Purpose, Career, and the Unruly Path in Between

Purpose and career do not always align. Sometimes, they clash. Sometimes, one must take precedence over the other. And sometimes, purpose finds its way into a career in ways you never expected.

When I started my PhD at the University at Buffalo in 2013, my surroundings were not exactly conducive to academic ambition. I lived in a decaying building filled with drunks and the mentally ill—something closer to a crack house than a scholar’s retreat. And yet, I was lucky to be there. Two days after my cross-country move, the Craigslist roommate I had secured kicked me out for refusing to drive her to pick up heroin. I was homeless during my first weeks of the semester. And as if that weren’t enough, I arrived just in time for one of Buffalo’s worst snowfalls in history.

This should have been demoralizing. It wasn’t. Because I had something bigger than my circumstances.

At the time, Gala Darling, my mentor, introduced me to the concept of a personal mission statement—a guiding principle that informs every decision, every sacrifice, every single day. I wrote mine down on a Post-it, stuck it to my door, and read it every morning before leaving the house:

“I am here to use the history of science to make the world a better place.”

Was it overly idealistic? Absolutely. But I needed idealism. I needed a purpose larger than a degree, larger than academia, larger than the petty political games of graduate school.

Who Decides What Counts as Knowledge?

The irony is that I didn’t need a PhD to fulfill my mission. What I needed was a framework. While still a student, I developed a way of seeing the world—one influenced by science and technology studies, but applicable to life more broadly.

The core realization? Science is not the exclusive domain of men in lab coats. It never has been. It is not confined to elite institutions. Science is, at its core, a way of interpreting the world. And interpretation is not limited to one profession, one class, or one degree.

A painter studying color theory, an Uber driver fluent in multiple languages, a trucker who understands the physics of moving massive objects—these are not people we traditionally call scientists, yet they hold deep, specialized knowledge. Their work is built on observation, experimentation, and expertise. And yet, because their knowledge is applied rather than theoretical, it is devalued.

This is not new. In early America, elite men filled the pages of scientific journals, while the people who actually supplied their knowledge—Indigenous communities, Black Americans, women, the working class—remained invisible. My dissertation sought to change that.

The American Philosophical Society and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences—the first two scientific societies in the United States—published research exclusively from white men. But the knowledge they relied on was not theirs alone. They depended on Native American herbalists, Black craftsmen, women who preserved medical knowledge—people they refused to acknowledge as scientific peers. My dissertation proved that their work was not secondary or anecdotal—it was foundational.

My dissertation committee disagreed. They wanted me to write about how “ordinary people” thought about science. I refused. The issue wasn’t that these people had thoughts about science—it was that they were actively contributing to it and being erased in the process. If I had complied, my work would have reinforced the same false dichotomy between the “learned” and the “ignorant” that had always existed.

From Research to Real Change

The exclusion of marginalized knowledge isn’t just a relic of the past. Even today, institutions that claim to serve the public still make knowledge inaccessible—often through nothing more than an expensive paywall.

It took me five years to complete my dissertation. Five years of academic resistance, institutional bureaucracy, and finishing amid the chaos of a global pandemic. But the work had impact.

One of my final recommendations? That these scientific societies make their research accessible. For centuries, their talks and papers had been hidden behind exorbitant paywalls, with speech attendance costing upwards of $5,000. The simplest solution? Record the talks. Post them on YouTube.

Within months, the American Academy of Arts and Sciences hired a videographer and began publishing content. The American Philosophical Society followed about a year later. I won’t pretend they changed overnight because of me. But when you push hard enough at the right moment, institutions eventually start to listen.

Am I Still Following My Purpose?

Yes and no.

I am still a historian of science. I still contribute my expertise. But Western society does not value this work enough for it to be a sustainable career. And that’s fine. Because purpose and career do not always align—but one can still inform the other.

Today, I work at a major regional arts nonprofit, meeting with creatives, cultural leaders, and arts organizations daily. And I bring with me the same worldview I developed through my PhD.

I do not believe in “stupid” ideas. I do not believe in creative hierarchies. I do not believe that value is dictated by education, status, or pedigree.

The art world, like the scientific world, rewards those with privilege—the right background, the right connections, the right language. It is built on exclusivity. Funding depends on written grants, and the ability to craft a persuasive application is often more important than the quality of the work itself. I have seen brilliant artists talk themselves out of applying because they assume they’re not “good enough.”

I once worked with an artist who nearly abandoned their grant application because they weren’t “a good writer.” With minimal guidance, they secured funding. That one win changed their entire career trajectory. They didn’t suddenly become a different artist. They just got a fair chance.

And so, in a way, I am still fulfilling my mission. I am using the philosophy I built during my PhD—the philosophy that all knowledge matters—to elevate voices that would otherwise be ignored.

The punchline? This is far more impactful than writing books no one will read or lecturing students who already have every advantage in the world.

Purpose and career do not always align. But when you strip away the titles, the expectations, and the assumptions—sometimes, you end up fulfilling your purpose in ways you never anticipated.

And more often than not, the unexpected path is the one that matters most.