Massive stars do not make good role models—they live hard and die young. In doing so, they fulfill a crucial role in populating the universe with enormous amounts of energy and most of the elements of the periodic table. Massive stars are the cornerstone of a cosmic rhythm that is almost as old as the universe itself—the celestial life cycle of stellar birth, life, and death. Indeed, we all owe a great deal of debt to massive stars; without them, almost none of the physical, chemical, and biological complexity of the universe would exist.
My journey studying these goliaths of the universe began long before I concerned myself with concepts like longevity or burnout. In my first year of university, I was simply looking for a research experience and some tough challenges to solve. Massive stars certainly fit the bill: much like the Biblical Goliath, they are daunting in every sense of the word. Enshrouded in thick swathes of gas and dust, forming massive stars—generally defined as stars over eight times the mass of our Sun—are impenetrable to many of the techniques we use to study lower-mass stars. Massive stars are also much rarer compared to their lower-mass counterparts, and one must search further afield to find them. Nevertheless, due to their singular importance in the flows of matter and energy that govern the Universe, finding and analyzing forming massive stars is worth the effort.
In May 2023, I came across a unique opportunity to study forming massive stars in one of the most extreme environments in the local Universe—the central regions of our Milky Way Galaxy—with observations from the most advanced telescope ever built—the James Webb Space Telescope. Later that year, on a crisp, clear November night, at a routine advising meeting, on a whim I showed the images from this observing program to my history mentors at the University of Virginia. If it were not for that chance decision, or their resulting question, “So, have you considered applying for the Marshall or the Rhodes?” I would have never set on the path that would lead to my selection as a Rhodes Scholar almost exactly one year later.
More importantly, and somewhat counterintuitively, my work with the James Webb Telescope, and the Rhodes Scholarship it inadvertently led to, gave me something that, it seems, almost every young professional my age seems to be lacking: breathing room and space for consideration. During my first two years in college, I, like most of my friends, was absorbed with the next steps after graduation. For my peers in the Astronomy and Physics departments, this meant securing a position at any of the ever-increasingly competitive PhD programs in Astronomy. For others of my peers this meant medical school, law school, or a corporate job, but for almost everyone there was something. Some seemingly-insurmountable Goliath on the horizon that contained either the fruits of success and personal satisfaction or the soul-crushing pain of defeat. It was only after receiving my ticket to that success that I began to question if I really wanted to achieve that picture of success in the first place.
Moving to the present, I am currently in Denver, Colorado, at the Global Physics Summit, held by the American Physical Society, to give an invited talk on my research with the James Webb as part of my receipt of the LeRoy Apker Award—the highest distinction awarded to undergraduate physics students in the United States. While I am, of course, honored to receive this award, it feels like a recognition of work that is at once mine and, at the present moment, apart from myself. Much like the Rhodes, the award does not fundamentally change who I am in any meaningful way. The real utility comes in the opportunity for reflection and appreciation of my past accomplishments that it affords. It is a relic of a time in which I was more “productive” but also more stressed, irritable, and close-minded. It recalls the questions about purpose and longevity that I posed to myself on that frigid November night in 2023. In fact, these are questions I still grapple with over two years later: what does professional success and personal satisfaction look like for me?
Coming to Oxford has been part of my attempt at finding an answer. Perhaps the greatest gift Oxford has given so far is the opportunity to slow down. Often, I feel that in discussions of purpose, intentionality, and longevity, we miss one of the most crucial aspects—in order to know, to truly know, your personal vision for success and satisfaction in your life, you must have explored and given some thought to the alternatives. For me, applying to the Rhodes Scholarship and coming to Oxford meant asserting to myself that I would expand the breadth of my thought and perspective beyond the confines of astrophysics or science. At the same time, it also meant asserting to myself that I would force myself, for a time, to slow down, and find productivity in being “unproductive.”
I am not under the illusion that I will remain “unproductive” for the rest of my career, but my only hope is that the next time I need to lock in, it will be intentionally and purposefully. For me to be like a massive star—gobbling up everything around me, stealing attention, flaring bright, burning out young, and leaving an indelible mark on the Universe—is, in some respects, appealing. For many in today’s society of rapid changes, short-term gains, and stunted attention spans, it has become the status quo. Nonetheless, there is still, as there will always be, a need for people who are willing to try and play the long game. So, for anyone interested in longevity, I suggest looking rather to “low-mass” stars, like our Sun, for inspiration.