Posted: July 25, 2024

Who really cares?

I'm almost halfway in my PhD, still working on the same paper. It looks like we're finally finishing up the draft. Still, I'm afraid that at any moment one of my supervisors will say "no we still need to do xyz, it's not done yet". This scares me because I don't think I will get my PhD unless we finish it. like everything hangs in the balance of this paper being finished.

Looking to boost my confidence with some small successes, I rekindled an interest in effective writing and presenting. I've had a lot of fun improving my communication skills with small tips and free online resources. Of all the tools we can use improve our SciComm, storytelling techniques sounded especially fun: I've been an avid reader most of my life. So when the university offered a course on storytelling, I signed up.

One of the first assignments was to prepare a story about a turning point in your life. We exchanged these stories in one-on-one conversations with other course participants. The first session took place in a large open room that looked like the sort of place where you would launch a start up. The room had a stage with a small wooden speaking pedestal, a few rows of foldable chairs and in the back was a stand with steps you could sit on.

I sat down with another PhD student, a young woman with a broad smile and long straight blonde hair. Her story about how she went from almost failing high school to doing a phd has stuck with me ever since.

In high school, I used to be the kid with the best grades. I took extra courses outside of my timetable. I participated in activities like writing a book review for the local bookshop. Teachers that didn't teach me knew who I was. Even now, when my sister who is 9 years younger, goes to the same school, she's reminded that she's the sister-of.

The PhD student started her story in the first maths class if the year. It was the year before the final exams. It was the second time she was there. She had to leave her friends behind, because she had failed the previous year. This year, she wanted to do it right. She was going to study seriously and pass safely.

The teacher started the class and wrote the first lesson on the blackboard. The PhD student, whom we'll call Anna, opened up a fresh notebook. Anna smoothed the pages flat and wrote down her name, the class, the date.

"Hey! You there, " the teacher shouted, pointing at her, "what are you doing? Stop doodling. You need to pay attention. Or you're going to fail this class again", the teacher scolded her.

Anna jolted in her chair. She stared down at her notebook, strands of hair obscuring her burning cheeks. The unfairness of the teacher's accusation made her eyes prick, her hands sweat. Quietly, resentfully, she resolved: I'm not just going to pass this year. I will get a 10 for maths. I will prove her wrong.

Sometimes I would have to skip an hour of English or French because it overlapped with one of my extra courses. Most of the teachers knew this and wouldn't write me up. One day, I got called to my mentor. She asked me, gingerly, about a sudden string of absences from English class. Clearly, something must have gone wrong here; never was it implied that I skipped school --though I did, sometimes.

Anna was determined, even without her teacher's trust, to pass. She studied diligently, took notes during class in the cursed notebook and studied for her exams. She knew that with enough practice, she could make it.

A few weeks later her teacher gave her her first math's exam back. Anna stepped to the desk. The teacher was silent, with a puzzled expression, but had a glint of curiosity in her eyes. She handed Anna her exam. A perfect 10. Well done, the teacher told her, staring for one second more before moving on to the next student.

A mix of surprise and confirmation rushed through Anna as she walked back to her desk. She had felt it coming, the perfect 10. Still, seeing it scrawled on the front page, next to her name, felt other. A physical manifestation of the new reality she had built.

After finally finishing the most recent re-do of the "last" analysis, I sent my draft to my supervisors. This time it woud be the last one, right? My feelings swung from elation and relief, to deep insecurity and back again.

This is my paper, i can decide when it's ready. SWITCH. I'm reliant on what my supervisors tell me. If they say it's not good enough, I need to do what they say without questioning.

I feel ready to stand up for what I have to say. SWITCH. I'm afraid, I let my supervisors' words determine my opinion.

At least in school, I got grades and I knew when I was "good enough." Without a metric like that, I don't know when I'm passable.

This is how Anna's story ended: after acing maths, her boost of confidence got her to top grades in all her courses. She passed the year, finished high school with flying colours. Eventually, she made her way to a PhD. Her story pulled me in, head to tail. I rooted for her through the clear antagonist, and cheered when she got her exam grade. And when she got to her PhD, where our paths join, I was taken aback by how different her experience in school had been from mine.

Our stories are so different. I cannot imagine walking in Anna's shoes, on that other side of the the trust and confidence of others. I deeply respect how she carved her own path when others told her she could never. I think I would have waited too long for permission. I wonder how our mirrored paths have changed the women and PhD candidates we are today.

Does she experience the same doubts about her research, even though she clearly shows more trust in herself? Would I also have trusted myself more if I hadn't gotten all those compliments on my results?

And I wonder about how we treat people. We're mean and dismissing towards people who we don't think "have it in them", even though they do. We praise others but tear down their sense of self at the same time, making them reliant on our praise.

After two years, I'm now able to let go what people think of my paper. I realised that deep down, people don't really give a shit about what you do or how you write your paper. Yes, they will judge you. But they don't really care: they're not tossing and turning at night, mulling over the extravagant colour choice of your figures.

But I do really care about my research. And I do really care about making figures that I find aesthetically pleasing. And I do really care about publishing analyses that might be unconventional but convey my vision of the field. If others don't really care about my research, then obviously my research is safest in well, my hands!

This thought comforts me. More importantly, it led me to rediscover the feeling of taking ownership over my life. I've followed my instinct in the past: randomly switching from Astronomy to Computer Science. But these paths tend to find unexpected ways to meet. Like in Machine Learning for Earth Observation (just satellites facing the other way). I'm now more excited than ever about finding more of these surprises in my future.

The relationship between outside validation and your definition of success is complicated. But our mirrored fights share the same hero: the courage to listen to our own voice.

Who really cares?

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