10 Research Reflection by Indiana Plant

Faculty Mentor: Lynne Zummo (Educational Psychology, University of Utah)

If you know me, you know I’m someone who thrives on structure and feeling in control. You can imagine my surprise when, conducting original research for the first time this summer at the Natural History Museum of Utah, I found myself feeling decidedly out of control. I’d expected the magical, ambiguous word “science” to come with crystal clarity, with hard-and-fast rules and guidelines for every situation. Instead, I was met with the cold reality of the real world: uncertainty. From the very beginning, I had to confront a reality I’d heard before but never quite believed: research is rarely linear, tidy, or predictable.

There were many moments when I felt behind and convinced myself that I was missing some secret rulebook everyone else had already read. I brought these fears to my principal investigator more than once. She reminded me gently and repeatedly: Research is non-linear. It wasn’t until I found myself in the thick of recursive edits, shifting questions, and dead ends that I finally understood what she meant.

I had to learn patience – not just with the project timeline, but with myself. I revised sections I thought were finished. I reworked analyses, redefined my research questions, and relearned that progress often means stepping backward before moving forward. Alongside the more visible skills I developed – data collection, statistical analysis in Python, academic writing – I was also learning something subtler and harder to name: how to sit with uncertainty, trust the process, and offer myself grace when things didn’t come easily.

This summer also changed how I think about the purpose of research. I used to believe “good” research meant groundbreaking discoveries or dramatic, significant results. But the more time I spent with the data, the more I realized that inconclusive or non-significant findings are not only common but essential. The scientific conversation needs your voice, regardless of whether that seemingly all-important p-value is less than 0.05. Letting go of the pressure to produce something “dazzling” allowed me to focus on the integrity of the process itself.

There were certainly days I felt stuck, overwhelmed by the scale of the project, or unsure what to do next. But somehow, over ten fast-moving weeks, it all came together. I grew more confident in my fundamental research skills, even when the work was challenging or unclear. Most importantly, I started to trust my instincts as a young researcher and, candidly, as a young adult living alone for the first time.

Although I’m still exploring whether my path leads to graduate school, industry, or some secret third option, this experience has solidified my desire to keep asking questions that matter and pursuing work that bridges people, data, and real-world impact. It’s shaped not only the kind of scholar I hope to become, but the kind of learner I want to remain: curious, collaborative, and unafraid of uncertainty.

In the end, this experience sharpened an old, oft-repeated idea: real growth happens outside your comfort zone. Sometimes far outside it. If I could go back to that first week of summer, I’d tell myself to take off the rose-colored glasses and get ready to wade into murky water, feet not quite touching the bottom. Expect it to be hard. And be ready, above all, to learn, learn, learn!