R3ciprocity.com - Prof David Maslach: Innovation; Research Life; Striving Towards Happiness

The more that I understand how the sausage is made, the more disillusioned I get with it. I used to have this sort of envisioned idea that if I simply just worked and I did a good job, I treated people nicely, I did everything that I was supposed to do, that it would work out. That was very naive. It’s often not what you thought it would be. The process is not what you think it is.

There is more to the story. There’s a tremendous amount of loneliness. You could be a very nice, well-intentioned person, trying to do your best—but it very often will not work out for you. There is very little rhyme or reason. Many things are outside of your control.

What people often present in the scientific game is not what happens. The stories that are told—there are stories, they’re narratives. The best way to understand science is more through a narrative lens. It is often vastly unfair and nonsensical. The idea that things are orderly, scientific, free of bias—it’s just complete nonsense.

The only thing that you can do is to accept the craziness of it all. Stop believing in this sort of “the more that you put in, the better off you get out of it” kind of idea. It’s narrative. It’s chance. It’s silly, goofy things that happen.

The only way that I know to deal with it is to dissociate every day a little bit—maybe it’s a lot. Figure out a way to remove yourself from all of it. Walk forward every day.

Fear is powerful—but it’s often used as a tool for manipulation. In this deeply honest message, we explore why fear is so primal, how it shapes our actions, and how bad actors—from the media to people close to us—exploit it to control behavior. But you have a choice.

Like firefighters, judges, and leaders in high-stress roles, you can pause. You can think clearly. You can take one calm step forward.

This reflection is a reminder that real strength is quiet, intentional, and grounded in principle. Each small action you take toward your goals chips away at fear’s grip. You don’t need to do everything today—just one thing. Hope is the antidote. And as Annie says, “The sun will come out tomorrow.”

Walk forward. The game isn’t over.

I grew up in a working-class family—blue-collar through and through. Now I live in a world full of academics, PhDs, and prestige. And to be honest, I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere.

Both sides have their own kind of snobbery. On one side, being “too educated” makes you the outsider. On the other, if you act like a normal human—go to your kid’s baseball game, show up at a PTA meeting, take time to just live—it’s seen as a waste of time.

There are unspoken rules about how you’re supposed to act, what success looks like, and who belongs. And most days, I feel like I’m doing a bad job at playing both roles.

But here’s what I’ve learned: most people are just figuring things out. Nobody really has it all together. And the more we pretend we do, the more we lose what really matters—connection, curiosity, and just being human.

There’s a pressure to “perform” that is deeply ingrained in research culture.

A norm of climbing the ladder, being cutthroat, doing more with less. But I’ve come to see how detached this is from reality.

Very detached.

I grew up in a very average, blue-collar family.

Now, I’m in a different place. I’ve made it, at least on paper.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the things that make me happiest have no financial value.

Going for walks.

Coloring with my kids.

Saying hi to colleagues in the hallway.

And the things that make me miserable?

They’re almost always tied to “performance” and “measurement.”

There’s this constant voice saying, “You must justify your worth.”

But I can’t. I’ve tried.

I can’t say my actions on any given day are “productive.”

Saying “hi” is just not.

And that is not a weakness. That’s the truth of being a researcher.

I’ve experienced a lot of failure. I’ve studied it, too.

And failure has taught me to detach from metrics.

It taught me to say, “Screw you—I’m good enough without proving it to anyone.”

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about living fully.

It’s equally good to take time off. It’s equally good to have tea with someone you love.

The problem isn’t you—it’s the narrow definition of success we’ve been taught to chase.

If you’re struggling in academia, know this: You are not alone.

And you are not weak.

You are doing the right things.

I was going to proclaim that blogging is dead. The traffic on the R3ciprocity Project blog has steadily declined since the rise of artificial intelligence. People get answers faster now, and it’s changed how we interact with content. But I keep thinking—what is the value added of humans over algorithms?

