I’m not an expert, but I would describe it as a state of mind in which one does not attribute their own success to their own ability, but rather to luck, chance or clever trickery. It can result in severe feelings of anxiety and inadequacy, stemming from a constant fear of being ‘found out’ and it can lead to more serious clinical conditions, such as depression. After all, luck never lasts, and there’s only so much we can do to fool our peers into thinking we know what we’re talking about.

The reason why I’m bringing this up is because I identify with these symptoms, and they have recently become so severe I’ve actively started pursuing a career outside of academic research. Because I love research so much, being driven out by these feelings only increased my anxiety to the point I could no longer function as a normal person.

Until very recently I had never confessed the extent of the problem to anyone, and things got very bad indeed. It’s not only mentally draining to feel this inadequate – and fearful – all the time but it’s also had a significant impact on my mental and physical health. Also importantly, it’s bad for my career because I sabotage myself by actively discouraging interactions that put me on the spot (networking in conferences, talks, taking on high-profile projects, etc).

So why write this now? If I’m honest, mainly out of desperation. I’m very tired of feeling so stupid all the time, and on top of that putting on a very brave and confident face because that’s what is expected of a young post-doc working in cutting-edge science. But as I started opening up about this, I’ve learned that I’m far from being alone. I’ve learned that people I have in very high regard feel the same and, from what is now personal experience, I learned that it helps to know that. I also learned that these depressive feelings are not normal, and that seeking professional help is perfectly justified.

Most of all, I’ve started to realise that these feelings are probably decoupled from scientific ability, and that they can be helped. I don’t think I’ll ever be a very confident scientist but I now hope that, with help, I can get myself in a position where I can rationalise myself out a depressive episode induced by these feelings. That is something worth fighting for.

It took a number of dear dear friends to spell these things out for me, because even the obvious stops being plausible when things get rough. For that I’m so very thankful. In the meantime, maybe spelling this out for other people out there will help them – I don’t know. I do know that being open about it can only be a good thing, and that being a happier person can only result in a better scientist.

I may post updates on how this battle progresses. They’ll be for my own benefit more than anything else but perhaps they’ll offer some insight and relief to others too, and that would be no bad thing.

The internet is awash with informative discussions and insights on gender biases and women issues within the academic world. If you take the time to read them you’ll find this is a serious issue, that this is driving many women away from an academic career, and that this is ultimately affecting the progress of science – not to mention these women’s lives! I feel sympathetic about this issue in principle, because I feel that everyone who is good at science should be able to pursue it as a career. But it’s a sort of distant sympathy, like that I feel for social mobility issues, or matters of social benefits.

I’ve never had to claim benefits (nor loose them), and I’ve never had to struggle with social mobility. Similarly, I’ve never had any hint, any smallest, tiniest affliction for being a woman in science. Never. The difference, of course, is that I am a woman, and I am a scientist.

So what? I’m possibly just terribly lucky. Not lucky in how I am, but lucky in the particular institutions and environments where my career has so far developed, and lucky with the people I’ve interacted. Or maybe I’m just blind, or at least less sensitive to these issues – maybe I have been a victim of gender bias and never noticed. Or could all of these women be delusional? I mean, I’m prepared to admit that the majority of the world’s population is delusional about God – would it be such a step for me to assume all these women are similarly delusional, simply grasping for a reason as to why their career in science has flopped without having to blame themselves?

No, of course not, but the question is nonetheless worth asking. And I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t at some point entertained this thought quite seriously. Until fairly recently in some ways… there, that’s my confession to you.

There’s this particularly well-written series of posts by Dr. Kathryn Clancy - whose blog I just recently started to follow, and of which this is the last instance – that hit a chord somehow. It follows a large part of the discussion of women issues in science (and also blogging – really interesting stuff) that took place at the Science Online 2011 conference. I still find it hard to personally identify myself with the stories and issues discussed, but what really hit home is the fact that so many of these people (in panels, etc) I’ve come to trust. And not just in Science Online 2011, but across the wider community too. Through their blogs, tweets, some even scientifically, where our fields of work overlap enough that this is a possibility. Most of these people’s opinions (mostly woman, but that’s beyond the point just now) credit highly in my scale. And they tell me there’s a problem – I really ought to listen.

