Science can sometimes feel like an exclusive club that only certain people are allowed into. In this week’s episode, produced in partnership with the Allen Institute, both of our storytellers try to find their place in science.

Part 1: After getting accepted to a PhD program, Max Departee can’t help but feel like he’s not good enough to be there.

Max Departee is a research scientist from the Pacific Northwest who has always had a fascination with the natural world. A curious nature and outdoor spirt led him to attend Montana State University where, between fly-fishing on local rivers and skiing the Rockies, he earned his Bachelors Degree in Biotechnology. Max's career and training as a scientist have taken him many places, from a PhD program in North Carolina, to a small Biotech Start-up in Washington, and back to his home town of Seattle where he now works at the Allen Institute for Brain Science.

Part 2: Han Arbach is worried coming out as nonbinary will ruin their scientific career.

Han Arbach grew up dreaming of becoming an astronaut after watching the space shuttle land at the military base their family was stationed at. As they continued to grow up and became a “frequent flyer” in the orthopedics department for various injuries, their aspirations shifted towards medical training. Encouraged by fantastic AP Biology and Chemistry teachers in high school they pursued a biochemistry major at Mount Holyoke College. Here they were encouraged by a chemistry professor to try out research. This fostered a newfound love for discovery and research, and with it a new dream career path of becoming a scientist. Han completed their Ph.D. in Biochemistry at the University of Washington studying tail regeneration and nuclear structure in tadpoles. They then did Postdoctoral work at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center using viruses as a tool to probe facets of cell biology. Now, they are a Program Officer at the Paul G. Allen Frontiers Group. Outside of work, you will find them raising two dogs with their partner, attempting to befriend crows, and being a poor but enthusiastic gardener.

Episode Transcript

Part 1

The only sound in the microscopy suite is the whirring of the computer fans and the clicking of the shutters on and off. It's totally dark except for the cone of light that's projected by the computer monitor. It makes me think how looking at cells in a microscope really reminds me of looking at meteors through a telescope with my dad when I was 12, the two of us sitting on the hood of his car as the Perseids streak across the sky.

I learn about how he puts red film over the dome light so it protects our night vision and how astronomers name meteor showers out of the constellation it appears that they're coming from.

I've always been curious about the world around me. Ever since that age, I think I knew that I wanted to be a scientist.

Max Departee shares his story at the Allen Institute in Seattle, WA in September 2024. Photo by Erik Dinnel, Allen Institute.

So as the fans whirr and the shutters click, I take out my phone to check my email, and I see a message that I have been waiting months and maybe years to receive. See, for the last four months or so, I've been waiting for a reply from my grad school applications. At this point in the spring, it is getting really late and I'm starting to lose some hope. I'm starting to doubt this newly formed identity as a young scientist I have. I'm also starting to question, why was it that I wanted to go to grad school anyway? Why did I want to get a PhD? I always assumed that, after college, I would go on to that next step.

Anyway, so when I see the word "accepted," I'm just able to let out all of the months of stress and anxiety and doubt. I, as I jump out of my chair, just start crying and laughing and smiling at the same time. And as I'm dancing, I can taste the tears, and I have a smile ear to ear. I probably looked like one of those, like, “What emotion are you feeling today?” posters, but if you just squish them all into one person at the same time.

Despite how excited I was about this and how long I had been waiting, I decided not to tell anybody for days. See, for now, it was still all mine, the doubt and the hesitation, the excitement, the possibility. And the choice, the option, it was still mine. But I felt like as soon as I told anybody, the option was gone.

See, it didn't seem like it was my choice whether or not to go. I had studied, I had trained, I had applied, and now I got in. So, who was I, whether or not I'm doubting if I wanted or not, who am I to say that I'm not going to.

So, I accept.

When I show up at the University of North Carolina, I'm hit by this wall of heat and humidity. As somebody who grew up in the Pacific Northwest, I did not know that existed on planet Earth. Thank God labs are climate‑controlled environments, otherwise, I don't think I would have stayed in that state.

During my first year, I learn so much incredible science. I learn about how researchers are trying to use aspects of our immune system to create the first vaccines for HIV. I learn how hepatitis A virus, it circulates in our bloodstream in these lipid envelopes in order to hide itself from detection by our immune system. And, I'm just fascinated by everything around me and love what I'm learning. I should feel totally at home, but I've never felt more out of place in my life. I just can't stop comparing myself to these incredible people that I get to call my friends and my colleagues. People that it seems like they showed up here and they were just in overdrive already. For the first time in my life, I can't seem to get out of second gear.