Computers are fast and accurate. But humans? We’re good at finding and fixing exceptions. We have a sense of what resonates. And we struggle. That struggle adds depth. Even if AI can process emotion or aesthetics someday, the pace of human experience is different.

The blog might be dying, but the combination of my voice, my struggle, and the tools I use still tells a story that’s worth sharing. That human story—amplified by algorithms—isn’t dead. It’s just changing.

One of the hardest things I’ve learned as a researcher is this:

If people can’t see the depth of what you’ve done, it doesn’t matter.

You could spend years thinking through a layered, nuanced idea. Build a framework that connects pieces nobody else has connected.

And what happens?

Someone skims your work in 30 seconds and says:

“Huh, seems basic.”

It’s crushing.

But it’s not because you did something wrong.

It’s because most people won’t ever read deeply enough to notice.

So you’re stuck doing the most paradoxical thing imaginable:

Make your work simple enough to remember, but layered enough to respect.

That tension? That’s the grind behind every “cute” idea.

That’s why your best work feels so invisible.

The trick is not to dumb it down—but to distill it.

And distilling takes more pain, time, and quiet struggle than anyone sees.

So if you’re in the middle of that painful space, trying to say something real in a way people will understand:

You’re not alone.

That’s where the real work is.

Academic research is built on knowledge—but not on community.

And that’s a problem.

Incentives in academia don’t reward cooperation.

They reward competition, individual credit, and winner-takes-all outcomes.

Even when we want to collaborate, the system quietly tells us not to.

Unlike companies, which reward people for building something together, academic research often rewards people for standing apart.

Here’s the truth:

Most academic “collaboration” is instrumental—I’ll work with you if I get something out of it.

That’s not real community. That’s strategy.

The only way this changes?

We need to start rewarding cooperation explicitly—not just with nice words, but with actual recognition, incentives, and resources.

Until then, if you want to do meaningful work and stay sane, you’ll need to:

– Disengage from local prestige games

– Focus on the long-term global impact

– And define success by the quality of your work, not how much applause you get

The academic game may be lonely. But we don’t have to play it the way it’s always been played.

Let’s reward people not just for being brilliant—but for being good to each other.

My tone changes when I talk about professional doctorates because many institutions are designed to extract a lot of value from you while providing little in return. It’s not just about getting a degree—it’s about ensuring that what you’re paying for actually adds value to your life. Some programs are legitimate and well-established, but many prey on people’s optimistic beliefs and desperation. Before committing, step back and ask: Do I really need this? Is there a less expensive way to reach my goal? Be practical, analyze the costs and benefits, and don’t fall for marketing tactics that make you feel like you have no other choice. A degree should leave you in a better position than when you started—not just financially, but in terms of opportunities and personal growth. The key is making sure you’re doing it for the right reasons, not just because it feels like the next step.

Venturing off into new knowledge—whether it’s a PhD, R&D, or building something new—comes with a strange, painful truth: you need a community, but you won’t know who that community is until after you’ve been completely alone.

You have to feel lost. You have to not know what you’re doing. You have to go through hard knocks, pain, and moments where you say, “What the hell, why is this happening?” And only then—when you’ve got your own story, your own struggle—do the right people start to show up. People who say, “That’s me. I’ve been there.”

You don’t find community first. You build it after. Not by pretending to have it all together, but by being open, honest, and brave enough to talk about the stuff that most people never do.

It’s painful. It’s lonely. But it’s the only way that works.

The more that you start looking at things, you start realizing that there’s just lots of moments where things break down and they don’t work as if you wanted them to actually work. We look at somebody else that seems really, really successful, and we try to mimic what they do, but we inevitably fail. There is almost always a ton of invisible infrastructure that you never see. I’ve learned this repeatedly with this whole R3ciprocity Project. So I simply choose now to simplify my life and do things as easy as possible. What is the most simplest approach? What can you do with just what you have to make sure it actually works in your favor?