I left my tenure-track job to carve out a new career for myself in science.

The realization came slowly.

There was no single breaking point, no dramatic moment that forced a decision. Instead, it felt like being in a relationship that had gone beyond its expiration date. Nothing was actively “wrong,” but staying required a growing amount of effort to ignore what I was feeling.

One moment does stand out, though. My second large federal grant was funded, something that should have felt affirming or celebratory. Instead, I felt anxious. I was already working well beyond 40-hour weeks and struggling to keep up with the combined demands of teaching, research, service, and mentoring. I could not see how I would realistically meet the commitments I had just made without sacrificing something else, whether that was my health, my relationships, or other responsibilities. The other expectations were not going to go away; if anything, they would expand. That was when I began to understand that this was not just a temporary imbalance, but a feature of the role itself.

As a first-generation college student, becoming a faculty member in science had been a dream for a long time. Academia had offered me stability, mentorship, and a sense of hope for a better life than what I had growing up. My advisors and mentors had been sources of light and encouragement, and I wanted to be that for others. I was drawn to the idea of building a stable academic home where I could support students in meaningful ways.

I was also motivated by a desire to do good in the world. I am a climatologist, and the questions I work on matter deeply to me. Over time, though, I struggled with how much academic labor never extended beyond the academy itself. The pressure to constantly publish meant that an enormous amount of energy went into producing work that was primarily read by other academics. While that kind of scholarship has value, I found myself increasingly uneasy with how disconnected much of it felt from action, application, or broader public impact.

When I expressed doubt or fatigue, the advice I received was to put my head down and push through until tenure. The assumption was that this level of intensity was temporary (which did not align with my observations of many tenured faculty), that things would get better later. I was told that holidays were a good time to catch up on research responsibilities that teaching had “taken away from.” This was the norm, but it never sat right with me. Why did it have to be?

I also began to grapple with the reality that an academic career offered very little agency over where I lived. Accepting that I might never truly choose my geographic home began to feel like a larger sacrifice than I had anticipated. I might never get to live somewhere that aligned with my values, my hobbies, or that I would be excited to wake up in every day.

Leaving was hard, not because I no longer cared about science, but because the identity I was stepping away from had taken years to build. I worried about disappointing mentors who had invested in me and colleagues who had supported my career. The most difficult part, though, was my students. I had built a lab of people who relied on me for guidance, stability, and advocacy. I took that responsibility seriously, and the thought that my decision could affect their futures caused a great deal of anxiety. I worked carefully to ensure continuity and support for them, but that period was full of sleepless nights.

Being a grad student is a tenuous time. They are expected to live on minimal salaries with a high degree of uncertainty. I found myself consistently frustrated by the system I worked in and how little control I had over how well I could pay and support my supervisees, even when I had secured the funding to support them. I thought as a PI I would have more control over this than I did. I wanted to supervise and mentor, but I wanted my employees to be taken care of more than the university would let me provide.

What I want to be clear about, though, is that leaving the tenure track did not mean leaving science. It did not mean my morals suddenly changed or that I woke up with different interests one day.

I am currently affiliate faculty and an Associate Scientist at the National Snow and Ice Data Center. I still mentor and coach others. I still use my training in climatology to contribute to work that matters. What has changed is the structure around that work. I am part of a more team-oriented environment, one that is less competitive and more collaborative. The science and data products we provide are designed to be used, not only cited.

When I started looking for new roles, I wanted more freedom than I had before. I only looked at positions in places I would be happy to live. In interviews, I tried to ensure I would work in a setting where a 40-hour workweek is the norm rather than the exception. Letting go of a single, defining professional identity has created space to think more openly about what I want my career to look like over the long term. That uncertainty feels less frightening now and more expansive… some days, even exciting.

This is not an argument that the tenure track is a bad path (although I would argue that it is different now than it was, say, 20 years ago). For some, it is deeply fulfilling and well aligned with their goals and values. For me, over time, the fit became harder to justify. The costs began to outweigh what I was gaining, even as I continued to care deeply about the work itself.

I did not leave because I could not do the job. I left because I wanted a scientific life that felt sustainable, values-aligned, and connected to the kinds of impact that matter most to me.

Science did not stop being central to who I am; it simply found a different structure in which to live. I look forward to seeing how it evolves, and where my career will take me, in time. And because I know someone will wonder: nope, I do not regret it! Do I miss certain parts? Sure. But my intuition has yet to lead me the wrong way.