure in others. The world of science communication is waiting to be defined.
