I’ve just passed a
difficult anniversary. Seven years ago, my graduate advisor gave me
the curse of science impostor syndrome. A student’s graduate
advisor is meant to be a mentor, a trusted authority guiding the
young trainee from student to professional. Instead, she crushed me.
Feeling inadequate
and an intellectual fraud among superiors is common among women in
the sciences. I already had it. But to be told by my advisor that she
doesn’t think science motivates me. To be told that she doesn’t
think I want to be a research scientist, she thinks I like the idea
of being a research scientist. To dismiss my little voice saying,
“Yes it does,” and “Yes I do,” as if she could see right
through me to my true nature. To be told that I should find a new
advisor because I wasn’t as married to research as she was. She
devalued me and my chosen career path.
My first graduate
advisor is a force to be reckoned with in her subfield. She is
well-respected and highly honored. She wins top awards. She’s going
to leave a legacy. Someday, someone will name an equation or
astrophysical model after her. A widow without children, she was
married to her work. She lived and breathed it. Her career defined
her life and her life was defined by her career.
I was a student in
my mid 20s, passionate about astronomy and space broadly. I’ve never
been a specialist, too interested in everything to devote myself to
one thing for long. I loved my graduate research, but I also loved so
many other things. Since junior year of undergraduate, I’d
dedicated myself to the study of our subfield. It was fascinating and
challenging, probing the unknown with space telescopes observing the
Universe in multiple wavelengths. I learned so much. I spent hours in
the lab every day, running models, coding, and plotting (graphs, not
schemes). When I wasn’t working on research, I was studying
doctoral-level physics textbooks and doing complex homework. I was
all in.
But I also had a
life. I had no interest in winning the Nobel Prize or scoring a
tenured professorship at an Ivy League. I had interests outside of
the lab and textbooks. I had a social life. I was converting
religions. I wanted to someday marry and have children. The world was
open to me. I wanted it all. I didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t
have it all.
By definition, a
graduate research assistantship is half time. Ask any graduate
student whether they work 20 hours per week and they’ll laugh at
you. I never recorded my hours, but I was much closer to full-time on
a regular basis. When times got tough, grad school took over my
waking hours. At times I struggled to maintain a healthy balance.
When my graduate
advisor ordered me to drop all of my hobbies and work in the lab from
early morning to late evening and weekends, I fought back. I know my
limits. That kind of schedule would have burned me out quickly. Plus,
it wasn’t necessary. There was no deadline to meet or urgency in
our work. She simply wanted 100% devotion. Anything less, and I
wasn’t worthy. She even scolded me for attending a physics guest
lecture outside of our subfield.
At this point, I was
done with my graduate coursework, straight As except for one B in
quantum mechanics. I had passed the insanely difficult exam that
proved I knew my physics. I had been researching this subfield for 4
years. I should have been fairly close to finishing my PhD – just
another year or so to write papers, publish, and defend. She insisted
that I was 3 years away from finishing, dismissing all my previous
work.
I felt trapped. I
felt like an indentured servant. I had won a NASA graduate fellowship,
my own grant money, but it was tied to her. She reminded me that she
had paid my previous years, approximately $20k per year, plus
healthcare. Her goal was to train an apprentice, the next generation
of her. She expected me to be her mini clone. She even had my
post-doc location picked out, a university overseas, as if I should
have any say in the matter. I should be grateful and work harder. Why
wasn’t I grateful? Why was I avoiding her?
A year prior, before
she lost my trust, I confided in her that I had career interests in
other areas. She was wise and experienced; I had hoped for advice.
Instead, I was reprimanded. I quickly learned that I could not have
an honest career discussion with a woman entrusted to guide my young
career.
I tried to improve
in her eyes. I tried to be a model student researcher. I gave it my
best shot. It wasn’t good enough. I was told that I needed to be
obsessed with work. I was told that if I had any plans to work beyond
our subfield in the future, I needed to find a new advisor. It was
her way or the highway.
She asked me why I
wanted a Ph.D. I said it was because I love my research. She said no,
I love the idea of my research, I love the idea of being a research
scientist. Can you imagine telling a 10-year-old girl this? “You
don’t really want to be a scientist, little girl, you just think
you do. Go pursue a career more suited for you.” I may have been in
my mid 20s, but her condescension made me feel like a confused little
girl.
I chose the highway.
And I never looked back. I found a fantastic graduate advisor at
another university. I have a successful career in the space industry
spanning multiple disciplines. I’m writing proposals to be a
principal investigator in my own research. I’m married with a
family. I have hobbies and interests outside of my career. Success is
the best revenge.
But she planted
doubt in my mind for a long time. Was I really good enough to be a
scientist? Was I dedicated enough to succeed? Am I really meant to be
a scientist, or do I just like the idea of being a scientist? The
question itself is nonsensical because I was a scientist long before
I went to school for it. It’s who I am at the core. And yet the
doubt persists.
The damage was done.
Impostor syndrome is why I tolerated a workplace bully in my new
graduate lab, a jealous lab manager who mocked my research progress.
Impostor syndrome is why I’m still hung up on the fact that I left
my PhD program ABD, despite being just as competent at physics as any
physics PhD. Impostor syndrome is why I let colleagues at my first
full-time job treat me as if I was fresh-out undergrad instead of
respecting my well-educated scientific opinions at the level they
deserved. Impostor syndrome is why I still let some academics get to
me when they insist that I need to go back to school to finish my PhD
in order to be equal to them.
Impostor syndrome
still haunts me. I hesitate to take certain risks or pursue certain
opportunities because of it. And in the back of my head, a little
voice asks, “Do I really want to be a scientist, or do I just like
the idea of it? Do I really want to be a space industry analyst, or
do I just like the idea of it?” Never mind that I’m living and
doing both. I keep fighting it. I’ll likely be fighting it until
the end of my career.
The advisor/student
relationship is one of the most important factors in a grad school
success. If it goes wrong, get out of there – fast! Leaving my NASA
fellowship and university was a tough decision, but it was the right
thing to do. I’m better off for it.