When I was an undergraduate, I cherished discussing intriguing academic topics with professors—the profound insights woven into our conversations made me feel intimately close to the realm of scholarly masters. My first step in "pretending" to be one was embracing the courage to question. During my first inorganic chemistry exam, my calculation of blood pH starkly conflicted with the "normal blood" value specified in the question, a discrepancy I identified through my physiology course knowledge. I mustered the courage to raise this concern with the professor, and when she validated my calculation and revised the problem setup, I knew I had achieved my first milestone in this scholarly pursuit.

The second step in my "pretense" was defining a focused research direction. While I harbored curiosity across fields like energy harvesting technology and quantum mechanics, a lecture on microbial corrosion of marine steel structures introduced me to the fascinating domain of "marine corrosion"—and in that instant, I resolved to dedicate the next seven years to this field. A similarly pivotal moment unfolded when I, as a doctoral student in Corrosion and Protection, boarded a scientific research vessel bound for an offshore corrosion exposure test station. Mid-voyage, we encountered a violent typhoon, and I was plagued by a vivid, haunting nightmare: the ship’s metal hull splintered under the relentless corrosive force of the waves, while I stood helplessly at the bow, scrambling to seal the widening gaps with paint. This dream only deepened my resolve to unravel the mysteries of corrosion.

 The third step was mastering the art of public speaking. To refine my eloquence and improvisational skills, I actively sought every opportunity to deliver public presentations—explaining metal microstructures to biologists and demystifying metagenomics for materials scientists. My manuscript on the mechanism of marine microbial corrosion faced a unique predicament: materials journals deemed it better suited for microbiology publications, while microbiology journals suggested it belonged in ecology venues, a reflection of its interdisciplinary nature.

 My research direction itself resembles a philosophical inquiry: how to definitively prove microorganisms’ role in corrosion. Unlike the direct effects of physics, chemistry, and electrochemistry, microorganisms typically influence metal materials by altering the physicochemical properties of their surrounding environment. However, a groundbreaking hypothesis has emerged—a corrosion mechanism where specific microorganisms directly extract electrons from iron—serving as a critical criterion for verifying microorganisms’ direct involvement in the corrosion process.

 Despite the abundance of existing literature on such corrosion-related microorganisms, I spent two years meticulously isolating and purifying these microbes. This period was fraught with challenges: I grappled with anxiety over delayed paper publication due to sluggish experimental progress, delved into rigorous aseptic management protocols to combat persistent laboratory contamination, and negotiated with my supervisor to reclaim research time encroached upon by administrative tasks. For the most part, I dismissed these hurdles as trivial distractions from my ultimate goal of becoming a scholarly master; yet, there were moments when I took quiet pride in navigating these complex obstacles with poise and efficiency.

Academia is not an end in itself, but a way of life.

On this continuous journey of scholarly pursuit, I transformed my teachers into trusted confidants with whom I could engage in heartfelt conversations, learned to maintain unwavering focus amid a sea of research questions, and crafted a comprehensive, engaging narrative about my work that resonates with diverse audiences. Choosing academia means embracing hard work in the laboratory, confronting the confusion of repeated failures, and navigating the anxiety fueled by the pressure to achieve—all integral components of our authentic, irreplaceable lives.

Rational and emotional perceptions shape our ideas.

How we perceive research objects profoundly influences our methodological approaches and outcomes. When I first pondered the essence of microbial corrosion—a century-old enigma plaguing the academic community—I initially overlooked the need for a holistic, profound understanding of the phenomenon. Fortunately, the collective wisdom of peer learning opened new vistas: it endowed me with perspectives from electromagnetism and statistics, and transformed moments of physical and mental isolation into a sense of genuine camaraderie and teamwork.

Maintaining the passion and courage of one’s original aspiration is paramount.

I have cultivated a lifelong habit of learning and have had the privilege of meeting and conversing with many true scholarly masters. Following their example, I focused intently on the meticulous task of cultivating corrosion microorganisms and actively collaborated on numerous peers’ research papers. When I shared my research findings with elementary school children, their eager, curious eyes and thoughtful questions transported me back to my undergraduate self, rekindling the pure enthusiasm that first drew me to science. If the pressures of paper publication and professional life eventually surge like a torrential flood, I believe this unyielding, almost individualistic courage and passion will serve as my impenetrable armor.

My teachers and friends, do you too embrace such a unique and fulfilling academic life?