Teaming up: from motors to people

When I reflect on how I became a cell biologist and why I love being one today, one thing that comes to mind is the many terrific collaborations I have had. The science I am most proud of from my graduate and postdoctoral training would not have been possible without working in teams with other scientists. Now, in my own group, much of our best work is being done collaboratively, both within the lab and with other labs. In this essay, I will highlight my experiences working in teams as a trainee, the role teamwork has played in my own research group, and how important I think collaborative science is for the future of biological research.     

A different kind of quarterback

I am not big on celebrations, nor do I accept many invitations to receive awards. There is much work to be done, and the reward is in the doing. I learned this lesson early from my parents, Martha and Robert Guyden. However, I am humbled that anyone would even mention my name in association with E. E. Just. I, like he, was born into a segregated America, and somehow we both found biology. I think Just's life story instigates a discussion on diversity in science, as well it should. However, after reading Tyrone Hayes' (2010 E. E. Just Award recipient) essay from last year, "Diversifying the Biological Sciences: Past Efforts and Future Challenges" (Hayes, 2010), I have little to add on the subject. His words gave voice to my thoughts. That being said, I would like to use these pages to describe my journey into the "Cell" and the people who "hoed the row ahead of me."     

Neutrons, magnets, and photons: a career in structural biology

The purpose of Reflections articles, it seems, is to give elderly scientists a chance to write about the "good old days," when everyone walked to school in the snow. They enjoy this activity so much that your editor, Martha Fedor, must have known that I would accept her invitation to write such an article, no matter how much I demurred at first. As everyone knows, flattery will get you everywhere. It may comfort the apprehensive reader to learn that there is not going to be much walking to school in the snow in this story. On the contrary, rather than thinking how hard I had it during my scientific career, I find it inconceivable that anyone could have had a smoother ride. At the time I began my career, science was an expanding enterprise in the United States that welcomed the young. Only in such an opportunity-rich environment would someone like me have stood a chance. The contrast between that world and the dog-eat-dog world young scientists confront today is stark.     

STANDARD CIRCUMSTANCES AND VITAL GOALS: COMMENTS ON VENKATAPURAM'S CRITIQUE

This article is a reply to Venkatapuram's critique in his article Health, Vital Goals, Capabilities, this volume. I take issue mainly with three critical points put forward by Venkatapuram with regard to my theory of health. (1) I deny that the contents of my vital goals are relative to each community or context, as Venkatapuram claims. There is no conceptual connection at all between standard circumstances and vital goals, as I understand these concepts. (2) Venkatapuram notes that I stop short of filling the framework of vital goals with any content and thereby make my concept of health less concrete. I reply that some vital goals are indeed universal, viz. the ones which are necessary conditions for survival. Many other vital goals are individual and cannot therefore be included in a universal list. (3) Venkatapuram claims that my definition of vital goals is too broad, since it entails that some persons without any disease can be regarded as ill. However, in my understanding health is a relational concept from a state of complete health to a state of maximal illness. In this framework, a minor reduction of a state of complete health does not entail illness. This article also contains a comparison between my theory of health and Martha Nussbaum's theory of capabilities for dignity.     

Borrowed robes

Should scientists indulge their fantasies by writing fiction? Subject Categories: Careers, Economics, Law & Politics, History & Philosophy of Science

