Nora Ransibrahmanakul

I’ve felt guilty ever since I dropped my engineering major. 

I’ve been involved in the STEM world since middle school. I still can’t speak about science without romanticizing it. What was promised to me was the world — from the fossils underground to the furthest galaxies — and coming to understand it if I could look hard enough. Scientists and technologists embrace their roles as a mighty, ever-expanding search for knowledge. I wanted to be at the frontier of something important.

When I started to get my hands dirty with competitions and projects, I saw how science inspired my teammates. In philosophy, an agent is someone with the ability to act, and the exercising of that ability. When done correctly, I saw that science is one of the most accessible ways to make people believe they are agents. Science empowers. When you hand a kid a bottle rocket or telescope, they believe they’ll make it to space one day. 

STEM fields (especially engineering and applied sciences) have a retention problem when it comes to women and gender minorities. The lack of parity can be seen in youth STEM programs, graduate schools and retention rates of women taking on STEM as a career, even though some progress has been made in recent decades. This is why DEI and immersion programs exist: to open up pathways into fields that have historically kept many groups out. 

To be one of the only women in those rooms is hard. I am grateful I didn’t experience discrimination or ridicule because of my identity (and I’m not sure how I would have handled that) but it’s a much more subtle experience that persists. 

When you’re the only girl, nobody mentions it out loud. But every time I was in that situation, I noticed that I was the only one. It was the feeling that people didn’t expect your presence, or that you had to make friends differently than everyone else. It was the frustration of having less technical knowledge. The onus is on you to prove that you’re just as good, and having to catch up if you aren’t. 

There’s the pressure to not expect special treatment, but also the nagging feeling you might have needed it. To be the only girl in the room is to represent all the others who aren’t there. I wanted to prove that I — we — didn’t need special awards for making it this far, because I had always been capable to begin with.   

Especially once you’re immersed in that world, constant messaging promotes STEM to girls as difficult, practical and praise-worthy. When you are a “Woman in STEM” you become a “trailblazer,” a “glass-ceiling-breaker,” an advocate, and a role model for the kids who will follow in your footsteps.

The more involved I got with STEM, and the more I came to care about the people involved with it, the more attached I became to these responsibilities. I decided that I wanted to become an engineer because I wanted to solve problems. Most of all, I loved introducing other people to it and seeing them make their first models and machines. 

As much as I could speak about fascinating ideas, I struggled to get excited about the real work. I loved the idea of STEM and the challenge that came with it. I gravitated closer to people, but further from the content in my textbooks. Eventually, I chose to break away entirely.

The unintended consequence of the “Women in STEM” narrative is unwittingly comparing them to the women doing everything else. Where DEI messaging can slip up is praising STEM as the most challenging and important path. I earned respect for “choosing” the STEM path because it is painted as the superior one. 

I still haven’t figured out how to explain this trajectory. Did I burn out of STEM, or was I going down the wrong path in the first place? Was this just the patriarchy getting to me? Was I just scared that I couldn’t cut it? Even now, I’m hesitant to fully renounce the sciences in case I have a change of heart and decide to return. 

I think much of my hesitation comes from matters of self-image. I feared that people would respect me less if I decided to shed the whole “Woman in STEM” thing. That’s how I knew something was wrong with my approach to it. 

I don’t regret any of my STEM pursuits. What I wish someone had told me is that there are other ways to seek understanding and push boundaries. Being the only girl in the room is hard, but it’s even harder to know that and still walk out the door. 

There should be more types of all types of people in STEM. How can we make that happen, for the right reasons? I want a bright future for the women in STEM — not because they have something to prove, but because they chose it for themselves