Every lab has its legends. That time someone confused LB with LB agar and made six bottles of broth that could not be pipetted. The mysterious tube in the freezer labelled only “important”. The autoclave tray that was, in hindsight, almost certainly not an autoclave tray. The western blot that looked, charitably, like a Rorschach test. The PCR tubes that were not labelled because “I’ll remember,” and the realization, three hours later, that no one ever does. And, just so there is no confusion, I personally achieved each of these feats as a trainee.
Lab work requires precision, but we scientists remain inconveniently human. We work carefully, but we also make mistakes, troubleshoot, improvise, and, with any luck, learn something from the whole business. In many ways, this is what makes a lab feel like a real community. A good lab is not a place where nothing ever goes wrong. That would be rather suspicious. A good lab is a place where we can ask for help, admit confusion, recover from minor disasters, and carry on.
This sort of ease does not happen by accident. It comes from a culture where people feel respected enough to ask questions, comfortable enough to be themselves, and supported enough to learn in public. While this kind of work environment matters for everyone in science, it is especially meaningful for people who have not always been certain whether there is space for them in any given room, department, institution, or scientific field.
During Pride Month, scientific communities often take time to recognize LGBTQ+ scientists and celebrate their contributions. But I would argue that the most meaningful kind of belonging is built in everyday moments. It shows up in the way a new student is welcomed on their first day, when they are still trying to remember whether the 10X PBS lives on the bench, in the cold room, or in a magical place known only to other lab members. It shows up when someone asks a “naive” question in lab meeting and half the room is quietly relieved, because they too needed to know the answer but were skittish about asking.
A welcoming lab does not need to be perfectly polished in its practices. It often starts with a culture where questions are welcome, mistakes are fixable, and respect is ordinary. That ordinary respect matters.
A welcoming lab does not need to be perfectly polished in its practices. It often starts with a culture where questions are welcome, mistakes are fixable, and respect is ordinary. That ordinary respect matters. As scientists, most of us already spend enough time dealing with imposter syndrome and things that are unnecessarily difficult: antibodies that work perfectly exactly once and never again, cells that behave differently after the weekend, reviewers who request “one simple experiment” that is about a year of work, and that dreaded -80 freezer that starts screaming at precisely 5:25 pm on a Friday. People should not have to spend extra energy wondering whether they belong.
People should not have to spend extra energy wondering whether they belong.
For LGBTQ+ scientists, this quiet calculation can be familiar. Is it okay to mention a partner? Will people make assumptions? Will using a different name be respected? Will being visible affect how seriously I am taken? Do I really belong here? In a supportive environment, these questions take up less space. Scientists can focus on science: the experiment, the analyses, the figure, the manuscript, the next good question, the next grant deadline that is looming with its usual air of menace, or that chance conversation that leads to an exciting idea. And if a colleague errs on a pronoun, they can simply correct themselves and the conversation carries on.
Mentorship plays a big role here, though it is rarely a dramatic heart-to-heart in the corridor. Most of the time, good mentorship is more commonplace. It is the person who tells you that LB and LB-Agar are in fact different, or says, “Yes, that western blot is ugly, but it is probably still real.” It is also the mentor who makes it easy to ask “stupid” questions and asks if everything is alright at the beginning of a one-on-one meeting. In a lab where people can admit that they forgot to label a tube, or that they need to take a break for personal reasons, they are also more likely to speak up when they need clarification, help, or support.
Pride Month can be a good moment to make that culture visible. It is a chance to celebrate LGBTQ+ scientists as scientists: people doing careful experiments, asking interesting questions, mentoring colleagues, building tools, writing papers, and occasionally wondering why the cells chose today, specifically, to misbehave.
Pride Month is also a good moment to reflect and recognize that belonging does not end with June. The real test of lab culture is what happens throughout the year. Inclusive labs are built through repeated choices. They are built when we explain protocols without condescension, give credit generously, handle corrections gracefully, and make space for colleagues to be both excellent scientists and full human beings.
Pride Month is a celebration, but it is also a reminder that labs, departments, institutions, and scientific fields are communities. We run on shared reagents, shared equipment, shared troubleshooting, and, most importantly, shared trust. When that trust is strong, we are far more willing to ask questions, share ideas, admit mistakes, and try again.
That is good for scientists. It is also good for science.
About the Author:
Dr. Abhijit Deb Roy is a cell biologist who studies cytoskeletal dynamics and cell migration. He is an Assistant Professor at University of Connecticut School of Medicine.