Like a substantial fraction of the literate population, I have a collection of unpublished novels in the drawer. Six of them in fact. Some of them were composed in barely more than a week, and others I have been struggling to complete for over 10 years: so maybe it is more accurate to say five and a half. Anyhow, most of them are good to go, give or take a bit of editorial redlining. Or, as my helpful EMBO editor would say, the removal of thousands of unnecessary adverbs and dubiously positioned commas.What do I write about and why? My style is not unique but rather particular. I write fiction in the style of non‐fiction. My subject matter is somewhere in the general realms of science fiction, alternate history and political drama. Putting these ingredients together, and taking account of my purported day job as a serious scientist, it is easy to see why my fictional work is potentially subversive—which is one reason why I have been rather reluctant thus far to let it out of the drawer. At the very least, I should take pains to conceal my identity, lest it corrupts perceptions of my scientific work. Even if I regularly tell my students not to believe everything they read, it would impose far too great a burden on them if they came to question my peer‐reviewed articles purely on the basis of untrue statements published in my name, spoken by jaded politicians, washed‐up academics or over‐credulous journalists. Even if they are imaginary. Real journalists are theoretically bound by strict rules of conduct. But imaginary ones can do whatever they like.Today, I noticed a passage in one of these unpublished works that is clearly written in the style of a young William Shakespeare, dealing with a subject matter that fits neatly into one of his most famous plays. In fact, the illusion was such that I was sure I must have lifted the passage from the play in question and set about searching for the quote, which I then could and should cite. Yet, all Internet searches failed to find any match. The character in whose mouth I placed the words was depicted as being in a delirious state where the boundaries of fact and fiction in his life were already blurred; borrowed identities being one of the themes of the entire novel and arguably of my entire oeuvre. But am I guilty here of plagiarism or poetry, in adopting the borrowed identity of my national playwright?In another work, I lay great emphasis on the damaging role of mitochondrial reactive oxygen species (ROS) as the cause of biological ageing. I have even grafted this explanation onto a thinly disguised version of one of my most valued colleagues. Although there is some support for such a hypothesis from real science, including some papers that I have myself co‐authored, it is also a dangerously broad generalization that leads easily into wrong turnings and misconstructions—let alone questionable policies and diet advice. But, by advancing this misleading and overly simplistic idea in print, have I potentially damaged not only my own reputation, but that of other scientists whom I respect? Even if the author’s identity remains hidden.In one novel, I fantasize that nuclear weapons, whilst they do undoubtedly exist, have in fact been engineered by their inventors so as never actually to work, thus preventing their possible misuse by vainglorious or lunatic politicians unconcerned with the loss of millions of lives and planetary ruin. But if any insane national leader—of which there are unfortunately far too many—would actually come to believe that my fiction in the style of non‐fiction were true, they might indeed risk the outbreak of nuclear war by starting a conventional one in order to secure their strategic goals.Elsewhere, I vindicate one author of published claims that were manifestly based on falsified data, asserting him to have instead been the victim of a conspiracy launched to protect the family of an otherwise much respected American President. None of which is remotely true. Or at least there is no actual evidence supporting my ridiculous account.I have great fun writing fiction of this kind. It is both liberating and relaxing to be able to ignore facts and the results of real experiments and just invent or distort them to suit an imaginary scenario. In an age when the media and real politicians have no qualms about propagating equally outrageous “alternative facts”, I can at least plead innocent by pointing out that my lies are deliberate and labelled as such, even if people might choose to believe them.In a further twist, the blurb I have written to describe my latest work characterizes it as the “semi‐fictionalized” biography of a real person, who was, in fact, a distant relative of mine. But if it is semi‐fictionalized, which bits are true and which are made up? Maybe almost the whole thing is invented? Or maybe 99% of it is based on demonstrable facts? Maybe the subject himself concocted his own life story and somehow planted it in falsified documents and newspaper articles to give it an air of truth. Or maybe the assertion that the story is semi‐fictionalized is itself a fictional device, that is, a lie. Perhaps the central character never existed at all.It is true (sic) that the most powerful fiction is grounded in fact—if something is plausible, it is all the more demanding of our attention. And, it can point the way to truths that are not revealed by a simple catalogue of factual information, such as in a scientific report.But I have already said too much: if any of my novels ever do find their way into print, and should you chance to read them, I will be instantly unmasked. So maybe I’ll have to slot in something else in place of my pseudo‐Shakespearean verse, mitochondrial ROS hypothesis, defunct weapons of mass destruction and manipulated data manipulation.     

