Science
That Awkward Space Between ‘Science Enthusiast’ and ‘Scientist’
On imposter syndrome, lonely conservationists and finding your place in science communities
Between winged creatures and flights of fancy, I pressed my nose against the nearest Natural History Museum exhibit and inhaled. The air was charged with energy and voices buzzed around the museum’s annual bug fair.
In kindergarten, I was obsessed with bugs. I went to bug fairs. I reread Animal Planet’s Bugging With Ruud, fascinated by insects that looked like flowers or leaves. Some insects even looked a little like human faces. I didn’t worry about not knowing enough about bugs. After all, that was the point: childhood embraces discovery.
Bounce forward to this past weekend: I’m clamming up, struggling to make conversation with a mushroom expert at the Los Angeles Mushroom Festival. What do I even ask?
I’ve been interested in mushrooms for about two years. I’ve tried recipes for all the mushrooms available at Whole Foods and my local markets. I’ve grown my own mushrooms from a spray-and-grow kit and regularly listen to podcasts like Welcome to Mushroom Hour and Mushroom Revival. I wear mushroom-themed clothing and photograph any stray mushies I encounter on the daily.
I could just enjoy the fair. Perhaps talk to some other mushroom fans. Bring home a new mushroom grow kit or a jar of gooey candy caps preserves. But noooooooo. I’m preoccupied with the idea that I’m not mushroom-y enough.
Oh, what a terrible way to die.
It would be easy to navigate this perceived lack of mushroom-iness if it weren’t so wrapped up in more tangible fears. It has to do with my insecurities.
My fear was that I chose the wrong college major. My fear of becoming boxed into a specific type of role at work. My deep-rooted (and incorrect) belief is that I have to be perfect at new pursuits to make them worthwhile.
It has to do with impostor syndrome, that awkward space between “science enthusiast” and the far more official-sounding “scientist.”
It may even have to do with how science is treated in the nonprofit world, and what topics earn more attention from funding agencies.
So with this in mind, how do we ditch self-limiting beliefs and bridge that fuzzy gap between curiosity and proficiency?
How do we learn to feed our science enthusiasm and battle perfectionism?
Let’s explore. Let’s get a little bit curious, shall we?
Disclaimers
Before we venture further, some disclaimers: I am an early-career science communicator. I work at a local aquarium and explore science topics in my spare time. My professional background and lived experiences may be different from yours.
While self-limiting beliefs persist in scientific spaces and social psychology, there are also very real systems of inequality that keep some individuals from pursuing science careers and participating in outdoor spaces.
There’s also the idea that we should always strive to overcome our situations, always aim for self-improvement. There’s an entire self-improvement industry that makes a lot of money from this (perfectionist) expectation.
You’re under no obligation to improve.
The science funding crisis
There’s another reason why our ideas about science change as we get older. Surprise: it’s about money.
While the United States is working to increase federal science funding and ensure that funding actually reaches potential research projects, many universities and agencies are still reeling from a science funding crisis.
In 2020, only 28% of applications for NSF grants were funded. As a result, most university science funding comes from private sources. Funding shortages in the US an elsewhere play a large role in creating controversial unpaid internships and underfunded research.
According to University of California, Berkley “Almost 75% of U.S. clinical trials in medicine are paid for by private companies. And, of course, some researchers today still fund small-scale studies out of their own pockets.” This underpaid labor hits marginalized communities the most.
It’s frustrating to learn that as we get older, we often have to choose between financial freedom and a passionate science career. Isn’t it ever possible to do both?
This science funding crisis makes community science and science enthusiasts all the more important. A lot of scientific research is underfunded and scrappy. Often, it defies labeling.
“Most of us can’t afford to do cyclotron research as a private hobby, but birdwatchers, scuba divers, rockhounds, and others can do real research on a limited budget,” says UC Berkley. If you have access to NASA snapshots or iNaturalist, you can contribute to science.
That’s inspiring news. Very cool.
But when can I call myself a scientist?
Science Enthusiasts versus Scientists
What makes a science enthusiast? At what point does someone who enjoys science become a hard-core scientist?
I bristle at self-definitions. After all, how does one distinguish between a ‘beginner’ and ‘intermediate’ dinosaur aficionado? What must an ‘intermediate’ astrophysics fan do to become ‘advanced?’ Can a fan ever become an expert without formal training?
We’ve already explored the limitations of scientific funding. Yes, scientists in lab coats conduct experiments at university, but community scientists also contribute data about local snail biodiversity. Are either of those roles more ‘important?’ Then there are science communicators, science educators, and concerned parents monitoring local drinking water.
There are bachelor of science graduates that work in the film industry, weekend warriors picking up trash in the lagoon, and science comedians. As far as I’m concerned, all of these individuals could be scientists. So why can’t I accept that title for myself?
Who gets to say whether any of these individuals is a ‘scientist’ anyway?
It might be helpful for overthinkers to choose an entirely new title.
Ologies with Alie Ward
If ‘science enthusiast’ doesn’t quite describe your fascination with chemistry or inspire childlike curiosity, you might prefer to call yourself an ‘ologist.’