But I’m still left to reconcile my experience with the world’s at large. Am I lucky or am I blind? Trying to answer this question induced a little bit of temporary paranoia – it’s possible that I’m blind.

As an example: I do a lot of outreach and science communication; too much – some have said. It comes to about 10-15% of my work time, even though I try to do most of it on my spare time (not that the concept of “spare time” really means much as a postdoc these days! but that’s another post). I’m pretty sure these efforts go largely un-noticed by current and future employers but that doesn’t bother me. What would bother me is if it went against me. And the more I read about how women shy away from showing themselves as having strong “soft skills” the more I worry this is damaging. And then I started asking myself: would the big bosses notice these efforts, and indeed hail them as worthwhile, were I male?

As I asked these questions I also realised how unproductive and unscientific these questions are. I don’t know, but most importantly – I shouldn’t care. If I’ve had no reasons yet to feel the weight of being a woman in academia – be it through luck or blindness – acting like that it is a problem would be the worst thing of all. And mostly unfair – both on those around me, and on myself.

Ultimately, I’m still prepared to admit I’ve been lucky, and that if my science is good enough then these issues will only manifest themselves second-order effects throughout my career. I understand and I trust the need to discuss these issues, but I hope their discussion doesn’t adversely affect those women who have been lucky to not feel the weight of their gender just yet.

I just wanted to write a public thank you note that is longer than 140 characters. The perseverance needed to battle this case for two years is not common-place. Simon didn’t have to fight this battle, but him doing so – at his own financial and personal expense – has resulted in great things for all of us. Not just the result today, but a Libel Reform campaign and a higher awareness of scientific issues in politics and in parliament can all be directly linked to Simon Singh’s courageous actions. It’s not over, but we wouldn’t be here if the man didn’t have some guts. So thanks Simon – we most definitely owe you one.

Let me start simply, by stating what I used to think is right and what I think is right now. I used to think that the moral views of different people were equally valid, or at least always worth of equal consideration. Now I think that it can be asserted that some moral views are right, and some moral views are wrong. Note that I’m not saying that I can assert it – only that it can be asserted. We’ll get to the ‘by whom?’ question later.

Sam Harris further argues that science can help with that assertion, but my fundamental problem with this was that I didn’t think this should – could – be done, in principle. Science wasn’t even in the equation. Turns out that it has to be, but we’ll get there later.

So why did I use to think that we all have an equal say when it comes to morality? Funnily enough, I’m finding myself having more trouble justifying my previous stance than my current one. Some people seem to be focusing on the sheer size of the moral landscape to justify this, but I don’t think that was it. I very much agree with Sam Harris here in that consensus or range of opinions/theories has very little to say about how likely any one given person is of being right or wrong (a pet hate of mine is how, in Astronomy, people often insist on estimating systematic errors – often brought in by models which essentially parametrise our ignorance – by comparing results obtained with different models with no regard to the rather obvious fact that models are likely to be wrong in the same, and unknown, way). No, that’s not it.

Perhaps then, it was because I was brought up as a catholic and even though I am no longer a catholic (or a religious person), I still felt the need to accommodate these views out of respect towards my family and friends (a large fraction of whom are devote catholics). But whereas respecting religious beliefs is one thing, accepting real policies that arise from those beliefs as being morally right is quite another. Perhaps then I was somewhat confused here. Turns out I discarded accommodationism too, but that’s somewhat beyond the point for now.

However, I think the honest and fundamental reason is that I could not identify an expertise that I thought could rule on the morally right or wrong. “Who am I to say that it is not OK to stone women to death for adultery?” Really? Really? OK, there are two questions here.

First. Is there an expertise that can give me absolute answers about what is right or wrong? Second. If such an expertise exist, how does one become an expert?