Sampling phylogenetic tree space with the generalized Gibbs sampler

A recent article published in Cladistics is critical of a number of heuristic methods for phylogenetic inference based on parsimony scores. One of my papers is among those criticized, and I would appreciate the opportunity to make a public response. The specific criticism is that I have re‐invented an algorithm for economizing parsimony calculations on trees that differ by a subtree pruning and regrafting (SPR) rearrangement. This criticism is justified, and I apologize for incorrectly claiming originality for my presentation of this algorithm. However, I would like to clarify the intent of my paper, if I can do so without detracting from the sincerity of my apology. My paper is not about that algorithm, nor even primarily about parsimony. Rather, it is about a novel strategy for Markov chain Monte Carlo (MCMC) sampling in a state space consisting of trees. The sampler involves drawing from conditional distributions over sets of trees: a Gibbs‐like strategy that had not previously been used to sample tree‐space. I would like to see this technique incorporated into MCMC samplers for phylogenetics, as it may have advantages over commonly used Metropolis‐like strategies. I have recently used it to sample phylogenies of a biological invasion, and I am finding many applications for it in agent‐based Bayesian ecological modelling. It is thus my contention that my 2005 paper retains substantial value.     

Advice to a young scientist (by someone who doesn’t know how to give it)

While trying to extract original and general advice from the details of my career, I realized this might not be possible. My path, like those of so many others, had too many idiosyncratic twists and turns that had to work out just the way they did to be mined for generally useful strategies. So I abandon the conceit of advice and simply give you my story. There are many like it, but this one is mine. Take what you wish from it.     

Reminiscences of a journeyman scientist: studies of thermoregulation in non-human primates and humans

After graduating from Mount Holyoke College in 1948 where I majored in experimental psychology I worked at the College for 2 years with the Johns Hopkins Thermophysiological Unit. My graduate work later at the University of Wisconsin, centering on sensory psychology, culminated in my 1955 PhD thesis on human dark adaptation. I continued work in sensory psychology later with Neal Miller at Yale and then moved to the John B. Pierce Foundation--a Yale affiliate--where I began the studies of thermoregulation that constitute the center of my scientific career. Those studies were largely--later wholly--conducted using microwave energy as a thermal load and were thus published in Bioelectromagnetics even as I played an active role in the Bioelectromagnetics Society. In the beginning this work was centered on the responses of Squirrel Monkeys to thermal loads. Later, serving as Senior Scientist at the Air Force Research Laboratory at San Antonio, I completed an extensive analysis of thermal regulation in humans. I consider this work of special note inasmuch as the extraordinary human thermoregulatory ability was surely among the attributes that were paramount in initially separating humans from the other anthropoid primates.     

Validating concepts of mental disorder: precedents from the history of science

A fundamental issue in any branch of the natural sciences is validating the basic concepts for use in that branch. In psychiatry, this issue has not yet been resolved, and indeed, the proper nature of the problem has scarcely been recognised. As a result, psychiatry (or at least those parts of the discipline which aspire to scientific status) still cannot claim to be a part of scientific medicine, or to be incorporated within the common language of the natural sciences. While this creates difficulties within the discipline, and its standing in relation to other branches of medicine, it makes it an exciting place for “frontiersmen” (and women). This is one of the key growing points in the natural science tradition. In this essay, which moves from the early history of that tradition to today’s debates in scientific psychiatry, I give my views about how these fundamental issues can move towards resolution.     

50 years a biomedical engineer remembering a long and fascinating journey

Looking back at one point of life appears as a nice exercise to round out and summarize. However, the objective should not be simply to tell a story; it must transmit a message to the young. To start with, two concepts are useful: Respect for others begins when you learn to laugh at yourself and, taken from an old saying, I did not want to be poor ... but money wouldn't make me rich. After elementary and high schools, during times of turmoil, I describe my engineering school years at the University of Buenos Aires and a working experience in an international telecommunications company. Significant events taught me a concept, rooted in another motto: Isn't this house nice? It is my house, and I love it very much. In 1960, I began my activities in the USA. A couple of bad decisions resulted in significant events for me teaching me an important truth: "Beware of golden promises; time is the most precious asset". Finally, in 1972, settled down in Tucumán until retirement in 2001, a long period of productive activity came about, not without difficulties and also stained by a dark political interval. Crises seem to characterize our generations in Argentina. Non-the-less, there were some real accomplishments: an undergraduate program in BME and a National BME Society (SABI) plus an archive of specialized published material. After spending time following retirement in Peru and Italy, my current activity came as unexpected dessert at the University of Buenos Aires, with a small research group, so offering the opportunity of transmitting what I still have available.     

