Delivering

Five years into my PhD and I still wasn’t done. To be fair, I hadn’t exactly had an easy ride, starting just weeks before COVID lockdowns were announced, becoming a mother in my second year, and trying to build a new model system from scratch (Pipefish and their male pregnancy are adorable, but they don’t always make life easy). My work was trial and error, and it took me more than a year just to find a story worth telling. But eventually, the words came together. I had a draft for my first chapter. It was written! Only… was it enough? Basic research with no direct application, no flashy headline — just curiosity-driven science. Many of us know that creeping voice: does this even matter?

So, instead of calling it finished, I dove into one more dataset. In a rush of determination, I moved back into my old childhood bedroom at my parents’ house, spending days and nights analysing, writing, rewriting. By mid-November I had a plan: “Done by Christmas.”

Of course, life had other ideas. A hand surgery in between (note to future PhDs: don’t do that with a deadline). But somehow, even with one hand and one finger sticking out of a cast, I wrote. Introduction. Synthesis. Outlook. Acknowledgements.

By Christmas I wasn’t done, but close. My mother stepped in to take care of my daughter while I revised paragraph after paragraph under the Christmas tree. And then, in early January 2025, the moment came: university reopened, I submitted my dissertation, and it was gone. Done. Crazy. For two days, I let myself breathe and celebrate. Then reality hit: only six weeks until my defence.

Defending

Days passed and my defence presentation kept growing. Twenty slides, then thirty, then sixty. Every time I thought it was enough, I added more — extra data, backup information. Not because I wanted to show it all, but because I wanted to be ready for those tough questions. At the same time, I knew this wasn’t just about surviving the defence. I wanted to celebrate it. I booked a big conference room, reserved a restaurant table, and sent out invitations. And suddenly it felt real: my family travelling in from far away, a friend making the trip from abroad, old classmates and colleagues all saying yes. That was overwhelming in the best way. Practising my talk became part of my daily routine. Alone in my office and in front of colleagues or friends. I have to admit: I’ve always liked presenting more than drowning in raw data, so this part was actually… fun.

The morning of the defence, I woke up to an email that made my heart stop: Water pipe leakage at university. All buildings evacuated. No exams allowed. Seriously? After weeks of preparing, was it all about to fall apart? What I hadn’t expected was the incredible support around me. Within minutes, my PI had secured a new venue. Huge shout-out to the Marine Science Campus for stepping in and hosting me! And somehow, despite the last-minute chaos, everyone showed up. 

During the defence itself, my brain switched to autopilot. Over forty pairs of eyes were on me, waiting for me to present and defend five years of work. The questions that followed were tough and sometimes tricky, but also sparked real conversations. Ninety minutes passed in a blur. Then it was done. I was done. A doctor of natural sciences – me? Hell yeah. The rest of the day was exactly what I had dreamed of: celebrating, telling stories, reliving the journey with the people who had been part of it. Finally enjoying this thing, I had worked toward for over five years. Relief and happiness like I had never felt before. And, as the cherry on top, I got the nicest doctoral hat that I could have imagined – with a glowing giant microbe and two crocheted guinea pigs perched proudly on top.

Drifting

The night of my defence, I went to bed expecting to wake up reborn – full of joy, energy, freedom. Instead, I woke up tired. Deeply tired. And strangely quiet inside. There was still paperwork to finish before I could officially call myself a doctor, and manuscripts waiting for submission. But the constant pressure, the expectations, the dependence on PIs, the weight of proving myself worthy of a title that even shows up in your passport, was suddenly gone. In its place came exhaustion, but also a growing sense of lightness. I gave myself a week to move slowly: sleeping, recharging, joining a retreat with my colleagues. Bit by bit, relief started to settle in. I really made it.

And the moment it truly sank in wasn’t the defence or the party, but a few weeks later. Walking out of the administration building at Kiel University with my PhD certificate in hand – that was the moment it felt real. 

Kim