First. Turned around by Sam Harris, I’m now very much inclined to say that there is. If we agree that there are ‘peaks’ in the moral landscape (these peaks will change with time – and that is OK!), then to each of these peaks there must correspond a set of moral answers that will lead us to it. The more fundamental question then, is whether such an absolute (albeit time-dependent) landscape exists, and how it can be calculated. Sam Harris’ answer is quite simple: maximise well-being, and you will find your peaks. These peaks exist – how can anyone argue that they don’t? You may argue that different people have a different ideas of what these peaks are, but I will argue that a lot of people will be wrong. It’s not about starting from different premises (individuality vs common good, for example); Fred Hoyle wasn’t just starting from a different set of assumptions – Fred Hoyle was wrong. I can’t say exactly when individual freedom trumps the common good, but I am willing to accept that the question can be answered in any given context, and that there is a right answer (that leads us to a peak) and a wrong answer (that doesn’t).

This leads me to the second point – how does one become an expert in such landscape mapping? I think this will very much depend on which policy one is trying to act, but I’m taking Sam Harris’ point as simply stating that when it comes to making policies, opinions or wars then science can help you make that decision – even if at the crux of the question there is a moral disagreement. And we already do this, all the time. Here’s an example which has somewhat backfired on me, and that is abortion. I’m pro-life as a lot of you know. I’m not religious, but I’m passionately pro-life. However, even though there is a clear moral question here, a lot of countries have taken a more scientific approach to this matter and have legalised abortion. This was a decision that presumably maximises well-being, and has ruled on the moral arena. Now I happen to vehemently disagree with that decision, but I don’t have to be right! I’m also not saying that abortion is right in a moral landscape scenario, but I’m willing to accept that there is a right and a wrong answer, and that that answer is attainable. Moreover, I think the route to that answer is via science, with a view to maximising human well being right here, right now (and not in an afterlife, or whatever else).

So there – in a nutshell this is why I’ve changed my mind, and I haven’t changed it back whilst writing this. As Sam Harris puts it, “the moment we admit that there is anything to know about human wellbeing, we must admit that certain individuals or cultures might not know it.” I genuinely cannot argue with that.

This is probably the main reason why I have always had a hard time identifying myself as skeptic. It’s not that I lack an inquisitive mind (clearly I don’t, or else being a scientist would be a nightmare), but I don’t always follow up on that inquisitiveness outside of work. It’s incredibly time consuming to form an opinion, and I think I deem myself satisfied a lot earlier down the line than any self-respecting skeptic would. I’m also relatively happy not having an opinion – I’m decidedly undecided about many issues, and not necessarily bothered about it.

I’ve recently noticed that the exception seems to be on evolution, natural selection and related issues. There are many reasons for this. Most obviously, it’s an amazingly interesting subject with profound consequences for how one sees the world and that fascinates me. It’s also a subject that has seen me change my mind dramatically about certain aspects of it and having my mind changed is one of the best feelings around.

In 2005 and my first year as a PhD student I went to the National Astronomy Meeting (NAM) where one of the guests speakers was Professor Conway Morris. I was taken aback by this lecture, and immediately fascinated with the idea of convergent evolution. There are many examples of convergence in evolution, but just how important it is to the overall evolutionary path that led us to where we are today is a matter of controversy. This is not a blog about my views on the significance of convergence (maybe some other day), but rather on my changing my mind about it, and the whole process behind it: being presented the information, consuming it, processing it and forming an option.

The reason is that it recently dawned on me that this puts me where my public normally lies. I’m passionate about science communication in Astronomy, but it’s rather easy to forget what it’s like to not be an expert. And it’s hard.

I don’t want my audience to take my opinion on faith. Ideally, I would like to expose the problem in such a way that the answer is self-evident, given the evidence I present at the time. And of course, I don’t want to be selective in the evidence I present. If my audience is made up of my peers this is more or less easily done if only because I can point them to my technical publications and because we share a common background. But if my audience is made up of non-scientists then my job is much harder. This is one of the reasons I fundamentally disagree with Martin (although there are more!), in that there is such things as a scientist and there is such a thing as the public. I am both, and I can tell you that they are not the same. And I think it’s virtually impossible to convey most science to the public in a single event – be it a talk, a book, a blog post or a chat down the pub.

