Work as identity, March 15

“Well, Annika, you’re an engineer. I bet you played with Legos as a kid.”

Two years ago, when I was working as an engineer, I heard this sentence frequently. I would squirm in my seat uncomfortably, unsure what to say. This wasn’t really true: I’d never played with Legos much. Worse, at the age of 12, I’d decided to be a scientist, not an engineer.

As a child, I loved space, archaeology, and marine biology—in short, stories about exploring the world. I read science fiction, tales of ancient Greek heroes, and stories about hidden fairy worlds. Science felt like the continuation of those adventures: a way to discover something new and push the edge of what was known. I’d loved my science classes and my math classes, but I had never really cared for Legos. I liked understanding, not building.

After I decided to be a scientist, I began immersing myself in science-type thought. When I was 12, I’d learned the thrill of disproving some of my mother’s more questionable health beliefs with peer-reviewed studies. At 14, I’d read HPMOR and The Sequences,¹ putting me in the mindset of needing proof for everything. At 16, I’d learned the excitement of designing my own research question and figuring out the answer for myself. In college, I’d loved the idea of pursuing a life less driven by profit and more by figuring out deep answers to the way the world works. In contrast to the image of an engineer, I thought of myself more as focused on theory and curious for curiosity’s sake, answering the bigger questions of the world rather than the smaller ones.

When I was working as an engineer, I felt a mismatch between the cultural image of the practical engineer and the dreamy scientist.² I wanted people to see the scientist.³ I also felt a disconnect from the way my coworkers described their motivation for the job. They often spoke about their contribution to society as building something useful. For the previous ten years, though, I had imagined my purpose differently: contributing new knowledge to the world. I sat uncomfortably with that distinction. It may seem small to some people, but to me it felt significant.

Now that I am a scientist, I don’t feel that misalignment in where I derive meaning from my life.⁴ I feel like I’m doing what I have wanted to do since the age of 12.

Of course, there are other misalignments at play. There’s more to the stereotypes of engineers and scientists beyond practical problems and big picture thinking: they’re also nerds who can’t socialize. In physics, the classic example is Sheldon from Big Bang Theory: awkward, ill-dressed, unathletic, male, a character who thinks about nothing but physics all the time. This is not exactly what I hope to project.

This creates its own obstacle: I want people to see me as a scientist, but not that kind of scientist. I sometimes worry that to compete I would have to think about nothing but physics, like Sheldon. But right now, I would rather be a scientist with many interests than have any other job.

Now that I’m a scientist, I feel differently when I tell people what I do. I feel more comfortable in telling them and I imagine they make different assumptions about me other than “maybe she played with Legos.” In many ways, “scientist” functions as a lifestyle descriptor, much like the shorthands “tech bro” (wears sweatpants) or “artist” (has tattoos). For better or worse, it matters to me that my daily life reflects that identity and that others can see that alignment as well.

¹ Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, and then essays on rationality by rationalist Eliezer Yudkowsky. I can’t say I fully understood it at 14, nor do I fully agree with it all now. But I was putting myself in the headspace of needing evidence to believe in something.

² This is obviously a gross generalization.

³ Work≠identity is also a Europe vs. America thing.

⁴ Whether or not this is the right place to derive meaning from, or whether I should change my goal, or whether deriving meaning from your job at all is important is a completely different discussion. This also comes from a place of privilege.