My lab bench is right in the center of the lab where everybody who walks by can see me and say hi. Normally, that's totally all right. But today is not one of those days that's all right. I'm loading up another plate to run a PCR experiment and I really should be paying attention, but my mind is completely preoccupied. My head's just racing with all these thoughts about my anxiety about my project, doubt about my potential and what I was doing there.

And as I feel that kind of cold sweat coming and just hear the normal thoughts racing around, “What are you doing here, Max? You don't belong here, all right? Like, you're not good enough. You can't come up with a research project and you're not going to be able to design experiments or anything, you have to just figure out how to get through this without letting anybody know how worthless you are, okay?”

As I start to notice the slight tremble in my hand and lightheadedness, I realize that in this effort to stop myself from crying at the lab bench, I'm not breathing anymore. I realize that I'm holding my breath and tightening my chest. I'm flexing my core and drawing my arms in, like I just want to fold and crumple and hide inside of myself and just disappear.

Now, I don't have to have a PhD to know that I cannot sustain this anaerobic lifestyle, but it's fine. Everything's fine. I've done this before. So I gently set down my equipment, stand up, and take a few steps around the corner into the unused tissue culture room or into the cold room. Make sure that I'm alone. And I just let myself implode and cry until these thoughts stop racing and the panic attack passes.

Well, I think, “One year down and only four‑and‑a‑half to go.”

At this point, one of the only things really keeping me going was that later on that summer, a total solar eclipse was set to pass over the United States. I was about to leave in a few days to go meet my brother and some college friends and backpack through the Grand Tetons.

Now, my apartment isn't very big but I couldn't think of anything better to do with the space than to just lay out every single piece of camping gear that I own. So, for days, when I'm going into the kitchen, I'm stepping over my folded tent and into the bathroom, walking past the mess kit. Every time I see it, I just get more and more excited about this trip and realize I haven't been this excited about anything in a long time. I don't know if I've been excited about anything in a long time.

Arriving at our campsite, directly underneath the massive peaks of Grand Teton, I just breathe in that familiar tranquility of the high alpine tundra with the dry air, open sky. We spend our time recalling stories from past trips we've had and laughing way too hard at the really dumb inside jokes that we had in college. It kind of just feels like a dream. It's pleasant and enjoyable but also kind of confusing. I'm not really sure what's going on.

You see, these last few days I’ve kind of planted this idea in my head, this crazy idea. That I knew I was very unhappy, that I understood, but what was so revolutionary was this idea that I didn't have to be unhappy.

On the morning of the eclipse, we got up, packed our things, and set out to an overlook where we were going to watch the day's events. As we're sitting there, waiting for the moment of totality and snacking on trail mix, savoring that salty coating on the M&Ms that the peanuts leave, I don't really have any expectations for what to come, but you can just kind of feel this sort of energy welling up around us as it slowly starts to get a little darker and cooler. It's like there's a silent symphony somewhere tuning up. You can't hear anything, but it's like you can feel the reverberations off of their strings.

Then the sky goes dark and everything gets quiet. My mind goes quiet. For the first time in I don't know how long, I can't hear that voice that's telling me that, “You are incompetent.” And I can't hear that voice that's telling me, “You don't have any other options.” It's like the universe is trying to tell me, this world is big and weird and crazy and awesome. Why would you think you know the one way that your life is supposed to go? I do have the power to make my own choices and to choose happiness.

Back in North Carolina, looking at the pine tree out my window, I finally let myself put words to these thoughts that have been forming over that last trip, that, quite simply put, there's nothing in the world that I want to do less that fills me with more dread and displeasure than the idea of getting up, going into lab, putting on a smile and just continuing down that path that now I'm not really sure why I ever wanted.

So as I lie there, I told myself, I said, "All right, well, this is my chance. This is when I get to make my choice."

So I opened up my laptop and quickly closed the browser that had 25 tabs open, because I didn't want to think about that. I drafted an email to my advisor and to the department head, informed them of my decision and I hit Send.

Despite being totally confident, totally sure that this was the right decision, that I was making the right choice, I did not think that I would ever get over the weight of guilt and shame of that failure, of my failure. So in the days after, what really started to feel kind of like a sick joke or conspiracy or something, is how many people kept coming up and telling me, “Oh, well done.” Like, “Good job.” “That's great.” I'm thinking, “No. Like, somebody tell me I'm a failure. I need some validation here, okay? Tell me, I made it here. I'm supposed to stick it out and make it out the other end, right? Nose to the grindstone, like, for better or for worse.” But I can tell that they all really mean it. After all, I'm not the first person to have ever experienced self‑doubt or to question a path that they set out on. I'm definitely not the first person to ever leave PhD or decide later that they don't actually want to run a lab for their whole life.

