Full Circle by Anna H. '14

I’m sitting on the floor of my living room in Ithaca, New York. It’s snowing outside and the windows are cloudy with condensation. A couple of days ago I got back from Ireland, where I gave a seminar and served as the external examiner (“extern”) for a PhD Viva, and now I’m trying to get my act together before the semester starts on Tuesday. 

The last time I wrote a blog post was July 2020, when I had just defended my own PhD. There’s a coda to that story. Over a decade ago (!), when I was an undergrad at MIT, I got a book in the mail from an author I nicknamed “Shakespeare.” The book was about astronomy research at an observatory in the 1960s, and I ended up doing my graduate work at the same observatory. After my PhD defense, I mailed the author a hard copy of my dissertation, along with a letter describing all the exciting new science happening at the observatory. I wasn’t expecting a response, so when I entered my office and saw a letter from Shakespeare lying on my desk, I opened it without sitting down or taking off my backpack. The letter was in blue ink on very thin, soft, cream-colored paper. “Dear Anna,” it read, “One handwritten note deserves another.” He said he remembered sending me that book while I was at MIT, that it had been his first book, and that at the time he had no idea if he could actually write a book, but that the encouragement and respect of others helped get him there. 

Today I’m writing as a professor of astronomy. In between, I spent a couple of years as a postdoc, where I spent the vast majority of my time doing research. The transition from being a postdoc to being a faculty member was the most abrupt of my career because it came with the most new responsibilities: I teach undergraduate and graduate classes, fundraise and manage a budget for a research program, supervise a group of postdocs and students, and serve on departmental committees. I had done bits and pieces of each before, but the shift in scale was dramatic. I knew that it would be: when I solicited advice before my move, I was told that “nobody [is ever ready for a faculty position] because the demands are impossible,” and that I should define my own goals–in other words, decide which aspects of the job I wanted to excel at, because no one could excel at all of them. 

So, the job is not easy, but it’s deeply rewarding in many respects. I feel genuine excitement about learning how the universe works–a feeling that has not changed at all since I was an undergrad–and I’ve learned that this is precious, a flame to protect from burning out. I get to study the cosmos with students and postdocs who amaze me with their individual talents and their generosity with one other. My first undergraduate mentee recently graduated, and went off to get her PhD; I stuck the program from her commencement to the wall of my office. I have regulars at office hours whose interest in the subject reignites my own. I work with people from all over the world. 

Looking over my MIT blogs now, I’m struck by how many threads have continued–the things I enjoy, the way I approach challenges–and also by how the perspective has flipped. Instead of being the undergrad whose eyes are glazing over in lecture because she stayed up until 6am doing way too many activities, I’m the professor who sees a student’s eyes glaze over while I’m lecturing and feels retrospective embarrassment at how obvious inattention is to the person at the front of the room. (To all my former professors, I would just like to say: I’m sorry. I thought you might not be able to tell.) Instead of scrambling to find a research position, I receive emails from students and although I do my best to respond, I sadly don’t have the bandwidth to work with all of them, and hope that my unavailability is not discouraging. Instead of being in a panicked state about choosing classes and a major, I meet with students who are making the same decisions. I remember my first conference, and now I send students to that same conference and hope that the environment is just as welcoming. I remember how it felt to write my first observing proposal, and this summer I took my students out to ice cream to celebrate their first proposal success, with the same telescope. 

A favorite high school teacher once told me that it was important “always to find [one’s] points of equilibrium.” An academic career often entails moving: in the past decade I’ve lived in five very different places, spanning what has felt to me like at least three different phases of life. In each phase, equilibrium has had a different meaning: I’ve seen my needs and priorities change, and I know that they will change again in the next few years. I was nervous about moving to Ithaca, and the beginning was difficult, but I knew that things would rebalance. Sure enough, I made friends, signed up for many mailing lists (which reminded me a lot of moving to MIT!), joined a choir, started taking singing lessons, and found a volunteering role at Cornell’s Lab of Ornithology–it just took some time. 

Birds have always been a latent interest, and after moving here I particularly wanted to see owls. About a year ago, during the area’s annual bird count, I met someone who knew the owl guy. She gave me a name (let’s call him Bill) and a phone number, and said to text him. I texted Bill asking if I could tag along, and his instructions were to meet him at the Lab of Ornithology north parking lot at 3:45am. So that’s how I found myself bundled up in the back of a stranger’s car at the crack of dawn on New Year’s Day. We heard 14 Eastern screech owls, and saw 3 of them. They are tiny and very adorable. 

The sun has pretty much set, so I’ll wrap up here. Thank you to Ceri and Chris for organizing the blog anniversary and see you all in…(yikes…)…ten years? 

In my office on my first day of work!