I had an art teacher in high school (a hilarious nun who sometimes cursed, was usually improper, and taught me all kinds of things about not needing to conform to expectations) who used to tell us to "have a day." We would ask her if she meant "have a good day" and she would tell us that we could have whatever kind of day we wanted to have. Well, this has been a week. Stick whatever adjective you want in front of "week" and my answer will probably be "yes."
Math and science have always been hard for me. In both high school and college, I was strongly encouraged to pick something else. I was born with a stubborn streak a mile wide though and any suggestion that I couldn't do something generally only provoked me to try harder. (How lucky are my parents? I'm sure they hope I someday have one just like me.) I didn't choose science because it was easy, I chose it because it was hard, because it was a challenge, because I was determined to prove a point. To who (whom?), I have no idea.
I love that research keeps my mind busy and engaged. I love looking for the next project, the next challenge, and the next unknown. That's all well and good but usually science is a lot of days of failing to do something before you figure it out. Sometimes, before you discover you were asking the wrong question all along. Plenty of famous scientists (and less famous ones) offer examples of exactly how failing is intrinsically a part of research. Unfortunately, I am bad at failing. I do not, despite all the well meaning advice to the contrary, look at lines of failed code and think cheerfully "well, now I know that approach doesn't work, I'll just have to try another one!" Instead, I question why I couldn't have picked something else, anything else, to invest myself in as an adult. I hear the voice of a professor, long ago, telling me that I should consider science writing or being a telescope operator because I was not suited for more. If you're not sure, this was very much not a complement.
Usually I am most sure that I will never succeed shortly before I do just that. Often I leave work dispirited about my progress only to get on the highway and come up with a new approach on the way home. Or in the middle of the night. Or while I'm cooking dinner. I'm still not sure if the triumph at the end (however small of an improvement the "end" might be) is worth the struggle along the way. Maybe, someday, I'll get better at failing. Maybe I'll fail with more optimism and less resignation. At the very least, maybe I'll figure out a way to help my students be better at failing than I am. Or maybe being bad at failing is exactly what makes people good at science.
