From the outside, my career always appeared to be progressing well. Grants, awards, recognition, conferences, articles, book chapters, exchange programmes, trips to Europe—the external markers of success were all present. Yet there is a side of this story that is almost never discussed, and it is the side that matters most. For a long time, I genuinely believed that my worth resided in my achievements, and that I had to accomplish more with each passing day. My value, I thought, was measured by what I produced, by what I could prove, by my ability to remain in the game and stay relevant. Beneath this relentless drive lurked a growing fear: my postdoctoral position was approaching its end, and a permanent post at a university still seemed impossibly distant.

I had constructed a perfect alibi for myself, one I turned into a personal mantra: "It is not that I work too much; it is simply that I am passionate about my work. Besides, we are only two in the research group." This justification allowed me to normalise something quite dangerous: the gradual erosion of any identity beyond that of a scientist. Almost my entire sense of self came to revolve around research, teaching, and academic output. I did not notice the narrowing of my horizon because the horizon itself seemed brightly lit by grants and publications.

Over time, however, the friends I have met along the way began to surprise me. Beyond being excellent scientists, professors, and professionals, they were also musicians, theatre actors, painters, sculptors, choir members, and even a few potters and bakers. They had lives that extended well beyond the laboratory and the lecture hall. One afternoon, after a deep conversation with one such friend while we waited for solar cookers to finish heating our meal, a question invaded my mind and refused to leave: "The people who appreciate me most, who love me—do they love the doctor, or do they love Eduardo?" For a moment, I returned to the present, and the afternoon continued on its course. Whenever I am with this friend, those hours become among the best I have. Yet that question kept swirling in my mind, unsettling me, because it forced me to recognise how much I had reduced my identity to my career.

Something suddenly clicked. I was not my degrees. I was not my positions. I was not my achievements. I was—and still am—a person who enjoys humour, who suffers in the face of injustice, who laughs very loudly, and who is exceedingly clumsy. I am someone who loves to travel, who finds peace in watching a sunrise break over the sea, who is deeply passionate about music, and, though few know this, someone who jokes about everything that happens to him, even at the most inopportune moments. I adore wordplay and sarcasm. I give my all for my friends, and I carry fears like anyone else. That is me.

I love science. I love teaching. I love standing at a podium, discussing thermodynamics and solar energy. I cherish those spontaneous debates that erupt in university corridors, and even those late‑night exchanges that continue through messages or emails in the early hours of the morning. But I no longer want science and academia to be the only things that define me. A career is something one builds; it is a significant part of life, but it is not the whole of who one is. The degrees, the publications, the awards—they are accomplishments, not an identity. Recognising that distinction has been, for me, the most liberating realisation of all.

I have come to understand that these passions—the music, the humour, the clumsiness, the love of travelling, the quiet ritual of watching the sea at dawn—truly complement me as a human being. They give me a broader perspective from which to approach science itself. They remind me that the questions worth asking are not only those that appear in research proposals, but also those that emerge from a life fully lived. And that, perhaps, is the quietest and most valuable form of resilience.