Documenting DNA in the dust

I bought a robotic vacuum cleaner this summer and set it to work. Although my initial expectations were not high, my robot (christened Buddy) finished its cleaning cycle, and then insistently demanded that I empty its dust collection box. As I took the box out, my jaw dropped. I live in a modern house, we don't have pets, and I like to think that I keep it reasonably dust free. But, there was much dust in that box. And when I ran it again 2 days later, the same thing happened. And indeed, every 2 days, Buddy dutifully goes to work, and sucks up a similarly impressive quantity. It's remarkable, and naturally begs the question of where it all comes from? Some is externally derived, entering the house with us or through open windows. Some is clearly fibres shed from clothes, furniture etc. Then there's the skin cells and hair we shed. But at least part is derived from the host of smaller organisms that live in and around our homes, many of which are arthropods (Butte & Heinzow 2002 ). I suspect almost all readers are aware that some smaller animals live in our houses – even those who live in the modern urban houses will have occasionally encountered the odd drosophila, silverfish or spider. But I suspect that prior to reading Madden et al.'s article in this issue of Molecular Ecology (Madden et al. 2017 ), few of you will have appreciated the true diversity, which, it turns out, is huge.     

Basic Principles of a Psychological Analysis in the Theory of Activity

The general psychological theory of activity created by L. S. Vygotsky, A. N. Leontev, A. R. Luria, and their disciples has entered a critical phase in its development. An external sign of the advent of this phase is the increased frequency of discussions of the role of the category of activity in building the conceptual apparatus of psychology. One hears ever more insistently the idea that the category of activity is threatening to become a kind of monster, ready to devour all other psychological concepts [4,14,37,45]A.n internal sign of the advent of this critical phase in the development of the theory of activity is the discrepancy between the tremendous amount of factual material accumulated in the various special areas of psychology in which the theory of activity plays a special role and the initial principles of this theory, formulated very early, when it was just being developed. As a result, a paradox has emerged: a theory engendered by the exigencies of practice is beginning to be perceived as a theory independent of practice. A critical phase in the development of any theory, like a crisis in the development of the life of a child, means the beginning of a new stage in its existence. For such a critical phase to occur, at least the following steps are, I think, necessary. The first step is enumerating the original principles of the theory of activity. The second involves an analysis, through the prism of these original principles, of all the factual material accumulated in the special areas of psychology and in general psychology. This analysis will overcome the discrepancy between the key principles of the theory of activity and the factual material, and will also help to refine and modify those principles. Finally, the third stage is the development of prospects for basic and applied research, i.e., defining the area for the most immediate development of a psychology built on the basis of a general psychological theory of activity.     

‘The Earth Cannot Let Go of Us’: Analysing Ontological Conflicts

This paper examines certain key concepts of the ‘ontological turn’ in anthropology, with a view to a clearer understanding of its proposed methodology. It situates the ontological approach within the historical and intellectual conflicts through which it arose, outlining its motivations and the challenges it poses to traditional fieldwork methods and theory. The concepts of ‘radical alterity’ and ‘incommensurability’ are examined as intellectual as well as political concepts, highlighting their historical contingency on the politics of colonisation. Following from this, the notion of ‘ontological self-determination’ is analysed with respect to my fieldwork with the Dongria Kondh in the Niyamgiri Hills in Odisha, India; I show how an application of the ontological methodology allows a better understanding of certain conflicts within current discourses and practices of nationhood and development.     

