Last week I got the email: I have been accepted for a Zia fellowship. The fellowship is addressed to young female researchers, and its purpose is to increase the visibility of them and their work. Through training in science communication, networking and other forms of support, you learn how to mark your spot. I was first puzzled- then overwhelmed- then happy- then insecure-then happy again. It is a wonderful opportunity and I am looking forward to this endeavour. However, it also made me think about my general work load and how this is an extra to-do on my list. And it made me think about visibility in general. Visibility is discussed a lot in science — in many different ways.

Break your cup!

Scientists often feel pressured to communicate more than they would like: to attend more events, to network with people outside of science, to write books about their topic that a non-scientific audience can understand. Some scientists do not want to do this. They are people who are truly engaged with their subject. They love the details, the complexity, the challenge of understanding it — and breaking it down for people outside of science feels like breaking your beloved new ceramic cup. A cup you bought on a trip with a wonderful person, from which you drink your coffee every morning, bringing up soft memories and calm, painting a little smile on your face. And now someone asks you to break it into tiny pieces. On purpose. And then to talk only about the one piece that might interest a broader audience: the implications. A single piece of a cup does not feel worth much. You cannot drink from it, it does not carry the same memories, it does not hold the same complexity of colour and pattern as the whole did. What is a scientific study without its introduction? What is its novelty without the methods? What is it worth without the broad discussion?

What my Grandma pays for

Then again, most science — especially in Germany — is tax-funded. I can only do my PhD because many other people don’t. They work nine to five (let’s be honest: often much more), they work hard, and they get very little recognition for it. There is no Nobel Prize for the best cashier at the supermarket, no award for the most beautiful scaffolding, no Bundesverdienstkreuz for the clerk at the Passbehörde. Isn’t it right, then, to let these people know what they are actually paying for? Isn’t it my duty to explain to my grandmother, one more time, what I do and why the knowledge I want to create matters for all of our lives? And to endure the questions she will ask, the doubt she will plant that my work might not be as impactful as I hope it to be?

Dresses go well with lab coats

There is another side to science communication: it creates visibility not only for your research, but for you as a person. The first time I saw a female scientist, my self-image changed. Being a scientist became a feasible possibility. The first time I saw a female scientist in a dress, I realised that I could love fashion and molecular biology — at the same time. Writing this down feels stupid, but sadly it is true: it had never occurred to me that I could dress in a stereotypically feminine way and still be a talented biologist. That is how deep my internalised misogyny sits. Later, during my master’s, I heard about being a first-generation academic and how that can make university life harder (more on this another time). But that there are people who did this before me. This kind of visibility is not directly connected to my work. But it might be connected to the work of the next generation.

It can suck, and still be a luxury

Maybe science communication is not only hard because we have to break our science down to make it comprehensible — a skill needed in every life situation, to be fair. I can hardly decide what to have for dinner if I try to weigh up all the relevant information at hand. I have to break it down in order to act. Maybe some of us also dislike the confrontation with real life. Working as a scientist can suck. It can drain all your energy and leave you tired and caffeine-addicted. But it is still a luxury. It is comparably well paid, you are free to shape your own day, and you get to acquire an incredible set of skills and meet interesting people and concepts. I have the privilege of finding fulfilment in the work I spend most of my day doing. Compared to my parents, I am the luckiest person I could have imagined. Maybe we scientists are sometimes so deep in this luxury that we forget work is not always happy sunshine. I do not want to use this text to play down the fact that the scientific system needs improvement - as does our society. Many people are suffering, the constant uncertainty puts too much weight on the shoulders of the individual, and being a scientist can genuinely suck. Not even mentioning horrible supervisors at this point. But, coming back to visibility: we can also benefit from science communication. Probably better funding opportunities. Our names and faces might stick, and our research might get more attention — the very research we consider important and want the whole world to know about. And we can live up to the responsibility that comes with a tax-funded scientific system.

Seen, not just watched

Lastly, there is a big difference between screen time and visibility. Just as in relationships, truly seeing someone is an act of love. It is a dedication to their interests, the time it takes to look closely, to notice the expressions and the gestures. The lines from sleepless nights, and the ones from the deepest laughter. Being really seen like this can be encouraging and uplifting. It can improve your self-esteem and brighten your day by a lot. And it can be one more reason to do our science as well as we possibly can. So, yes, please, ask me about my research! I am curious to learn, who wants to see me. And how much more I come to see myself and my work through different, hopefully love-filled, eyes.