She asked me why I needed another one.

“I want to use it for my future students!” I told her, as if it were the most logical thought in the world.

In that moment—at the ripe age of five—I decided I wanted to be a teacher.

A childhood dream

I know my experience is somewhat unusual. As I grew up, I realized that most people’s childhood ambitions remained just that—a thing of childhood. And that most people don’t figure out what they want to do with their lives until much later. But for some reason, despite all the other dreams that surfaced over the years—architect, pianist, civil engineer—I always came back to this one.

As one gets older, childhood dreams tend to fade into a distant memory, and things like money and public opinion begin to take center stage. That’s not to say I never questioned my desire to become a teacher—I certainly had my share of existential crises in my 20s. Yet, despite being temporarily seduced by big tech salaries and the nobility of medicine, I always found my way back to that inner five-year-old, who envisioned herself in front of a classroom.

When passion meets opportunity

I was lucky enough to start teaching in my second year of college, when I became a TA for an introductory course in Cognitive Psychology. I’d taken the course as a freshman and was drawn to the professor’s infectious energy. Rice University had a much larger undergraduate than graduate population, so there was always demand for undergrad TAs. Prof. Z graciously welcomed me onto her teaching team, and I began holding office hours, grading assignments, and running exam review sessions. I discovered that I had a talent for breaking down complex ideas and the patience to explain concepts multiple times, in multiple ways. I got hooked on the dopamine rush of helping people learn, of watching the clouds of confusion part and clarity set in.

It was also in college that I discovered the joy of research. I did fine in my courses, but the repetitive structure of “learning for exams” felt uninspiring. It wasn’t until I joined my first research lab in the Department of Neuroscience at Baylor College of Medicine that I realized how science actually happens—not in memorizing facts, but in pursuing questions that don’t yet have answers. (I would later learn that good questions usually lead to even more questions.) I was incredibly fortunate to have an undergraduate PI1 who poured time and energy into mentoring me—guiding me through my first research projects, bringing me to conferences, and encouraging me through my crippling imposter syndrome. It was in those early college years, lying in my tiny dorm room bed late at night, that I began to imagine I could maybe—just maybe—become a professor one day.

In my senior year, I had the opportunity to design and teach my own course. I combined two of my passions—music and the brain—and created a course on the neuroscience of musical experience. For the first time, I had full control of a classroom: the syllabus, the content, the assignments, even the grades (I preferred a lack thereof)—and I loved it. Better yet, my students (who were my peers) loved it too.

So, I didn’t stop.

Facing doubt

During my PhD, I took every opportunity to engage in the classroom and grow as an educator. But as any professor will tell you, balancing research and teaching is no easy task. Many voices around me preached that teaching was a “waste of time” and “wouldn’t help me secure a faculty position.” They weren’t entirely wrong: teaching certainly took up a lot of my time—precious time that could’ve been spent publishing a few more papers.

I genuinely enjoyed research, but its rewards were sparse and unpredictable. Research studies took a long time to complete, and even once a project was “done” (like a work of art or a run-on sentence, they’re never really finished), it could take another 6 to 12+ months for a paper to get accepted in a journal. Though I managed to publish a decent amount during grad school, many of my projects reached dead ends and were eventually abandoned. To put it in nerd-speak, the input-to-output function was certainly not monotonic.

Teaching, on the other hand, offered a more structured rhythm. Each course had a clear beginning and end, and every finished lecture delivered a tangible sense of progress. I often found myself staying up on a Friday night to write a problem set I was genuinely excited about, spending hours giving thoughtful feedback on student research papers, or chatting with undergraduates who were brimming with curiosity.

To get a better sense of what faculty life was really like, I began having conversations with professors about how they balanced research and teaching. Many simply said, “I don’t.” Some admitted they had to sacrifice teaching quality for research productivity because “teaching doesn’t really matter for tenure.” Of course, there were brilliant researchers who were also gifted teachers—but they were few and far between.

I loved both teaching and research, but I also had to be realistic. Securing a traditional tenure-track job is difficult enough; even more so if you’re particular about where you want to live (which I was, given my two-body problem). I saw so many talented postdocs with stellar publication records struggle to land positions. And while many of my mentors assured me I could “make it” in academia, I started to wonder: Did I really want to “make it” in the traditional sense—grinding through the publish-or-perish pipeline—or did I want to pave my own path, one that played to my unique strengths and passions?