The point I’m trying to make is that the process of science communication is a two-way street. It has to be. I as a scientist have the responsibility to communicate (in a responsible and unbiased way, to the best of my ability), but as the public I have an equally important responsibility to actively learn. And both have to happen if science really is to be shared. Professor Conway Morris’ lecture introduced me to a concept (presented at the time as fundamental, as you can probably guess) but simply learning about convergence taught me little about the science of evolution. Reading his and other (opposing) books, blog posts and endless articles – that’s what taught me about the science. And whereas Professor Conway Morris’ lecture was fundamental in this process, it was never going to be enough.

There may be a way to learn from my experience as the public and put it to use as the scientist, even though I did start this post by saying how little time I spend actively learning these days. But in a way it’s empowering, as the public, to realise that it’s OK to change your mind, challenge the expert discourse and take as much time as needed to form opinion for which we can truly take ownership – or even not form one at all. Maybe that‘s a more important lesson to learn.

This became even more desperately apparent after watching Horizon’s take on Cosmology last night. I’ve learnt to lower my expectations on Horizon shows, but I hadn’t seen an episode for a while. Cosmology is one of my favourite things in life (also my job – aren’t I lucky?), a lot of people I respect were on this show, and the BBC does have a tendency for good photography so of course I was going to like it. Right? Wrong.

There’s a staggering difference between the two shows. Brian Cox’s Wonders sets out to teach, but most importantly, to simultaneously awe. There’s enormous pedagogical value in this show, and this is done brilliantly by always keeping a foothold on familiar ground (like a solar eclipse, or a tornado), taking people from what they know to what they don’t. Brian Cox never trivialises the subject, but never rationalises it to death either. There’s a very fine balance here, which not many people can get right. The fact that he mostly does is probably the main reason I’m so smitten with this man. Carl Sagan got it, David Attenborough masters it, and Brian Cox may well be on his way up there – time will tell.

Now take Horizon’s Cosmology show. Admittedly, the goals are very different. The BBC describes the show as a ‘series exploring topical scientific issues and their effects for the future’ so it’s only natural that it focuses on controversy and discordancy within any given topic. But it offers almost no pedagogical insight into the matter, and any controversy is suddenly painfully out of context. Arguably they have a tougher task in hand, but that’s no excuse – if you can’t do it well, don’t bother.

The topic was Cosmology and how the Standard Model, even though the best we can do right now, may well be wrong. This is very true, and a topic very much worth doing a show about. But we were presented with a series of disjointed opinions by professional scientists, without any context or background. Having someone saying “I don’t like Dark Energy” is only OK if you understand why and, crucially, if you understand that it doesn’t bloody matter whether scientists like it or not when it comes to moving the subject forward. Yes, we’re human and we all have our preferences on how the field will unroll within our lifetime, and that’s OK – but that doesn’t shape the science of the future. Not as a whole, if only because if you don’t like it someone else will. Peer review, thorough observations and repeatability – it works! And the public must understand that if it’s to trust the scientist once more.

The fact that the show spent the last 10 minutes on Dark Flow (an observation that goes against the Standard Model, but as of yet not reproduced nor validated) just brought home the fact that this show was not about teaching, nor informing, nor awing. It felt like it was about making an impression, but without much consideration for exactly what. I fear it widened the gap between the public and the scientist, rather than making people look forward to the next decade when the Standard Model will be put to some serious testing, certainly the most stringent tests yet. Can we all say ‘missed opportunity’?

It’s upsetting I spent more time bashing Horizon than praising Wonders, so let me finish on a high. Wonders has only aired 2 episodes, but I haven’t looked forward to a science TV show this much since Planet Earth. Ultimately, you get to the end of an episode feeling richer, and more connected to this wonderful world around you. And personally, I can’t think of a better use of one hour of TV airtime.

I got further reminded of this earlier today, as I watched Life on BBC4. Today it was about fish. There were flying fish, climbing fish and fish that skip along in the mud. There were Predator-like fish, and dancing see horses, and I sat there and stared in absolute wonder at the beautiful diversity that evolution naturally gives rise to.

Sometimes one just wants to get up and give the whole wide natural and physical world a tight and enormous hug for having somehow turned out the way it did, and springing up consciousness in the shape of an ever-so-slightly hangover girl at this point in space and time.

So here – thanks, world. Sometimes it really does feel like a privilege.

