I entered graduate school with the goal of one day running my own lab. Research attracted me because I wanted to learn how things worked: I wanted to understand how as complex an organism as a human was organized and built; I wanted to learn how thoughts were formed and what the roots of consciousness were; and I wanted to know how bodies broke through disease and aging. In my bright-eyed days as a first-year grad student I was fascinated by all things biological… and I still am. But today I have chosen to satisfy this interest in a less direct way. I work at the National Institutes of Health where I help develop policies that foster research and communicate scientific discoveries to Congress and the greater public.

So, why did I leave research? When did I know that it was no longer for me?

The realization was gradual, based on the accumulation of small personal insights. I had a good career as a graduate student. I did the work-hard, play-hard routine that was common among my classmates. I was in an exciting and interactive department, with bright and enthusiastic lab mates, and a supportive (if somewhat quirky) PI. As my experiments crawled along, self doubts would emerge, but when results arrived, the excitement always re-kindled my drive.

I was content with this lifestyle until two years before graduation, when a set of experiments required me to spend long hours at the electrophysiology rig (a set-up of electronic equipment used to study neuronal signals which literally resembles a cage). The work was manual rather than intellectual and isolating and while I sat there alone for long hours in the darkened room I took to listening to archived stories on NPR about health, science, politics, and society. It was the days before the second election of President Bush.

I had previously been mostly indifferent to politics but the stories I heard seemed so much more important than the ongoing recordings at my rig. Stories of war, of partisanship, and of politically-motivated meddling in science (evolution, climate change, stem cells) opened my eyes to a world outside the confines of the laboratory. Soon, I started to question the importance of my work in the greater context of things. Somehow, the synaptic functioning of the neuromuscular junction of the fruit fly no longer held the same appeal. There was a bigger picture, and I wanted to be more directly involved.

This did not bode well. I knew the only way to succeed in research was to focus intensely on precise questions. Great scientists are almost always consumed by their research—I thought—so what did it mean for my career aspirations that I no longer deemed my passion and drive suitable? Despite the doubt, I carried on, primarily because one experiment paid great dividends, but also because many people reassured me that feeling tired about your own research was just a natural part of the last few years of grad school.

Before long, I made another observation that profoundly impacted my career interest. Young scientists that I had thought very highly of were having enormous difficulties securing the kinds of academic positions that I, and my peers, was aspiring toward. It is a hard truth, often unacknowledged, that only thirty percent of graduate students will one day become tenure-track professors. As graduation approached, my thoughts began to revolve more and more around the following logic: if academic research requires tremendous devotion to a highly-focused topic, and if even the most dedicated scientists are still not assured an academic job, could I expect to find fulfillment and success if I already had doubts?

I questioned my original aspirations and re-addressed personal and professional priorities. It was a difficult internal debate to resolve, but I realized I no longer wanted to pursue a career in academic research. There was momentary relief. However, this was followed quickly by another stressful question—what comes next? Where could I find a career that married broad interests in science, provided continued opportunities to learn, and yet had a more tangible societal impact?

A number of friends and mentors suggested science policy as a career. I was unsure about what that would entail or even what "science policy" truly meant but I decided to find out. I applied and was selected for the National Academies' Science and Technology Policy Graduate Fellowship Program, a short internship experience designed to introduce scientists to the world of government policy-making.

During the five-months of the internship, I worked on topics as varied as embryonic stem cell research, intellectual property issues for genomics databases, and bio-security. Every day I was prompted to learn and think about exciting scientific issues, which in hindsight is what had initially attracted me to academic research. Now, however, I was in a position to consider broader applications and tangible benefits. I was hooked. My days of sitting alone in a dark room with my sample were over—I had finally found my role in the big picture.