By: Ashwathi Menon, Bioinformatics & Public Health Major

When I first entered the world of neuroscience lab work, science seemed to be all about being objective: clean lines, sharp corners, and no emotion involved whatsoever. It all seemed to point to the notion that too much emotion clouds one’s vision; you didn’t want emotion near your microscope. But as I stood at my lab bench operating my RT-PCRs on rat hypothalamus samples, it hit me just how much emotion was already infused into everything we did. It takes patience to accurately pipette one perfect microliter of liquid. It takes collaboration to run repeated tests. It takes the knowledge and obligation to know your own scientific pursuits may one day impact an individual’s life; the entire point being care is not the opposite of science but its pulse instead.

This is not something one can read in books or lectures. It is something my grandmother taught me: my Achamma. She suffered from a stroke just over a year ago, and since then, I have been assisting my family with her care. Watching her relearn to move her arm or to pronounce a few words sparked my own interest in the same paths inside her mind because these paths looked just like what we discussed and viewed in class, but instead of graphs or PowerPoint presentations, they were hers.

In science, we’re expected to measure everything: voltage, pH levels, and reaction time. But there is no measuring the act of holding someone’s hand while they forget your name, or the strength required to continue to come back to them anyway. This is the kind of labor women have always done. Unacknowledged labor, uncounted labor, but vital labor nonetheless. It is this kind of labor, the kind of labor devalued by society as care, that fuels scientific progress itself. This is one thing feminism helped me recognize.

As someone who works in scientific research, I have been struck by how often science attempts to polarize emotion and intellect. You’re legitimate if you’re logical, but weak if you’re empathetic. But beyond just hurting women in science, this kind of false dichotomy also hurts science itself. The questions we ask in scientific research come from who we are. When more women, and especially women of color, enter science, we bring questions that have never before been asked.

One thing feminist theory often addresses is “ethics of care,” because care is not something to be scorned but rather something to do with moral and intellectual power. This is what I think of every time I go to lab work. This is what I do every time I label a vial of cells or give a presentation or stand up to talk about my findings: practice care for my field and help to transform it from something that once made me feel small to something that contains care.

When I first embarked on my research internship at the Walter Reed Army Institute of Research, I noticed that I was among the youngest individuals in the lab setting. And yes, I recall wondering whether my voice would really carry any weight or whether anyone would take me seriously at all. But every time I decided to speak out or share my thoughts on whether to use this or that approach, I realized that confidence didn’t lie in being loud but in being anchored to my values instead. And this is something feminism showed me before science did.

It is to walk a high wire between precision and patience, between brains and intuition, and between being strong and being soft. But it seems to me now that these things are no longer on one side or the other of any kind of divide. The most excellent scientific minds happen to approach things whole-brained or whole-hearted, asking “who” questions. Who is helped? Who is hurt? Who is not being allowed to participate in this conversation?

At times, I wonder what my Achamma would have thought if she were to witness me now in my lab setting, my gloved hands steady and strong around my work involving data and fluorescence. But she would smile and remark matter-of-factly, “You’re still taking care of people.” And she would be right because science is nothing but another expression of “caring for others” or our “world” around us.

Perhaps care itself is not what serves as a distraction from science but is rather what makes science human. Perhaps future generations of women pursuing science can forget having to choose between being kind and being smart because we have always been both.