The financial situation for Astronomy in the UK has been dire for a couple of years. The whole story is complicated, and probably only fully understood by a small number of people (I can’t help thinking this is partly where the problem lies). The outcome is, however, rather clear.

The funding to Astronomy research, both to specific projects and grants that fund studentships and fellowships, has been slashed beyond the point of no return. Last week STFC announced the results of a prioritisation exercise and revealed 25-35% cuts in grants, plus the scrappage of many a good important and relevant projects. The result is a handicapped academic industry, which will now see their best either turning someplace else, or abandoning Astronomy altogether. Today, SFTC announced the cancellation of the 2010 round of Postdoctoral Fellowships – the most important fellowship scheme for young Astronomers in the UK – and quite frankly it seems with it to have stricken the final blow.

This is not a post with intelligent and unbiased criticism. Rather, it’s the outpour of a young postdoc who is seeing their career and the science of their heart being merciless attacked by a bunch of incompetent, unfortunate and opaque decisions. I can’t image it was an easy decision to anyone involved, but I’m not here to play devil’s advocate tonight. I’m here because I’m angry.

I’ve seen the best of what Astronomy can do. I’ve met so many talented young scientists and I’ve seen them share their science with amazed and awed audiences who invariably leave the room culturally richer and more aware. I’ve seen young ones being turned on to science via Astronomy, and I’ve been thanked by old ones for making them feel like they know the world around them a little bit better. I don’t give a toss about economical benefits – I don’t have to, they’re self-evident even. The idea that in a recession money is taken away from science is so incomprehensible that I can’t quite get my head around it. But I do care, and passionately so, about the cultural enrichment that science represents. I care that fundamental research is important in its own right and that it matters to people. That I’m fortunate enough to live in a country that has thus far excelled in expanding the limits of human knowledge and encouraged the dissemination of such knowledge. I care that I have the chance to dedicate my working years to the most exciting journey of all, and to learn every single working day of my life.

It’s not just the young Astronomer who’s missing out here. It’s everyone who doesn’t want to live in a world where decisions are made only based on economic returns. Science misses out too, but above all it’s you that gets the short deal. It’s everyone who has ever learned something new about the natural world and appreciated it for what it was – the sheer excitement of learning, understanding, seeing beauty by way of explanations.

Of course, I’m missing out too. Because now being a professional Astronomer in this country is set to being a constant battle and one which I may or may not be prepared to fight. There are, after all, other ways to learn. But none quite as thrilling as being up there in the heat of the moment… nor none quite as rewarding.

It’s not entirely clear what I have to say, only that I need to say it. And you shouldn’t feel like I write for your benefit – you may be disappointed.

I’m occasionally reminded of my ability to feel overwhelming nostalgia. Saudade, as it were. Recently, it’s been like Christmas in rita’s nostalgia land. Pearl Jam have come back to me from the depths of my teens, stronger than ever. They’d never really left but they were a pale version of themselves (in me, note) for the last 4 or 5 years, and I’d miss them, and I miss 1996. I even miss Philly and that only happened a week ago.

And then I miss my Porto. I’ve been missing that for a while, which you can guess from the title of this blog. I miss it to the bone. But it’s no longer home. I came to see this as I was driven by the unique Douro vale yesterday. It’s familiar, and it warms my heart, and I could not bare a life where I couldn’t come back to it at will and drink it desperately with my eyes. But it’s no longer home.

I tell you what else I miss. I miss Scotland, and I miss Edinburgh. I want the hills, the whisky, the ceilidhs, the haggis and the friends. And that, is home. I didn’t see it coming, not really. I don’t mean home in a sense of attachment, I mean home in a sense of identity. I am those hills more than I am those vineyards – I most definitely did not see that one coming.

I’m also reminded that things only happen once, and that’s the sad warmth that comes with saudade. It’ll never be 24th or 25th of November 1996 again, nor will I stay up all night in Ribeira for the first time again, nor will I ever again climb down from a Munro not having done it before. And that’s OK. Some pleasures are repeatable, and infinitely needed and comforting every single time. But let us dedicate this space, or at least part it, to those other ones. And to new ones, shared with the people we love today and with the absolute certainty that if something is not going to cause deep, warm and almost painful nostalgia tomorrow it’s not worth writing about today.