On one trip to the field, I was joined by a new graduate student, Daler, and an undergraduate, whom I was permitted to hire to help me with some field and lab work. I had the good fortune of hiring James, the undergraduate, who had listed on his resume “orienteering” as one of his skills.

I am loath to admit it, but my sense of direction is laughable…Well, it would be laughable if I was not so horrified by this shortcoming.

I was uncomfortably aware of the stereotype that women have poor senses of direction. My dad used to tease my mother about this often and it always annoyed me.  I hated that I fit this stereotype. However, I was also keenly aware that my poor sense of direction could be a substantial hurdle for me in this particular research project. Navigating acres of forested woodland with only dirt roads and very little signage connecting the nine sites I needed to visit each trip, would have been a terrifying prospect alone. I am truly grateful that I had help from James, Matt, and Daler. Luckily I never had to collect samples alone or I might still be lost in the wilderness somewhere, covered in horsefly and tick bites, subsisting only on hickory nuts and pawpaw fruit.

Every trip unfolded roughly the same way.

1. Pack the truck full of shovels, totes, coolers, and sleeping bags.
2. Drive four hours south, stopping only for gas and food for the weekend.
3. Unpack the necessities at the collection of mobile trailers that served as base camp for the weekend.
4. Crash until 5:30-6am, grab breakfast, get out and start digging.

On these trips, showers were often cold, and meals consisted of carbs and fat. I refused to shower in cold water in the morning. I simply couldn’t bring myself to start out the day like that. Frequently the graduate students I traveled with were vegetarian. We ate lots of pasta and chickpeas for dinner, and peanut butter for lunch.

On one occasion, it was about 3pm, and James and I were filling up the backpack with the last bags of soil. Finally, the rhythmic clank of shovel on gravelly soil, followed by the scraping and sprinkling of soil through a #10 sieve into a plastic bucket had ceased for the day. My knees were bruised from kneeling and sieving, and my shoulders were already a little stiff from digging. But the blissfully still state of mind that seems to come only with the fatigue of vigorous work was setting in. The only thing James and I could talk about were the best doughnuts we ever ate, and where to get a great burger in town. James and I were not vegetarian. This was common discussion at this time of day, as the hiking and digging had burned off all we had eaten and more.

James helped me lift the backpack so I could get under it and hoist it onto my shoulders. Though he was bigger than me, and probably much stronger, I never felt right having him carry what were MY samples through the woods. There were times I asked for his help, but for the most part, I was very uncomfortable allowing someone to take on this literal burden. This sense of responsibility was likely exacerbated by my persistent need to show anyone who might take notice, that I was just as tough and capable as the young men around me.

Public failure

We finally reached the truck and were unloading the soil samples into coolers for microbial assays to be performed later. Prior experience had taught me to count the bags of soil as we unloaded them, rather than wait until after we left our sites. As we counted the last bag, a cold feeling started in my throat and spread to my palms and the souls of my feet. We were missing two bags and the light was starting to dim under the forest canopy. I wanted to cry but I knew that would only make things exponentially worse. I looked at the other graduate student Daler, and told him what had happened. “Where are they then?” he asked. I watched the muscles in his face tighten. I knew he was tired too. He had been very quiet for the last two sites we visited.

My mind raced. I looked back at James, “did we count the bags at site #6?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.” “Definitely.”

“It must be back at the last site we were just at,” I told Daler.

“Well, let’s go back and get them,” Daler said. Without looking at me he marched into the forest. I told James he could wait at the truck.

Daler was well over 6 feet tall and took long, fast strides. My 5’6’’ frame struggled to keep up with his pace, but mortification at my mistake was coursing through my body like an accelerant.

Why did it seem like the guys in my lab never made these kinds of mistakes? What was wrong with me?!

I would realize much later how unhealthy this line of thinking was. Of course the guys in my lab made these kinds of mistakes. I would witness it. They simply didn’t advertise their mistakes and carried on with their work as we all must.

I broke into a run. I had been devoid of all energy only moments ago, but this burst of movement gave my frustration a necessary outlet. I swerved around Daler and ran ahead of him. I wasn’t certain I could find my way back to the site but I really needed to. And I assumed Daler would holler to me if I was off track. I half ran, half slid, down a leaf-covered slope and then trudged up the opposite rise in the landscape. I swerved around a tall hickory tree and hopped between the “V” of two small ones. These looked familiar. I must be on the right track.

Sure enough, there was the orange marker indicating our site. Looking around frantically I saw the two missing sample bags and scooped them up. I was running back toward Daler before he even reached the site. The two of us were back at the truck with daylight to spare. I jumped in the truck and tried to control my gasping breath. James didn’t say anything.

When Daler slid in beside me, he shot me an appraising look. “That was fast” was all he said. I grinned. I knew I had gained something. Acceptance? Maybe even respect? For whatever reason, Daler was a little chattier in the lab with me after that, and he seemed more willing to ask for my advice about the lab equipment I was most familiar with.

Have you ever felt like you failed at something? How do you bring yourself out of a failure funk? Leave a comment below or reach out on twitter (@LabMom20). If you like this post, subscribe with your email for new posts updated weekly, delivered straight to your inbox.

* Please note, all names, other than my own, have been changed to protect the privacy of others. All accounts are based on my own experiences and memories.

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