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Rejection never felt good, but it especially stung when you’d worked your hardest to be perfect.
I shifted in the uncomfortable airport chair and tried to refocus on my book instead of the tumult in my chest. This was the third year I’d attended the Western US Infectious Disease Summit, but it was the first time I wasn’t presenting, for reasons I didn’t understand.
Except that more than two thirds of the presenters had been men. Much as I didn’t want to believe that could be the reason, my brain couldn’t leave it alone.
We’d worked harder than ever before on our paper. Hard work wasn’t a guarantee of results, but I knew all too well how perfect I had to be to succeed in this field—and this time it still wasn’t enough.
I sighed, inadvertently pulling my travel companion/assistant fellowship program director, Dr. Donaldson, from studying a journal on his tablet.
“Hm?” As usual, it took him a minute to reconnect with the world outside his brain. He might have only been a couple years older than me, but he had the absentminded professor thing down. “Is it about our paper?” he asked.
Ah. Maybe I didn’t give him enough credit. He’d certainly given me plenty, naming me lead author. “Yeah,” I admitted.
He shook his head. “I know; our paper was at least as good as the ones I heard. Better than most.”
From someone else, that would have sounded like boasting. From Dr. Donaldson, it was analytical, empirical truth. He would have had little problem pointing out the areas where our paper could have been stronger or others’ work that was better than ours.
In fact, the biggest difference this year versus the last two years was that he’d let me have the lead author slot. Didn’t feel like a coincidence that they rejected us for a paper that was even better than our previous ones.
Despite that, I was committed to studying the latest issues ofThe LancetandImmunityto see if our paper would fit better there. That was probably what he was doing before I interrupted him.
“It’s politics,” Dr. Donaldson concluded. “Upper respiratory viruses are all people want to hear about.”
That was one theory. After COVID-19 had dominated my med school years, we were finally far enough away to get a little perspective—but not quite far enough that research foci had caught up. “There were diseases before the last pandemic.”
“We can only hope it’s the last pandemic,” Dr. Donaldson muttered. “It’s cyclical. Mycobacteria will have their turn in the limelight. And then we’ll be prepared.”
I nodded. A valiant effort at encouragement, but neither of us could predict what review committees would accept in the future. For all we knew, we’d each be passed over in favor of bad papers for years to come.
Or at least I would, unless I could make my next paper so perfect they’d have to accept it.
Before my thoughts could spiral back down that black hole, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out—a 301 area code.
That was Maryland, outside DC.
I was on my feet in an instant, my heart also rising. This could be the call I’d waited so long for that I’d assumed it wasn’t coming. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Rob Mets with NIAID.”
Itwasthe call. The National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases of the National Institutes of Health. Surely they wouldn’t call with bad news. “Hi.”
Brilliant. They’d definitely offer me the job based on my conversational skills.
“Hi.” He seemed to be laughing. “Can I speak with Dr. Croft?”
“Speaking.” Sparkling conversationalist that I obviously was.
Mr. Mets paused. “I’m sorry, miss. I saidDoctorCroft. Can I speak to him?”
That was one way to kill the mood. “I’m Cassidy Croft.”
“Cassidy is—I mean, of course.” Mr. Mets cleared his throat. “Well, I have good news, Ms. Croft.”
I seldom insisted on my hard-earned title, but it felt like I should now. “Dr. Croft.”
“Yes, of course, Dr. Croft. We’d like to offer you a position as a principal investigator with the Division of Intramural Research.”
For ten full seconds, I couldn’t breathe. PI positions only went to PhDs or MDs with significant research experience—people like Dr. Donaldson.