The podcast Ologies with Alie Ward aims to “ask smart people stupid questions” and inspire learning across SO. MANY. DISCIPLINES. The podcast covers interviews with experts on everything from ADHD to cider-making and shark biodiversity. If a line of research ends in the suffix -ology, it’s likely featured in one of many Ologies episodes.
It’s easy to fall into this world of discovery because Ologies host Alie Ward breaks down tricky subjects like dark matter into digestible audio. If the expert ologist begins to wax poetic about particle physics, Ward jumps in with helpful analogies and asides. Good science communication like this makes unfamiliar topics accessible at all levels of learning from ‘beginner’ to ‘advanced.’
One thing that I find especially inspiring about Ward’s podcast is that the ‘expert’ ologists don’t all have college degrees, and almost no expert’s path is linear. Cucurbitologist Anne Copeland appreciated pumpkins enough to write a book on these seasonal gourds. That makes her an expert ologist. Experimental Archeology follows college undergrad Angelo Robledo, an expert on early tools and spear-throwing levers called atlatls. Clearly, anyone can become an expert ologist at any age.
Are there any scientific disciplines that work in a similar way?
Grassroots mycology
Mushroom expert and entrepreneur Paul Stamets is a leading mycologist pioneering psilocybin research in Olympia, Washington. His interest in magic mushrooms’ high sparked his unconventional academic and professional pursuits.
Stamets got over a debilitating, lifelong stutter after getting high in a tree during a rough Ohio storm. Having weathered the storm, Stamets realized that he wanted to further understand psilocybin.
Stamets enrolled in college, dropped out to work in forestry, and eventually graduated from Olympia’s Evergreen State College. There, he studied biology and electron microscopy, pioneered research on psilocybin, discovered four new species of mushrooms, and published a mycology field guide. Stamets has since researched the cancer-fighting powers of wild mushrooms, founded his own business, and received an honorary doctorate degree.
“I started with virtually no money. I just followed my heart and my passion,” says Stamets. That message is incredibly inspiring in a world where early-career biologists are often underpaid, under-supported, and isolated.
And while the mycology field has since seen a tremendous boom in popularity, there’s still lots of work to be done.
Mycologist Alan Rockfeller is another community scientist and expert mycologist in Oakland, California. NPR describes Rockefeller as an “outside scientist” and says that community scientists are a gateway “escorting casual foragers deeper into the science of mycology.”
With less than one percent of the world’s mushrooms discovered, community science poses an incredible tool for advancing the field.
And if grassroots mycology works this way, who’s to say that science communicators and science enthusiasts won’t one day reach new breakthroughs in algae DNA sequencing or local hawk monitoring?
One of the reasons I like mushrooms so much is that this is a relatively new field rife with emerging discoveries. It’s a field that retains childlike curiosity.
And that curiosity bleeds into everything mushroomy people do.
Science communication
I am a science communicator working at a local aquarium. Every day I field questions about sea stars and local environmental issues. I lead field trips and engage students through questions:
“You pet a shark! How did they feel?!”
“Weiiiird.”
“Did they feel smooth or rough? Why do you think they felt that way?”
I’ve encouraged student-led learning and celebrated small wins. I LOVE when a nervous young visitor shifts from avoiding the shark touch tank entirely and learns how to pet our horn sharks properly using two fingers.
“Do you have a favorite animal in this aquarium?”
“Yeah. I think the sharks. I think they like me too.”
That’s part of my job that fills me up. But there are certainly days when science communication drains me.
Then, there are the questions I hate:
Why doesn’t this aquarium have dolphins? If you love animals, why do you keep them here? I bet you’d know a lot about [insert inappropriate sexual comments about the snails.] Can I feed the sharks pizza? Can I speak to a manager?
Of course, I try to use these questions as a learning opportunity:
- We don’t have the resources to ethically rehabilitate a dolphin.
- We care for animals and keep species that can live in captivity.
- I do know about snails. Do you know a family-friendly language?
- Sharks eat fish, not pizza. 😑
And yes, when all else fails, I call my manager.
I’m a science communicator and science educator. Does that make me a scientist?
Most days, I feel more like a glorified customer service representative.
True, working at an aquarium sometime takes an emotional toll. It’s tougher than it looks. I need to remain informative, upbeat, and inspiring no matter how I feel each day. To me, it’s super important that curious visitors of all ages leave feeling inspired to take care of the ocean. That’s what matters most.
I know that it’s normal to feel like this, to be a Lonely Conservationist, to see my colleagues struggling to make ends meet while pursuing their dream jobs. I know it’s normal to put on a workplace facade and remain ‘inspiring’ even on days when you don’t feel especially inspirational.
And I also know that despite the bad days, I’m on the right track. I’m moving forward in my career and reading about The Hidden Life Of Trees in my spare time. I show up to work every day in my Ms. Frizzle-themed outfits and make science happen.
Perhaps that makes me a scientist. Or maybe it doesn’t. Whatever I am, I’m not an imposter.
The bottom line:
The whole point of science is to try and sometimes fail.
That’s exactly what brings individuals to study science in the first place.
And so while I alone cannot change disparities between the amount of government funding natural science receives or who gets to pursue careers in capital-S Science, I can redefine what a ‘scientist’ means to me and support curious science enthusiasts.
And if that ever fails, I’ll go back to the drawing board with a new and improved hypothesis.
