Juggling with Gloves On

You learn to move before thinking. One hand sets a timer while the other swirls a tube. Your eyes scan the protocol, and your mind rewinds to check if you've added the buffer. Something’s incubating, something else is cooling, and somewhere in between, your laptop groans under the weight of a half-finished analysis. It’s not chaos, exactly—but a rhythm that demands attention in fragments. There’s no single focus. Just a layered awareness, shifting from one task to the next, always balancing, always just a few steps ahead.

Multitasking in science isn’t a convenience; it’s a necessity. You learn to do it not by choice but by sheer demand. Experiments don’t wait patiently in line—they crowd your bench, overlap, and call out for attention, often all at once. And so, you juggle.

And yes, sometimes the rhythm breaks. You lose track of a wash step. Your gel runs out of buffer mid-way. You realize—too late—that you used the wrong tube, the one without protease inhibitors. Multitasking in research walks a fine line between precision and pandemonium, and it’s easy to slip. But you learn. Quickly. Because each misstep is a lesson etched in muscle memory.

Over time, the chaos becomes choreography. You begin to layer your tasks like harmonies—ten-minute spin here, five-minute incubation there—filling the spaces with emails, figure revisions, or glances at unread papers. You don’t just manage time; you stretch it, shape it, and occasionally steal it back.

There’s an odd satisfaction in this balancing act. A deep-seated joy in making it through a complicated protocol without a hitch. In finally nailing that elusive construct after weeks of failed transformations.

Science demands presence but also agility. It requires you to hold multiple threads at once—ideas, results, timelines—and weave them into something meaningful. It’s not just about getting things done but about knowing how to do many things without compromising the integrity of any.

So yes, we juggle—with gloves on. It’s not glamorous, and it’s rarely perfect. But it's an act of dedication, of persistence, and, more often than not, quiet triumph.

Because beneath the clutter of tubes, tangled wires, and relentless timers, there remains a quiet constant: the enduring drive to understand how things work, to build what doesn’t yet exist, and to uncover truths hidden in the smallest of details—one carefully timed, purpose-driven step at a time.