Difficulties of a Scientist in Immigration: A Personal Story

Lately, I’ve noticed that I start writing something and then stop, thinking, “Who needs this?” or “No one will read it anyway.” Everyone writes, and there’s already more written in the world than anyone could ever read. But today I suddenly realized that by thinking this way, I’m silencing myself. I’m the one taking away my own voice. It’s like that old Russian saying, “Stay quiet - people will think you’re smart.”

And then there’s that familiar feeling that nothing makes a difference, that no matter what you do, nothing will change. So I decided I need to fight this passivity and apathy. I do have a voice. And, most importantly, I have the right to use it.

I used to think that you had to earn the right to speak. That I didn’t deserve it because I’m not a famous scientist, not a top researcher, just some unknown academic with a modest citation index. I’m not a popular science writer or a well-known lecturer. So why should my thoughts matter?

Years in academia also trained me to believe that any statement must be backed up by data or at least by the words of someone more “authoritative.” As if my own thoughts have no value unless supported by someone else’s voice.

Recently, I noticed an interesting difference between scientists (at least social scientists like me) and programmers. My husband is a programmer. Once he and our son needed random numbers for something, and my husband just wrote a little code to generate them. I asked, “Why write it yourself? There are tons of random number generators online.” It hadn’t even occurred to him to look for one, he just made it. And I realized that’s the difference: when a programmer has an idea, he starts building it. When I have an idea, I first check if someone’s already done it. Maybe the truth is somewhere in between.

Anyway, back to writing. I decided I’ll keep writing, no matter what. I won’t silence myself anymore. And I’ll write more posts based only on my own thoughts, ideas, and observations, without references or academic backing.

Today I want to write about the difficulties of being a scientist in immigration, not the everyday or financial ones, but professional difficulties that I personally face as someone who has dedicated their life to research.

1. Closed Systems and Lack of Connections

When we decided to move to Serbia, I was full of hope about my career. I knew there were universities and psychology departments. I thought: I’m a decent specialist, I can work with data, I have publications - I’ll find something. Reality turned out to be very different.

Two and a half years later, I still don’t have a stable academic job here. Without citizenship, it’s almost impossible. Everyone I’ve met has been kind and willing to help, but the academic system here is quite closed and rigid. It’s open to collaboration but only if you already belong to an institution. There are no open postdoc calls, no international hiring processes, no way for outsiders to join a grant team.

2. Loss of Status and Confidence

The older you are, the harder it is to lose what you’ve built. Back in Russia, I worked at a big university (HSE) in a good research center. My colleagues were smart and inspiring, I taught in a master’s program, I had plans, and students respected me (the most, I hope!). I felt confident and competitive.

After moving, I became basically a stay-at-home mom. Everything I do to keep myself as a professional feels secondary. I’m lucky that my husband’s salary covers our needs, but it’s still hard - after years of earning my own income - to rely completely on family money.

Even putting finances aside, going from being a respected member of a professional community to “nobody” hits hard. I’ve always struggled with impostor syndrome, and here it only got worse. Rejections from grant committees or job applications don’t help either.

3. Falling Out of the Race

Every day I feel time slipping away. I try to stay active: I read, take courses, write grant proposals, sometimes collaborate with old colleagues - but it’s all about survival, not growth. Real development needs an environment: competition, discussion, exchange of ideas - and I don’t have that.

Being outside of institutions for two and a half years means losing touch. Even if I won a grant (which would be a miracle), it would only extend this fragile existence for a bit, not change my situation. After immigration, it’s like you press “pause” on your career while everyone else keeps moving forward.

4. The Future and Impossible Choices

If you want to stay in academia as an immigrant scientist, at some point you realize you’ll have to move again - to another country. That’s easier if you don’t have a family. But if you have teenagers (and I have three kids), it becomes a painful dilemma.

After a year in Serbia, I realized that if I wanted to stay in research, I’d have to apply for jobs or postdocs elsewhere. I did apply once, early on, but unsuccessfully, and now I don’t even try.

Partly because I like Serbia. My husband has a stable job here, and my children have their schools and friends. I can’t uproot them again. I remember my own teenage years: if someone had taken me away from my friends then, I’d have been devastated.

So you end up facing a false choice: career or family. You can tell yourself that it’s not a real choice, but emotionally it feels very real. You swing between “I’m a bad mother” and “I’m a failed scientist” a hundred times a day.

5. Comparisons and Success Stories

This might sound like part of the self-esteem issue, but I think it deserves its own point. When you’re an immigrant academic, you inevitably compare yourself to others who also left. And usually, they all seem to be doing great except you.

It’s like a twisted version of the “survivor bias.” Most of my colleagues who left Russia are now working at good universities abroad. So you start thinking: if they found jobs, why couldn’t I? Maybe I’m just not good enough.

I’m 52 now, and that adds to the pressure : “real” scientists my age are professors with labs, and I never even had that in Russia.

Social media is full of stories of success, people publishing papers, traveling to conferences, doing exciting research. And in that sea of success stories, I feel like a tiny pebble sinking quietly to the bottom.

That’s actually one of the reasons I decided to publish this post. Maybe someone else out there feels the same, and I want there to be room for stories like mine, not just the success ones.

What’s Next?

Honestly, I don’t know. This is the reality I’m living right now. I swing between wanting to take any job even as an administrator and wanting to keep fighting for my academic career.

I’ve thought about switching to data analytics maybe I’ll write about that later. I gave myself time until the end of the year. I have two grant applications under review and some small freelance work from former colleagues, but nothing long-term. I have no clear plan. Maybe I’m just afraid to admit that my academic dream might be over.

But sometimes I try to think more positively. Maybe life is giving me a chance to start over and to do something new. Maybe it’s not a loss, but a beginning. I just need to figure out how to see it that way.