An open door

I began exploring career paths that would allow me to thrive as both a scientist and an educator—roles at institutions that truly valued and rewarded teaching, rather than treating it as a chore to be offloaded onto adjuncts. I knew that Primarily Undergraduate Institutions (PUIs), such as Liberal Arts Colleges (LACs) and Community Colleges (CCs), fit that description. But during my search process, I discovered a much broader spectrum of institutions and job descriptions that existed between the two extremes of research- and teaching-focused. There were four-year colleges that supported research activities, and research schools that highly valued teaching (my alma mater, Rice University, being one of them). I started feeling hopeful about career options I hadn’t previously heard of.

In the third year of my PhD, I connected with Ashley Juavinett and Shannon Ellis, two “teaching professors” at the University of California, San Diego (UCSD). I hadn’t encountered a job title like that before, so I reached out to learn more. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the University of California system had created a “tenure-track” teaching position2 that paralleled the traditional research-focused tenure track. The role emphasized excellence in teaching, course development, innovative curriculum design, and university service. But there was also support to run a small research program, and opportunities to mentor undergraduate and PhD students, sit on dissertation committees, and even write grants.

It sounded to me like a dream job.

But as with most things in life, timing is everything, and I knew these positions were few and far between. In my fifth year of my PhD, I signed up for a variety of academic job boards and kept an eye out for similar positions that aligned with my graduation timeline.

In November 2022, I came across a posting for an “Assistant Teaching Professor of Cognitive Science” position at UCSD. After a long conversation with my then-fiancé about how we would align our career trajectories, I decided to apply despite feeling wildly underqualified. After all, I hadn’t even finished my PhD yet! Hundreds of people apply for any given faculty position, and most applicants spend several years in postdoctoral training before going on the job market. I tried not to get my hopes up.

So it felt surreal when I received an invitation for a Zoom interview, and then for an on-campus visit with the department faculty. After 12 back-to-back interviews, a research talk, and a teaching demonstration, I found myself sipping a glass of wine over dinner, laughing and chatting with my potential future colleagues while watching a San Diego sunset through large, bow windows.

When I look back at the 20-year plan that I wrote at 16, I feel simultaneously embarrassed and proud. Embarrassed by my naïveté, yet proud that I stayed true to my teenage hopes and dreams. “Live in Santa Monica…(or some other beach city),” she declared.

A childhood dream

                                                        When I was five years old, I decided I wanted to be a teacher.

Dear five-year-old Lucy,

I want you to know that, after 23 years of school, you’re finally going to start your career as an Assistant Teaching Professor of Cognitive Science at the University of California, San Diego. You did it. 🥹

Yours truly,
Professor Lai

Acknowledgements

I get emotional just writing this—I know without a doubt that I wouldn’t be where I am today without the support of countless compassionate teachers who guided me throughout every stage of my life.

This section is for them.

To Ms. D, my kindergarten teacher, who encouraged the very first expressions of my dream. To my high school English teachers, who gifted me a love of writing. To my piano teachers, DD and DH, who blessed me with life lessons that can only be learned through music. You will forever hold a special place in my heart.

I am also deeply grateful to all my mentors from college and graduate school, who are incredible educators in their own right. To the scientists who raised me: David Dickman, who convinced me to attend Rice; Jeff Yau, my undergraduate PI, who nurtured my scientific potential; Sam Gershman, my PhD advisor, for supporting my teaching endeavors and cultivating my scientific independence; Venki Murthy, who invited me to co-design and teach a new course at Harvard; and Tari Tan, who gave me countless opportunities to grow as an educator. I truly stand on the shoulders of giants.

To the professors that opened my eyes to a teaching-focused academic career: Stephen Chen at Wellesley College, who offered his insight into teaching at liberal arts colleges, as well as valuable advice on life, career, and faith. Ashley Juavinett and Shannon Ellis, my soon-to-be colleagues, who first opened my eyes to this career path and shared a wealth of wisdom along the way. You inspire me to keep growing as an educator.