Probiotics and pharmabiotics: alternative medicine or an evidence-based alternative?

That commensal bacteria play an important role in human health is beyond doubt, and it is now widely accepted that humans function as super organisms, whose collective metabolic potential exceeds the sum of our individual eukaryotic and prokaryotic components. However, while it is has been established that the prokaryotic component of the human superorganism is amenable to manipulation by chemotherapeutic, dietary or microbial interventions, the significance of such alterations in terms of human health or well being is less well established. Prebiotics (non- digestible food ingredients that stimulate the growth and/or activity of bacteria in the digestive system) and probiotics (live microorganisms that when administered in adequate amounts, confer a health benefit on the host) are often bracketed among 'alternative' approaches to influencing human health, such as homeopathy, naturopathy, acupuncture and hypnotherapy. Others believe that prebiotics and probiotics have proven their effectiveness in properly conducted, clinically controlled human trials and therefore can be considered as evidence-based alternatives or adjuncts to conventional medicines. My journey from a position of total skepticism to 'reluctant convert' is the basis of this article, which should not be considered in any sense as a review of the literature but simply a personal account of this transition. While I am not bent on converting other doubters, I will recount some of the thought processes and evidence that has helped to form my current opinion.     

Anglo-Canadian Exchange in General Practice: Canadian View of British General Practice

Before embarking on this exchange venture in British general practice I had many preconceived impressions of what it might be like to be an English family physician. Early in my five months of group practice it became apparent that many of my attitudes had no real basis and in fact I had to admit many aspects of the British health system were indeed superior. It has been my impression that a group general practice in Great Britain can certainly afford the practising family doctor a stimulating and rewarding professional and social life.     

University campuses need people in them

As COVID‐19 has turned universities into ghost towns, David Smith cannot wait for the day when his campus fills with life again.

