Joshua Tree, California | 33° 52' 54.717' N and 115° 54' 2.3400' W | March 1st, 2023
My windshield wipers flick a mixture of cold rain and sleet as I drive. It’s strange to see snow blanketing the mountains just outside of Los Angeles, and I wonder if there will be snow when I arrive in Joshua Tree National Park later today.
Earlier this morning, I sent a text to my dear friend Michael Juberg, telling him I was driving solo across southern California and thinking of him. During the last hour of my drive, he calls me and I savor the sound of his warm, soulful voice. We catch up for a little bit and then our conversation delves into work. But we don’t just talk about current projects and plans – we discuss the myriad of avenues our professional paths can take.
My old friend is delighted when I tell him I’ll be teaching again this spring, and I’m also starting a mentorship program. I tell him about how being a teacher and mentor is yet another professional path I never planned on taking, but now that I’m on it, I might as well see where it goes.
After I hang up with Juberg, I continue driving and allow my thoughts to marinate on our conversation. I think about how long we’ve been friends (ten years) and the dramatic ways in which my career has evolved during that time: from a stable job at a research university to the rollercoaster that is being a full-time freelancer. From professional media production and science communication to teaching and mentorship.
As I drive into Joshua Tree, the wintry mix turns into real snow. With the roads coated in snow and ice, the national park is closed. I quickly unpack my car, and settle into my cozy AirBnB. I sit down to write.
Tomorrow is my 35th birthday. The fanfare of birthdays certainly fades as the years pass, but I still like to use the date as an excuse for self-reflection. I write about where I am and how I’m celebrating this year: a long solo hike in this strange, magical alpine desert.
The following day, I spend the better part of eight hours hiking alone, reveling in the lack of cell phone reception. As I hike, I think about different phases of my life and consider (as I often do) what it would be like to go back in time and tell my younger self: you’ll be running your own business when you’re 30. And then, perhaps even more unbelievable: you’ll be teaching other people how to do the same thing when you’re 35.
I reflect on how much my life has changed over the past ten years, but I also consider how much evolution has occurred in the past year alone. I think back to almost exactly a year ago, when I attended Science Talk 22 in Portland, Oregon. After I gave my talk on the main stage, Allison Coffin approached me to ask if I would be interested in teaching an online course for the Association of Science Communicators. While I had no formal teaching experience at that point, I enthusiastically agreed. Like so many other opportunities that have arisen during my freelance career, I told myself: figure it out as you go.
After several weeks of planning lessons and organizing materials, I officially taught my first course, titled “Do it Yourself: Build your Business in Freelance Science Communication” last November (and it went really well!) It so well, in fact, that the Association of Science Communicators asked me to teach it again this Spring, starting the second week of April. And one of the young women enrolled in the course contacted me a few months later to ask if I would work with her one-on-one in a mentorship capacity.
Before this past year, teaching was never on my radar — but I love it. I love how it forces my brain to operate on a different level. I’ve been a photographer for so long that when I shoot or edit images, I never have to think about what I’m doing. It’s automatic. But teaching photography — explaining composition, lighting, angles, and camera controls — that is not an automatic process (at least not yet). Being a good teacher requires stepping outside of my intrinsic experience to explain how and why I do certain things with a camera.
Because I haven’t been teaching for years and years, that process doesn’t feel as fluid and natural as taking photographs (yet). I like the challenge though, and the reminder of the old truism: teaching something shows how well you know it.
But what I enjoy most is probably what every teacher enjoys most: the moment when things click. Seeing a student’s eyes light up when they understand a new concept, or the way they nod their heads and smile when something I say resonates with them. It is a humbling experience, but it’s also an immense honor to be a teacher, role model, and mentor to passionate people who want to venture down a similar career path.
As I walk, the sun rises higher in the sky, and the snow melts quickly. My thoughts wander briefly to the future — what new endeavors will I be reflecting on a year from now? Or ten years from now? If I had to describe my line of work in one word, it would be unpredictable. But the surprises and the unexpected opportunities are some of the things that make it so fulfilling and meaningful.
A few days after I return home from California, I receive an email from Annete Konoske-Graf. As is her custom, she has sent a lovely poem titled Traveler, There is No Road by Antonio Machado.
Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship’s wake on the sea.
When I finish reading, a big smile spreads across my face. I read the poem again. And again. These words remind me that my career path — with all its volatility and unexpected twists and turns — is still a path of my own making. It comes down to simply putting one foot in front of the other.
I write the poem down in my journal, a talisman for my heart and mind. I will keep walking. I will trust my feet. And I will keep encouraging others to do the same.