And finally, to my students: you shaped me into the teacher I am today. From my peers at Rice who trusted me as an undergrad TA, to the students at Harvard who allowed me to experiment with new teaching styles and methods. I promise to carry that same energy, curiosity, and enthusiasm to the classroom at UCSD.

There are many, many more people I could thank, but I would run out of metaphorical ink before I could name them all.

Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. I can only hope to pay forward even a fraction of the time, care, and energy you’ve poured into me.

For those of you who have subscribed in the last few months, welcome to On Sabbatical, and thank you for your interest in my life :) You may have noticed that I haven’t written anything since my first post back in July(!!). Rather than seeing this as a failure to stick to a personal writing goal (which might have been my attitude about a year ago), I’ve come to recognize it as a sign that I wasn’t yet ready to share what (or rather, how) I’ve been doing.

Burning out and slowing down

As I mentioned in my first post, I have a chronic autoimmune disorder called lupus, which cycles through periods of high and low disease activity (referred to as “flares” and “remission”). In late November 2023, I began experiencing the worst flare I’ve ever had since being diagnosed at age 16. Now, over a year later, I’m still grappling with the lasting effects of migratory joint pain, fatigue, body aches, and hair loss. In the midst of this flare, I wrote my dissertation, defended it, and (finally) graduated with my PhD. With the added stress of finishing my degree (which likely fueled my flare), I wasn’t able to truly start healing until May of 2024.

Now seven months into my sabbatical, I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that I have been severely burned out. Though I knew my mind was burned out from the marathon of dissertation writing, I severely underestimated how long it would take my body to heal from the flare, and for me to feel “normal” again. I was sleeping 9-10 hours a night and still waking up exhausted and in pain. I struggled to run a single mile when I used to easily run five. I lacked the motivation to socialize, procrastinated on simple tasks like doing laundry, and when I opened this blog window to write, I found I had nothing to say. This wasn’t just a simple case of work burnout that could be fixed by taking a couple months “off,” but rather the prolonged aftermath of a physically, emotionally, and mentally taxing disease.

A year later, I’m coming to terms with the possibility that I may never return to the physical health and stamina I had before this flare. Without going into too much detail, my lupus itself has changed significantly, forcing me to deal with evolving symptoms and consider more long-term lifestyle changes. In particular, my lupus seems to be very sensitive to climate, particularly heat, humidity, and sudden changes in barometric pressure (as far as I know, this phenomenon is frequently reported but understudied), as well as periods of prolonged stress. Both rainy and sunny days make me ache, prompting a frequent joke that I make to my husband about being a fragile greenhouse flower. This flare has forced me to slow down, make more mindful decisions based on my energy levels, and even reconsider long-term personal and professional goals—things I didn’t expect to have to think about at 28.

Coping with chronic illness

Over the last few months, I’ve found new ways to cope with my long term illness. Relationships, both online and offline, have been a huge source of comfort as I navigate this “new normal.” I’ve found a warm community on r/lupus that validates my weird combination of symptoms. I have found solace in vulnerable conversations with my undergraduate advisor (and longtime friend), who has also been fighting his own rare chronic autoimmune disorder. I feel less alone in my slow recovery when I read David Heeger’s1 public blog about his ongoing struggle with long covid. And I feel most seen by my husband, who has stuck by my side through numerous visits to the hospital, long nights of dissertation writing, and my extensive complaining about daily aches and pains.

By making rest and recovery my focus, I’ve learned to be gentler with my body, listening to how it feels each day and trying to not push it beyond my limits. In May, I started using an Oura Ring to track my sleep and recovery metrics, which has been extremely helpful for quantifying and understanding my physical limitations. These days, I’m slowly rebuilding my strength and cardio endurance. Tufts of hair are growing back from the bald patches on my scalp, a small but meaningful sign of healing. I let myself sleep as long as I need, and am incredibly thankful for every day I wake up free of joint pain and body aches. And I’m happy to report that those days are increasing in number.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading, and I promise more varied posts going forward in 2025.