In the novel Fool’s Fate, Robin Hobb writes: “Home is people. Not a place. If you go back there after the people are gone, then all you can see is what is not there anymore.” I feel the same about university campuses.In late August 2020, after months of working from home, I returned to the campus of Western University where I am an associate professor of biology. It was supposed to be a short visit, in and out to grab some notebooks and an external monitor. But when I unlocked the office door and sat in that old wooden desk chair amongst the calm clutter of my workspace, I did not get up for a good two hours. I was comforted by the familiarity of my bookshelves, photographs, and professorial memorabilia, including a large bust of Darwin and a giant whale’s tooth. How I missed this place. And apart from two dead plants and a generous layer of dust, everything was as it should be.Outside my office was a different story. The water fountains were covered up with caution tape. Bright purple floor markings indicated the correct side of the hallway to walk down. Main offices, libraries, and canteens were closed. Large signs on all major doorways reiterated the social distancing policies. And apart from the odd security officer or grounds person, the campus was eerily empty. Nevertheless, I decided that for as long as the university remained open, I would keep coming to my office for a few hours a day, mainly to read and write without the cacophonic company of a toddler, but also to bring back some semblance of normalcy to my work life.The plan started off well. Each morning I would pack a large lunch, walk to campus and enjoy a few uninterrupted hours of academic productivity. But the stillness and emptiness of the university began to weigh on me. I could swear the fluorescent lights in my office were buzzing more loudly than before. Was the central air system always this rickety? After an hour of writing, I would take a quick walk around the department to clear my mind and see if anyone else was in. On my fifth day, I finally found someone: Vera’s office door was propped open! I quickly checked that my mask was on correctly and poked my head around. Small talk—glorious small talk—ensued for at least fifteen minutes. I had forgotten how nice it was to chat with a colleague in person. I went back to my office refreshed and put in another hour of good work. The next day, the building was deserted again. Not a sliver of light beneath Vera’s or any other door.I hoped that maybe once classes resumed in mid‐September, some vitality would return to campus. But, of course, nearly all of the classes were online and students and staff stayed home. Sometimes on my departmental wanderings, I would go into one of the large lecture halls and just stand at the podium. Once I even plugged my laptop into the AV system and practiced a presentation that I was preparing for an upcoming Zoom talk. As strange as it sounds, speaking to hundreds of lifeless seats in that old, stuffy hall felt more natural than talking to a grid of black boxes with nametags on my computer screen.As the weeks wore on and my visits to campus continued, a deep melancholy slowly took hold of me. I would spend hours on seemingly simple tasks, like tidying my office or answering emails. Harder tasks, such as writing a paper or developing a new lecture, felt insurmountable. I started leaving everything to the last minute or missing deadlines completely, which is unlike me. It felt as if my mood was somehow mirroring that of the vacant classrooms and buildings surrounding me. They, too, were paying the price of the pandemic.I have spent most of my life on college campuses. My father was a chemistry professor and often took me to work with him when I was a small child. My first daycare was at a university. As an adolescent and teenager, I would go to the local college most days for after‐school clubs. I learnt to swim at a university pool, became a senior boys 1500 m running champion on a university track, and discovered my love of mountain biking and cross‐country skiing on university trails. I met my closest friends in university residences. And my passion for science and writing was fostered in university classrooms. I love universities. I love what they represent: places of learning, scholarship, and development. I love the palpable emotions that they emit, from the endless possibilities of the first week of classes to the anxieties and sense of completion during final examinations. Most of all, I love the people that make up universities, their eclectic mix of personalities, backgrounds, ages, and beliefs. This might sound strange, but when I go on vacation, I visit universities elsewhere. I will spend an entire afternoon roaming around a campus, reading in the library, or sitting on a bench watching people come and go. This may be why I am so sad that my current institute sits unoccupied, at least in the physical sense. Ironically, enrollment is up. My department has more new undergraduate students than it has had in years.The other day on my walk home from work I ran into a colleague. He described to me how he has been working hard to get the upcoming introductory genetics course online, especially given the increase in students (there are more than 1200 currently enrolled in the course). I said, “You must be looking forward to the end of this crisis when we can start teaching in‐person again.” His response has had a lasting effect on me. “I’m not so sure things will go back to the way they were,” he said. “A lot of students are enjoying online learning—or are at least finding it convenient and cost‐effective. Many are saving money by living at home and by not having to bus into campus every day and buy overpriced food. They like being able to watch the recorded lectures on their own schedule and at their own speed. Even after the current crisis ends, I think there be will be a strong push for continued online learning.” “You might be right,” I said, “but I sure hope not.”When we parted ways, I felt even more downtrodden. I reminded myself that I was lucky to have a great job and that I needed to be adaptable. If the future is online learning, so be it. I can become a connoisseur of Camtasia. I can learn to be creative and engaging over Zoom. I can master those microphone and camera settings. But I could not help thinking this is not what I signed up for. When the pandemic is over, I do not want to exist in a cyber campus with online students and online colleagues. I do not want my home to be a lecture hall. I want brick and mortar and real bums in real seats. I want to stand in line for 20 minutes outside the student union building for lukewarm coffee. I want to waste precious time walking to meetings and making small talk in the corridors. I want the thing that I fell in love with. Until COVID‐19 is defeated, we need to stay vigilant. But when the war is won, will university campuses return to being physical gathering points for learning, engagement and community building or virtual concepts in an online learning space? Whatever the answer, I know that if you are looking for Associate Professor David R. Smith, you will find him holding out in the Biological and Geological Sciences Building, room 3028. The hand‐written sign on the door will say, “Going down with the ship.”     

You are the most valuable reagent in the lab: mental health before and during the pandemic

No one maps out their tenure as a postdoc anticipating a life-altering tragedy. But mental health crises of all kinds affect academic trainees and staff at similar or higher levels than the general public. While the mental health resources available to trainees are often set by healthcare providers, all levels of university leadership can work to remove material and immaterial obstacles that render such resources out of reach. I describe how access to care via telemedicine helped me following a loss in my family.