I learned what they're all really saying to me, they're saying, “Well done for standing up and speaking out for yourself. That's great that you figured that out.” And, “Good job choosing what makes you happy.”

That was seven years ago this month that I looked out that North Carolina window at the pine trees. And depending on the day, depending on my mood, I still remember at least maybe I can feel a little bit of that shame that for so many years weighed me down and covered me. But for the most part, when I think about the whole experience, I'm just so proud about probably the best decision that I ever made in my life.

Ultimately, I learned to listen to myself and to what my body is trying to say and I learned that all of us as scientists are so much more than our successes and our failures, because failure is not a measure of your ability. It's just proof that you're trying.

Thank you.

Part 2

I was typing away at my laptop, trying to squeeze out a few more sentences on polymer chemistry to meet the minimum page requirement, when I saw the flash and heard the ding of an email notification. The subject line was, “Congratulations, you've been nominated.” And I thought, “For what? What could I have possibly done to be nominated for anything?”

So, I opened the email and it says, “You've been nominated for the NCAA Woman of the Year award.”

My heart sank into my stomach. I felt like I stepped on a slug with my bare foot. It was gross.

Ever the logical person, I went through how I might have gotten here. First, I acknowledged I did attend a historically women's college. Yes, I was a student. I was on a collegiate athletic team. Yes, I was an athlete. But, really? They couldn't find someone who was more of a woman than me. I felt like I was taking up someone else's space.

Han Arbach shares their story at the Allen Institute in Seattle, WA in September 2024. Photo by Erik Dinnel, Allen Institute.

So, I dubiously submitted my resume and other materials and waited.

I was reading a structural biology paper for a discussion session and saw the flash and heard the ding of another email. Whooh, my throat was dry. I opened it and it said, “Thank you for trying, but you’re not a finalist.”

I felt a wave of relief. I wouldn’t be taking up space from someone else. I wouldn’t have to tell them that I didn’t feel like enough of a woman for this. I could take a deep breath. My heart rate calmed down. My secret was still safe. Onward to focusing completely on becoming a scientist.

Every day during grad school, I walked down a hall, and on the wall were the portraits of all the previous department chairs. They were eerily similar, the same graying or balding white man, just a little variation each time, ones with a vest, ones with a blue jacket instead of gray, ones with glasses. All of these men had a look of power on their face, the kind where a single affirming nod could make or break the career of someone like me.

Walking past these men in their halls, I felt a fire light inside of me, and not the kind that's really quick with some lighter fluid, but that's low and white hot. That if you don't fully douse it, the next morning when you get up, it'll still be hot.

But despite this, I wanted to be a portrait on the wall. I wanted to be the person that when you looked at that portrait, you should be a scientist. You could be a scientist. But the white‑hot determination couldn't quench the other thoughts rattling around my head.

Until one day, I had an epiphany in the bathroom while I was washing my hands. The water in the sink was always way too hot, but you couldn't adjust the temperature. So I was trying not to scald my hands when I heard the squeak of a door open that needed some WD‑40.

This door always squeaked, but I jump easily, so I turned and looked. It was a senior faculty member. Her long hair was down as usual her uniform knee‑length skirt. We made eye contact and then she backtracks with the door open to check the sign on the bathroom door to make sure she hadn't entered the wrong bathroom.

My immediate thought was rage. I felt rage. I wanted to yell, “Don't judge me. I'm just trying to use the bathroom and wash my hands. Why do you care what I look like?" But I had that deep, sinking feeling in my stomach of a thought I hadn't acknowledged. This space wasn't for me. Not because I wasn't enough of a woman, but because I just wasn't a woman. I wasn't a man either. Could I be neither? Could I just be me? Was there space for me?

The notion that had been passed around through childhood with varying levels of sincerity each time, “Just be yourself.” Was that possible? Perhaps it was.

I felt comfort in occupying that gray area, but with that comfort came the terror. Coming out as a lesbian was hard enough, and now this. I had decided for my postdoc in faculty positions, I would only consider jobs on the Blue Coast or in a major city, but this, should I even tell anyone at all?

I needed data. So I talked to a mentor and she was openly a member of the LGBTQ+ community. She had a presence in a room like she always belonged there. She was warm and inviting and had this laugh that was comforting and authentic. I was sweaty and nervous and I went to her office. Finally, I blurted out, at about twice the speed, “If I come out as non‑binary, will I completely tank my scientific career?”

She looked into my terrified eyes and she said, "Han, if you feel you have to hide such a big part of yourself somewhere or with someone, you will not be a successful scientist.” And that was it. I needed to seek out those spaces where I could be open and empowered.