Cheers and love,
Lucy

Where I’ve been

If you don’t know me, allow me to briefly introduce myself and provide some background context for this blog. I recently graduated from Harvard (after 6 long years!) with my Ph.D. in Neuroscience:

About a year ago, I got married and moved to Okinawa, Japan with my husband, who is a Navy dentist. My Ph.D. advisor was gracious and understanding enough to let me spend the last year wrapping up my research and writing my thesis from Japan (thanks, Sam!).

About eight months ago, I started experiencing a severe flare-up of my lupus, a chronic autoimmune disease that causes body-wide inflammation, excruciating joint pain, and debilitating fatigue. There were days where I would wake up tired even though I had slept 10 hours, and in so much pain that I couldn’t get dressed. If finishing a Ph.D. wasn’t already hard enough, doing it while chronically ill made it almost impossible. My advisor asked me multiple times whether I wanted to push my defense date back, but after almost 6 years of working towards this degree, I was determined to just finish. I spent the last few months of my Ph.D. with my head down, writing my thesis from home and in hospital waiting rooms. It was a lonely, stressful, and overwhelming experience.

Around the same time that I got sick, I learned that my mom’s cancer had returned after five years of her being in remission. It was hard to be halfway across the world (my family lives in the US) while she went through the same surgeries and treatments all over again. Yet, in a strange way, I almost felt comforted by the fact that my mom and I were suffering in parallel. Though we were half a world apart, I think our shared resilience and faith carried us through this hard and painful season.

By the sheer grace of God, I somehow finished my thesis, flew back to the states, and successfully defended on April 30, 2024. That day felt like pure magic, surrounded by family, friends, and colleagues who were all an integral part of my academic journey.

After finishing treatment, my mom became cancer-free again. And I started some new lupus treatments that significantly improved my condition.

And so that brings us to today. A question that I’ve gotten a lot since graduating is “so…what’s next for you?!”

The answer: After what felt like a whirlwind of a year, and as the title of this blog suggests, I’m taking a much needed, year-long sabbatical.

The term “sabbatical” originated from the Judeo-Christian creation story, in which God created the world in six days, and rested on the seventh. Traditionally in academia, a sabbatical is granted every seventh year, giving professors a year off from teaching to focus on new research directions, travel, and writing. Recently, the term has been adopted by other industries to describe a period of deliberate unemployment (or extended paid leave) for personal reflection and exploration. Though I’m not yet a professor, I thought it was fitting to call this adult gap year a “sabbatical,” given that it’s my seventh year of being an academic :)

Where I’m now

I’m now back in Okinawa, as my husband is still stationed here for one more year. For the first time in my life, there are no predefined goals for me to strive for, besides fully recovering from this lupus flare. It’s a strange feeling. In the first month after my defense, I was still in Boston, busying myself with friends and lingering around my favorite places in the city before I moved away for good. Things are quieter here in Japan, and so I’m curious to see how I make use of my newfound free time and freedom.1

Perhaps it’s a bit ironic, but one of the first things I decided to do in this sabbatical is teach (lol). I know that most professors are more than happy to escape this duty during a sabbatical, but I have always found teaching to be deeply invigorating and rewarding. At the start of July, I started teaching a 5-week course on decision making for UCSD summer school (remotely). Despite it being virtual, the class has been incredibly interactive, and the students are wonderful. I’ve been using this course to experiment with some interesting pedagogical ideas (such as “ungrading”) that depart from how traditional college courses are run. If that’s something you’re interested in, keep your eyes peeled for a future blog post where I reflect on how it went :)

Designing a course from scratch is a LOT of work (if you’ve done it before, you know what I mean), so I’ve been spending the last few weeks glued to my desk from 8am to 10pm working on class prep and developing assignments. While intense and time-consuming, teaching has always been one of those things that makes me feel alive and at peace with myself, and so in a paradoxical way, it has been the perfect start to a sabbatical centered on rest and creativity.

Where I’m going

And so this marks the beginning of a year of reflection, exploration, and creative pursuits. I’m hoping to fill my days with reading, writing, learning, and creating, and will use this blog as a space to reflect on the process. So if you are interested in following along with my thoughts and contemplations this year, I invite you to subscribe to On Sabbatical :) Posts will likely cover anything from life, love, faith, science, AI, education, and more, with occasional poetry sprinkled throughout.

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading and for joining me on this unscripted adventure!

With love,
Lucy