Scientific Director Tanya Brown shares her story of growing in confidence as a scientist, inspired by her mother's resilience and perseverance.

Tanya L. Brown, PhD, is the Scientific Director for TESS Research Foundation where she uses her background training as a developmental biologist to drive patient-centered research for a rare, genetic epilepsy, SLC13A5 Epilepsy (citrate transporter disorder). She strives to make science accessible to affected families and brings what she learns from affected families back to the scientific community. She loves running, science, and spending time outdoors.

Transcript

I grew up in a soccer family, in a family of four girls. We all played soccer. In general, our entire family was active. Family bike rides were a regular occurrence and helped us get in shape to dribble down the soccer field. Playing soccer made me feel strong, made me feel confident, and it made me feel valued.

I was picked for the team during recess and loved practicing my skills after school. Confidence was an elusive feeling for me. My teachers often called me by one of my sister's names or compared me to their accomplishments, of which there were many.

In soccer, I normally practice with my dad. He was my earliest coach. My mom supported me too, driving to and from practice and cheering me on the sidelines. But it never occurred to me to ask her to play soccer with me. You see, my mom walked with a limp and had an invisible disease that made it so she couldn't run.

However, when my little sister needed a soccer coach, my mom stepped up to the challenge. This was a woman who couldn't run yet volunteered to coach an elementary school soccer team. All I saw was a soccer team struggling to win and didn't appreciate how impressive what my mom was doing, where she could coach a sport when she couldn't fully participate. I think they lost every game except one, a Cinderella story‑type victory.

While I loved the way I felt on the pitch, I needed other ways to grow my confidence. I didn't feel like I excelled in math or science. While the rest of my sisters were in advanced math classes, I was stuck in the regular classes.

My mom strongly encouraged, or voluntold me, to join the science club, and I started to find a joy in science when I merged my passion for soccer with science.

My first project was wiring a Barbie to kick a soccer ball. Watching the Barbie move that ball gave me a sense of accomplishment and made me wonder if maybe I could become a scientist even as a regular kid not in an advanced math class.

Well, my passion for science was evolving. I was also witnessing my mom's invisible disease play bigger roles in our lives. When my mom couldn't ride a bike, she switched to an electric bike and, eventually, to an electric tricycle where she would strap her walker on the basket in the back and ride to the store.

There were other symptoms too, less visible ones. My mom got tired really quickly and had to take regular naps and started having trouble remembering things. You see, in multiple sclerosis or MS, this is a disease that affects the central nervous system. In MS, insulation in the brain is under attack. You can think of this insulation called myelin, like electrical insulation that helps electricity travel down a wire. In MS, when the myelin is under attack, the brain has trouble communicating with the rest of the body.

It was scary when other people started asking me how my mom was doing, that they were having trouble following her train of thought or maybe they saw her riding her tricycle, or when I saw her cracked helmet after falling off her bike.

It was scary to watch my mom's disease progress and have my own fears of getting MS. Fear popped up in the small moments. Every time I dropped a dish, I wondered if this was an early symptom.

It helped having doctors explain what was happening to my mom and explaining why she was acting certain ways when you couldn't see anything outwardly wrong with her. Knowing the science behind MS made me feel better, more knowledgeable about a disease that impacted my mom as well as other family members, like my uncle. This was a big reason why I wanted to go to graduate school to learn more about how the brain worked.

I was torn, though, about graduate school. Graduate school was a place for smart people and my insecurities about being a regular kid crept in. Would I be good enough? Who was I to think that I could earn a PhD?

In parallel, my mom's condition was getting worse. What would happen if my mom fell? Hospitalizations were becoming more and more common. What would happen if something bad occurred and I wasn't there? I was lucky. My mom told me how proud she was of the work I was doing and that she wanted me to go to graduate school.

I ended up attending the University of Colorado, the Anschutz Medical Campus, just a short plane ride away from home, and studying developmental myelination and how myelin is made in the brain and spinal cord.

I felt like an impostor. Could I be a scientist? I rarely asked questions in seminars, too intimidated by the speakers presenting on their work. I wanted desperately to prove that I belonged, that I was smart enough to be a scientist.

I applied for a National Science Foundation graduate student fellowship and was denied. The reviewers told me I explained my project in too technical of terms. It was a hard notice to receive. It felt as though the feedback was telling me I wasn't worthy of being a scientist.

I thought back to my mom figuring out ways to address her challenges, coaching a sport where players run around the field when she couldn't run herself and decided to try again. I used the feedback I received from my grant in a second application, the final chance to show that I belonged. I asked for input from my peers, from faculty members and from so many members of the scientific community.

It was vulnerable sharing why I wanted to be a scientist, sharing my research ideas. Were they good enough? Were my ideas worthy of a national foundation investing over $100,000 in me?

I finally click Submit and then waited, and waited, and waited some more. Finally, I decided that I wouldn't think about this proposal, no checking the online status. It was time to put my head down and work, so I went to work.

I started studying myelination using zebrafish, making their myelin glow a beautiful green that I could see spreading under the microscope.

One day when I was about to start an imaging session, I received a text message from an unknown number with one word, “Congratulations.” I was confused, but started to hope.

With my heart pounding, I checked the NSF website and saw that I was one of two people at Anschutz awarded an NSF fellowship. We were the first two people ever to receive an NSF fellowship on our campus.

My heart raced and I finally felt a sense of accomplishment. I finally belonged in the world of science.

Halfway through graduate school, my mom passed away unexpectedly. This was devastating, but eventually I came to accept this, buoyed by the support of my family, friends and the scientific community who all helped me navigate this new normal.

While I finally felt like I belonged in science, publishing research in scientific journals, receiving fellowships as a student and as a postdoc, I wanted to use my knowledge in a different way outside the lab. I thought back to the scientists and doctors who helped me understand MS and what was going on with my mom.

After over a decade at the bench, I shifted careers. I'm still a scientist, but now I consider myself a scientific translator of sorts for a rare disease foundation. I translate scientific findings to our patient community so that they are empowered to make knowledgeable decisions about their health and I translate experiences from our patient community back to scientists.

While my insecurities do creep back in, I think back to the resilience and the perseverance my mom demonstrated throughout her life, to the confidence I felt playing soccer, and then my resilience I found at the bench, and I continue pushing forward. I am a scientist.

Thank you.