This was the pep talk I needed, right? The warm blanket of support. But sitting there within that warm blanket was fear. Fear of imminent change, fear of the unknown, the fear you feel the night before school, the first day when you're picking out your outfit. You want to make that good first impression to belong. The fear right before you tell someone you love them for the first time. What if they don't feel the same way? What if I get hurt?

I came out to my colleagues and friends as non‑binary and they loved and supported me. The first conference I went to after I came out, there were only gendered bathrooms and I never went to the bathroom alone. Not like my colleagues were secret service agents protecting me, but they were there making sure I wasn't being harassed.

This was the acknowledgement I needed, the support I needed, the community, the ability to be open. Now, I could just focus on the science. And I did that. I finished my PhD, I got a great postdoc. I was on track to get a faculty position. Everything was fine, right? Wasn't it?

I spent hours at the microscope. My eyes were straining from the dim light of the monitors. Was my image in focus? Were there tears fogging up the eye pieces? I constantly felt like I was being pulled down a drain. I wanted to become a liquid and just ride wherever the flow took me. I was spinning.

What brought me joy was going to other scientific seminars, was reading every piece of scientific literature that came across my desk. Spore formation, genome editing, placental biology. What was absolutely miserable was sitting at my own bench doing my own research for my own project.

Han Arbach on their first day of their new job at the Allen Institute. Photo courtesy of Han Arbach.

I was sitting in my advisor's office one day and she asked, "Do you want to do this? Are you happy?"

I cried. I hate crying, but I cried and finally got out, “No.” And in that one syllable, I questioned if I was even cut out to be a scientist.

Once again, I was taking up a space that I didn't fit the description for. Being a scientist was generating data, doing experiments, running a lab. If I couldn't do that, if I couldn't be that piece of my core identity, then what was I?

I was spinning. Once again, I was falling apart, but this time there was no gray area, like with my gender identity. There was a stark dichotomy a black and white. I could be a scientist or not.

I told you I hate crying. I told this to my fiancé on our first date. I don't cry. I don't need to. It doesn't do anything for me. It just gives me a headache. Yet here I was sobbing into her shoulder.

I didn't get a headache, but she comfortingly and soothingly told me, “Everything's going to be all right. You are smart. You are capable. You deserve to be happy.” She wrapped me in a blanket, put a dog on my lap and then another dog right beside me, and, slowly, her words became mine. Everything will be all right.

I logged into LinkedIn for the first time since I made my account in undergrad. I tried to not let that blue banner feel like a flag of defeat on my path to becoming a not‑scientist. And I started scrolling and scrolling and scrolling past, “How to crush your interview.” What could there be out there for someone who had vast experience in frog pedicures and dabbled in herpes and pox virus research? Scrolling and scrolling, and then I saw it. Job post.

If I could distill it down into a newspaper clipping, it would be something like this. “Wanted. Scientist who wants to explore the frontiers of bioscience. Inquire at the Allen Institute.”

My heart stopped, or maybe went double time, maybe both if that's possible. I don't know. I'm not that kind of doctor. I didn't know a job like this even existed, yet here it was nestled right in between an R&D role at a pharmaceutical company and a Clinical Trial Coordinator.

What do I want? What makes me happy? I had to answer these questions, the kind that your therapist asks you and leave you the long most empty pause, because only you can fill that.

Leaving behind the notion of what you thought something was and completely changing it is scary, but if you want to be a good scientist you have to be open. You have to find the spaces to be bold and feel empowered.

It was my first day at the Allen Institute. I went to orientation, I changed my password, I toured the building, I marveled at the copious amounts of free coffee now available to me. Then I finally sat down at my desk and I opened up my computer to check my email. I saw the flash and heard the ding of an email notification, and then about 50 more. Okay, here we go.

I checked my calendar, expecting it to be completely blank, but I have a meeting in 30 minutes. At this point, I was thinking, “I made a good choice on my first‑day outfit by picking something with layers, because I am sweating so much and it would be embarrassing.”

So, I walked down with my new team to meet the external visitors that were coming for this meeting and we're all going around the room introducing ourselves. Part of that is talking about how long we've been in philanthropy and grant making. Three years and 15 years and eight years. I'm still sweating a lot and I'm nervous, but it's my turn.

“I'm Han, I use they/them pronouns, and I have been here for three‑and‑a‑half hours.”

I don't do experiments. I don't run a lab. I don't spend 14‑hour days at a microscope, but here at the Frontiers Group, I explore the possibilities of bioscience. I look for what's next. I belong in this space exactly as I am. I am a scientist.