What You Must Think About Before Pursuing Research

Finding My Footing in Room 306 - Alice Brockmann

I remember the pale glow of the fluorescent lights the day I first stepped into Room 306, my professor’s laboratory. It was late September, and the air felt charged with a sense of expectancy, as though the metal stools and lab benches themselves were holding their breath. Outside, the campus bustled with the year’s usual symphony of arrivals and departures—professors swinging satchels of half-marked papers, students mapping out an uncertain future in hurried footsteps. But I was drawn inside, to the hush of the lab. It was a hush that promised both solitude and collaboration, a place where the imagination might roam freely in the microcosm of Petri dishes and swirling pipettes.

Room 306 was not just any lab. It was presided over by Dr. Connelly, known on campus for her meticulousness and for holding weekly “forums”—friendly, if somewhat demanding, gatherings of her research assistants. She was a figure of quiet authority, someone whose curly, close-cropped hair always seemed faintly electrocuted by ideas. She had a habit of cocking her head slightly to the left whenever she asked a question, as if she were genuinely curious about the answer. It was disarming, especially for someone who wanted nothing more than to impress her. Because Dr. Connelly had the power to change the entire trajectory of my studies—perhaps my career—through the smallest, offhand remark. She could open a door or, just as easily, close it.

Even on my first day, her presence made it evident: this was no ordinary assignment; it was an invitation to join her—and her small band of graduate students—on a path. Much of my decision to do research with her hinged on a single question: Do I want to build a genuine relationship with these people? Because an internship or a research position is not just about the tasks we do; it’s about the people we spend hours, days, sometimes entire summers with. They become part of our intellectual and emotional landscape. Who we gather around us can shape our work ethic, nurture our creativity, or even form the basis of lasting connections that echo throughout our careers.

I had never really thought of my professors as potential collaborators. They were mentors, gatekeepers, deliverers of test results scrawled in red ink. But in the lab’s communal hush, I saw Dr. Connelly not just as a scholar, but as someone who was at once a teacher, a friend, and a colleague. There was an ease in the way she spoke about the research, her swift jump from gene editing to the ethics of new technologies. I wanted to be part of that conversation—not merely as a note-taker, but as a contributor. So, in agreeing to work under her, I was announcing that I saw her as more than a lecturer at the front of a lecture hall. I was stepping into a space of shared discovery.

And then there were the graduate students: Harriet with her simmering, almost frenetic energy, and Moses, calm and methodical, his eyes always scanning the next horizon of experimentation. Harriet was known to arrive at the lab at odd hours, sporting mismatched socks, ready to test a hypothesis she’d dreamt up over burnt coffee in the campus café. Moses, in contrast, lived by a well-worn planner that measured his days to the half-hour. Each had their own style, priorities, and intellectual rhythms. But if Dr. Connelly was the conductor, Harriet and Moses were the first-chair violinists, each with a distinct note to add to the collective sound. And now I was somewhere in the orchestra too, wondering if I would ever learn the score.

Initially, I was content to do the grunt work of the lab: measuring samples, cataloguing data points into spreadsheets, cleaning glass slides, labeling them in neat handwriting. But these seemingly menial tasks had a hidden importance. In any research environment, the type of work we do at the beginning is not just busywork; it’s foundational. In learning to handle the day-to-day tasks carefully and diligently, we earn trust. If we can do these jobs reliably, we prove we have the steadiness for bigger challenges. And, as I quickly discovered, mastering fundamentals sets us up for the kind of creativity that can only happen when we’re no longer fumbling with the basics.

I began to see that my trajectory in this lab, and perhaps beyond it, would be shaped by how well I performed the small tasks—and by how much curiosity I brought to them. Was I just measuring and labeling because I wanted to check the box of “helpful intern,” or was I fully engaged, questioning the purpose behind every step? Did I wish to glean a deeper understanding of the problem we were tackling? Whether I admitted it or not, these questions constantly nudged at me. Because the work we do, especially in our early years, shapes not only our résumé but our character.

Gradually, Dr. Connelly gave me more responsibilities. She invited me to brainstorming sessions where Harriet was pushing for new ways to look at gene expression under stress conditions, while Moses was analyzing the application for medical therapies. I found myself in the thick of fervent intellectual debates—some philosophical, others deeply technical. And in that dynamic swirl, I began to see how the work might inform the larger career path I wanted. If we were aiming to understand biological processes in finer and finer detail, then perhaps I, too, could position myself in an emerging field that demands both scientific rigor and ethical reflection. Could I see myself staying in academia, dedicating my life to unraveling microscopic mysteries? Or would these months in the lab open doors in a burgeoning biotech industry, where practical applications could find their way into clinics and manufacturing lines?

Slowly, I recognized that it wasn’t just about forming relationships with my professor and peers, nor was it solely about mastering a precise set of laboratory skills. It was about forging a vision for my own professional identity. For so long, I had treated college as a series of objectives: pass this exam, earn that credit, complete the internship. Only now did I grasp the synergy that occurs when the right mentors, meaningful work, and a dash of self-awareness converge. In that moment, success was no longer about a single letter grade or a line on my transcript. It was about the blossoming sense of purpose, the possibility that I might someday contribute a faint but meaningful note to the grand scientific conversation.

It’s a question we all face sooner or later: Is this path going to open doors for me? Yes, probably. Recommendation letters, connections at conferences, a network that extends beyond the campus gates. But the real, enduring reward of an immersive project—whether in a lab, a tech startup, or an editorial board—comes from the relationships that become the scaffolding of our intellectual life. In those relationships, we discover corners of ourselves we never knew existed. We find mentors who see the spark behind our eyes, who challenge us, who might propel us into our next adventure.

Some nights, when the fluorescent lights cast their steady glow on the lab benches and Harriet’s bright voice ricocheted off the test tubes, I thought about the intangible sense of belonging that I was beginning to find in that room. A place and a group of people can become catalysts for our most profound growth. We step tentatively into their circle, uncertain of the role we’ll play, and before we know it, we’re drawn deeper into a symphony of ideas, each note resonating with our deeper values and aspirations.

By the time winter arrived, I had grown comfortable with the patterns of the lab. I could anticipate Harriet’s next frantic eureka moment, guess when Moses was about to head to the café for another dose of caffeine, and predict the slight tilt of Dr. Connelly’s head before she posed another incisive question. I found myself wanting these people in my life not just for a semester, but for the long haul, in some way or another. The relationships we cultivate can be just as influential as the knowledge we absorb. And yes, the skills I acquired—from pipetting technique to data analysis—would undoubtedly serve me wherever I ended up. But it was the commitment to real collaboration, and my own willingness to contribute, that made Room 306 such a life-changing destination.

I may not know exactly where my path leads—be it the halls of academia, a biotech firm, or some unexpected juncture yet unimagined. But I do know that I want to keep building relationships with people who spark my curiosity, who push me to ask better questions. Because the future, with all its unknowns, is a place best navigated when we have companions—professors, colleagues, friends—who have taught us that knowledge is not a finite store, but a living pursuit that unfolds one experiment, one conversation, at a time.