Over the years, my siblings and close friends have sought mental health resources like therapy, psychoanalysis, or psychiatry, so I loosely understood their benefits. When I was a PhD student I went to therapy briefly, but my counselor and I decided I could do without it. Since I started my postdoc, stress manifested in some new ways but I managed it well with my usual coping strategies and support. That changed one bright December morning in 2019 while I was preparing for our weekly lab meeting. My phone rang indicating a call from my father, whom I had spoken to the night before to celebrate the news of my nephew’s birth. But the voice on the phone was that of a family friend, telling me that my father had died overnight of an undiagnosed heart condition. In the moment I couldn’t even understand what was happening, saying over and over, “but I talked to him last night.” Soon I was sitting at home, dazed, on a string of tearful calls with family and friends.I often read words like “lifted” or “buoyed” to describe the stabilizing support of a network of loved ones. In my case this network was tethering me to reality over the next few weeks, preventing me from spinning off the Earth’s surface in a storm of sorrow and anxiety. The trauma also took a strange physical form and convinced me that I was suffering from a cardiac condition of my own. I had a panic attack during which I went to urgent care convinced my own heart was about to give way. Night after night these physical symptoms prevented me from sleeping.Graced by many loving connections with my siblings, my boyfriend, and close friends, I was actually weathering the process as well as one can. My PI gave me a firm directive to take as much time off as I needed. These were two key elements early in my healing process: a supportive network and an understanding advisor. The third was getting professional help, which I soon realized I needed. Even if I felt OK one day, I didn’t trust that I’d be OK the next. My grief formed too thick and too broad a landscape for me to navigate without help.Deciding to seek mental health resources and realizing that one needs them are often the hardest parts. Connecting with those resources once the decision has been made should be as simple as possible. I called a mental health number, and a triage counselor noted my therapy needs and verified my insurance. She asked what times and locations I preferred and then searched for an open appointment with a therapist who accepted my insurance. She also informed me that my coverage allowed 12 sessions with no copay, which was a pleasant surprise. The therapist who agreed to see me had very few openings, in part because this all happened in December—the holidays are especially busy for therapists. I was aiming for a time after normal working hours, or in the morning before I would head to lab, but none of those times were available. I didn’t like interrupting my workday to trot off to therapy. Taking a long break once a week meant I couldn’t run experiments or mentor my student during that time. But I made the sacrifice because my highest priority was getting the help I needed. There was no shortcut. Prioritizing mental health over lab work is tough for researchers, and I would never have accepted that kind of weekly disruption before my dad’s passing. But as a wonderful mentor of mine used to say, “You are the most valuable reagent in the lab.” She wasn’t describing mental health at the time, but the phrase now provided a guiding principle for my recovery. My first few sessions were on Tuesdays at 2:00 pm.The afternoon break turned out to be less disruptive than I had feared, because I had recently come back to the lab and was working short days. Had she asked, I would have told my PI where I was on Tuesday afternoons, but she wasn’t normally abreast of my daily schedule, so I didn’t seek her approval beforehand. Coordinating experiments with lab members thankfully wasn’t an issue because my work was largely independent; I simply let lab members know that I’d would be out of the lab for a bit on those days.The weeks went by, and the benefits of therapy accrued, helping me in large and small ways as I grieved. In mid-March of 2020, my therapist followed public health guidelines and asked all her clients to transition to remote sessions. While this was easy and sensible, it was still a little disappointing. Therapists are professional empaths, among many other things, and doing away with the physical presence and exchange with her was a blow. Yet therapy via video felt less odd simply because most of my social interactions were now virtual. Thankfully I didn’t have to move out of state for the lockdown (as did many students living in campus housing), which meant I could stay with the same therapist without any insurance complications.A few weeks into lockdown, I asked my therapist whether we had reached the limit of my 12 sessions without a copay. She replied with the good news that my insurance provider had waived all copays for mental health costs due to the