Over the years, as I dealt with the pressure of finishing my Ph. D. and starting my post-doctor, I had grown more competitive. I pushed myself to be t ho first to generate thrilling results and to publish in high-impact journals. Those who could have been collaborators(合作者)became rivals I hated.
But the effect of this competitive character was exactly the opposite of what I had hoped for. When I encountered scientific problems, I thought I had to solve them myself instead of asking for help. The pressure became overwhelming. I began to feel alone and lost. I became less and less productive.
I emailed my mentors(导师), explaining that I had put myself second and the job first for too long. They told me that I wasn't the first academic to feel that way, and that I wouldn't be the last. They agreed that I should take the time I needed to take care of myself. So, with my mentors' support and an uncertain future, I left.
Back home, I spent time with family and friends and opened up about my struggles. At first, I was ashamed. But the more I talked about my demons, the more other people told me about their own. I also started to receive emails from my workmates. After a few lines asking how I was, many expressed worries about how they were managing the stress of academic life. Vulnerable(脆弱的) researchers were poking their heads out of their shells. Our relationships deepened. I began to feel less alone.
Three months later, I was prepared to go back to the science that I loved, and I now had a foundation to be more open with my colleagues. I understood that we all struggle sometimes, and that collaboration can be more powerful than competition.
With a bit of time, collaboration has replaced competition. Working with others and seeking help doesn't weaken my value or contributions; it means we can all win. I no longer feel lonely and unhappy.
