As I enter my fourth year at Northeastern pursuing a dual major in behavioral neuroscience and philosophy, I reflect on my career journey and the ambitious path ahead. My goal is to become a pediatric neuropsychologist, in which I will analyze children’s cognitive, emotional and behavioral functioning in relation to brain structures and systems.
My intrigue with neuroscience began in middle school. I’ve always been incredibly interested in the brain’s complexity and its influence on every aspect of our lives. What motivates me the most is my desire to provide extra support to those with mental illnesses and developmental disorders who deserve extra care and advocacy. However, being a woman of color in STEM, I’ve found that I had to overcome an obstacle. Familial pressures infiltrated my mind, and I felt an underlying expectation to succeed in the medical field. Not because of my own desire to do so but merely because of the fact that I am a Black girl, and working in the medical field would be a symbolic representation of breaking into a predominately white and male field.
Why I want to be a pediatric neuropsychologist
My passion for neuroscience began in middle school, and it was rooted in a profoundly personal experience. Around the age of 11, I started feeling an overwhelming and constant sense of nervousness, restlessness and persistent sadness. I lost interest in hobbies I had once enjoyed. At first, my parents attributed these feelings to the hormonal changes of puberty, thinking it was merely a phase. But as these emotions became more debilitating, they sought the help of a pediatric psychiatrist. By age 12, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and Unspecified Depressive Disorder. (I’ve written an article regarding my experience with GAD; you can read it here!) It was a revelation; finally, I had an explanation for why I felt different from my friends and why my thoughts and emotions seemed so at odds with theirs. This diagnosis didn’t just give me answers; it ignited my curiosity. I began asking myself questions: Why do I think and feel differently? Why do therapy and medication help? What’s happening in my brain to cause this anxiety and depression? Though I wasn’t yet familiar with advanced neuroscience, I instinctively knew that the answers lay in the brain. That realization shaped my academic journey, fueling my desire to learn about how the brain influences behavior, emotions and mental health. I knew I had to dive deeper into neuroscience to uncover the answers that had first sparked my curiosity.
Familial pressures
My family didn’t pressure me much when I first expressed my desire to work in neuroscience during middle school. This is likely because they were surprised by such a rigorous ambition at my young age. However, as I grew older and entered my junior and senior years of high school, I began feeling subtle expectations from my mom and grandmother. They would casually ask, “What medical school are you thinking about?” or, “Will you be a neurosurgeon or a neurologist?” Although these questions were asked out of curiosity, they weighed heavily on me. I knew I didn’t want to be a surgeon or a neurologist. I assumed that these were the traditional, academically challenging careers my family associated with neuroscience. I assumed they expected me to pursue these careers and nothing else. Instead, my passion lay in mental health and developmental disorders, areas I feared wouldn’t be viewed as impressive or rigorous enough. I was reluctant to admit this, worried that my true aspirations might be perceived with disappointment or seen as falling short of the high expectations associated with pursuing a career in the medical field.
I felt that the pressure to pursue something more rigorous in neuroscience was profoundly tied to my identity as a woman. In my family, there are few women who work in the medical field. When I initially told my family about my desire to work in the medical field, I suspected that there was an unspoken expectation that I should aim for a challenging and prestigious career because I’m a woman. Historically, women have been guided toward more traditional female careers, such as teaching, nursing and caregiving. Jobs that were deemed suitable within a societal framework that limited women’s potential in the professional world. Therefore, for me to break through that mold and enter a male-dominated field like neuroscience held extra weight. It was almost as if my family’s pride was amplified by the fact that I would be defying gender expectations. It left me questioning whether their pride was authentic in response to my ambitions, abilities and intellect or if it was more about the symbolism of a woman going into a field that traditionally excluded women.
With that in mind, I felt that the pride my family exhibited was also tied to my identity as a Black individual. My mom and my grandma, who both made these comments, are Black women who understand the importance of representation. Not only are there few women in my family in the medical field, but few Black people in my family are in the medical field and even fewer Black women. Because they’ve consistently expressed their pride in my decision to enter the medical field, I’ve felt that their remarks and their pride are primarily rooted in the fact that I’m a Black girl pursuing a field in which Black people are severely underrepresented. While their support is undoubtedly well-meaning and important to me, there have been times when I wondered if their pride stems more from the symbolic importance of my race in the field rather than the pride in me as an individual, separate from my identity as a Black woman.
Recognizing what motivates me to pursue neuroscience
Once I reached college, I mentioned to my mom and grandma that I truly wanted to work in the mental health field, particularly with developmental disorders. To my surprise, their pride didn’t waver for a moment when I specified exactly what I wanted to do in the neuroscience field. They expressed their utmost pride and support for my ambition. I also confided in them that their seemingly simple comments over the years had subtly affected my perception of what they valued. They quickly apologized, saying that their comments were never meant to impose expectations but instead were said out of curiosity about my interests. I felt relieved by this and realized I had let my perceptions of their comments cloud my view of their true intent. This experience taught me how important communication is, especially regarding my fears and assumptions about others’ expectations of me.
This consultation with my grandma and mom also helped me solidify that I shouldn’t let the expectations of others, either real or perceived, affect what I want to do. I learned that my family hadn’t pressured me to pursue a career I didn’t want. Rather, they responded to the goals that I initially established. Their comments, which I had perceived as pressure, were, in fact, rooted in pride and curiosity, not pressure or persuasion. This made me come to the realization that the true pressure I had felt came from within, a result of my own interpretation of their words, not from their actual expectations of me.
Reflecting on this, I also realized that my drive to pursue neuroscience, specifically mental health and developmental disorders, was always deeply personal. It wasn’t a decision that was the product of external pressure or expectations but shaped by my own experiences. My understanding of mental illness, molded through my own struggles, framed my passion to pursue this field. It isn’t merely a career path, but it’s a calling that is intertwined with my own emotions, thoughts and challenges. I don’t think my motivation was ever driven by the prestige of the medical industry but by a profound desire to make a difference in a field that I deeply understand. This realization truly solidified the belief that my personal experiences, rather than external pressures or forces, guided me toward this fulfilling career field.