pandemic. By that time therapy had generated a platform and an outlet to explore areas of my grief beyond the trauma of my father’s passing. Without needing to weigh the costs and benefits of this resource, I saw my therapist for another 4 months. I slowly took stock of my upbringing in an unconventional family and the loss of my mother when I was 25 and waded through a series of difficult decisions regarding my father’s estate. My father’s death changed me at a depth that is untouched by any amount of therapy or treatment. I’m not “healed”: I feel aged, more brittle, and a little ground down compared with who I had been. But therapy guided me through the worst of my grief, past the acute trauma to help me grasp what I was going through.Since the pandemic began, the number of people reporting increased stress or mental health issues has steadily increased (information on the impact of COVID-19 measures on mental health: https://www.apa.org/workforce/publications/depression-anxiety-coronavirus.pdf) (also see Mental health resources for trainees). I am fortunate to have affordable health insurance and the support from my lab and my department. The ease of finding my institution’s phone number for mental health resources was itself an important benefit. I share these pieces of my story with humility and understanding that not everyone enjoys the privileges that I do and the knowledge that everyone weathers life’s tragedies in their own way. It is not lost on me that some benefits stemmed from a policy change made by a private insurance provider. The provider made the right decision to waive copays, freeing me from having to choose between cost and my mental health needs. Yet had I been a student who had to move out of state due to COVID-19, access to mental health resources might have been disrupted or cut off. The need for reduced out-of-pocket costs for healthcare is known and needs no repetition, but the benefits of telehealth should be a low-cost component of health plans offered to students and staff (information on telehealth recommendations: https://www.apaservices.org/advocacy/news/congress-patient-telehealth?_ga=2.231013471.1538013741.1619359426-1228006513.1619359425 and http://www.apaservices.org/practice/advocacy/state/leadership/telebehavioral-health-policies.pdf?_ga=2.3385904.1067518037.1620039082-1228006513.1619359425.I’m not a cloud of emotions attached to a pair of good pipetting hands, I’m a human who is choosing to spend my time doing research. This observation is easy to repeat, by trainees as much as by faculty and administrators, but much harder to act upon in the midst of conflicting priorities. Consider my story a success: Because I could access the resources I needed, I was able to prioritize my mental health in the midst of my ambitious research program even during the lockdown.MEET THE AUTHORI have been a postdoc in Stefani Spranger’s lab at MIT for 4 years. Supported by an Irvington Fellowship from the Cancer Research Institute, my work examines the behaviors of dendritic cells in tumors that contribute to productive or unproductive anti-tumor immune responses. My doctoral work examined modes of multicellular invasion controlled by the actin cytoskeleton with Margaret Gardel at the University of Chicago. Earlier I was a lab technician with Thea Tlsty at the University of California, San Francisco, which followed a bachelor’s degree in biology at the University of California, Santa Cruz. I serve on the Committee for Students and Postdocs at the American Society for Cell Biology, where I chair the Outreach Subcommittee.     

A critique of the principle of ‘respect for autonomy’, grounded in African thought

I give an account how the principle of ‘respect for autonomy’ dominates the field of bioethics, and how it came to triumph over its competitors, ‘respect for persons’ and ‘respect for free power of choice’. I argue that ‘respect for autonomy’ is unsatisfactory as a basic principle of bioethics because it is grounded in too individualistic a worldview, citing concerns of African theorists and other communitarians who claim that the principle fails to acknowledge the fundamental importance of understanding persons within the nexus of their communal relationships. I defend the claim that ‘respect for persons’ is a more appropriate principle, as it is able to acknowledge both individual decision making and the essential relationality of persons. I acknowledge that my preference for ‘respect for persons’ is problematic because of the important debate around the definition of ‘personhood’ in bioethics discourse. Relying on Thaddeus Metz's conception of moral status, I propose a relational definition of personhood that distinguishes between persons with agency and persons without agency, arguing that we have different moral obligations to these distinct categories of persons. I claim that this conception of personhood is better able to accommodate our moral intuitions than conventional approaches, and that it is able to do so without being speciesist or question‐begging.