The End of a Chapter, and the Beginning of Everything Else

On October 22nd, I stood in front of a room full of familiar faces and quite a few glowing Zoom squares from around the world and defended my PhD on likelihood-free parameter inference using theoretical higher-order statistics predictions. Just like that, one of the most intense, humbling, and defining chapters of my life came to an end… or maybe, it was the beginning of something new.

When I look back now, I’m not sure I was ever the smartest or the most hardworking person in the room. But I did learn the quiet art of showing up every single day. Through the bugs that refused to go away, the code that crashed for no reason at 3 a.m., the countless mugs of coffee and crisps-for-dinner nights, and the days I wasn’t sure if I even belonged here. It was during those moments that I first met impostor syndrome, not as a concept but as a constant, whispering companion. Learning to live with it to keep going even when that voice said I wasn’t enough became part of the process. I’m still learning.

But my PhD wasn’t all late nights and debugging marathons. It was also full of laughter, curiosity, and community. I was surrounded by an incredible group of people who made every day richer not just scientifically, but personally. They were my guides, my sounding boards, my safe space in a country where I didn’t even know the language when I arrived. They helped me navigate the maze of paperwork and the bureaucracy that every international student knows too well. They listened patiently when I vented about the language barriers, the cultural adjustments, and later, the sheer exhaustion of managing an Indian wedding while writing a thesis!

Our lunch breaks often spiralled into conversations about philosophy, culture, history, food, and random facts no one asked for but everyone enjoyed. I sure did learn so much and is something I now miss the most. The Thursday Brass & Co gatherings became my favourite ritual laughter, music, and stories that made even the heaviest weeks lighter. I could talk to them about everything from debugging disasters to personal chaos and they always had my back. They made me feel at home, thousands of kilometres away from it. And when the day of my defence finally arrived, they were the ones cheering the loudest. I’ll never forget that moment.

Some of my favourite memories are of the long, meandering conversations with friends the kind where you lose track of time, jumping from one topic to another, trying to make sense of life, the universe, and everything in between. I wish I could say I figured it all out, but I didn’t. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the point is to keep asking, to keep wondering.

One of the best parts of my PhD was that it allowed me to see the world. I travelled a lot to conferences, collaborations, and sometimes just for the joy of wandering. In one year alone, I managed to visit more than ten countries an illustration of how much I got to explore across all my PhD years. I revisited places, went on solo trips, and fell in love with the magic that Crete is. There were overnight ferries, transatlantic flights, night buses, and long train rides just me, my camera, and of course, my trusty earplugs. Somewhere between airports and unfamiliar cities, I learnt that travel isn’t only about seeing new places it’s about learning to be comfortable in the unknown.

But the story didn’t begin with my PhD. Long before that, there was a 15-year-old girl who had to fight to be allowed to take Physics as a major a girl who became the first in her family to leave her hometown alone to study, and one of the first women in her family to go abroad for higher education. What began as a quiet rebellion turned into a decade-long journey of persistence, learning, and growth. Today, that same girl holds a doctorate in Astrophysics. And if I could tell her anything now, it would be this: every ounce of the fight was worth it.

These three years, though they now feel like a blink, were filled with milestones. I met, fell in love with, and married my now-husband, all while navigating what began as a long-distance relationship between France and the US, and one that still continues today. I lost loved ones, found new family, and somehow kept moving forward through it all. And when the day of my defence finally arrived, my parents flew all the way from India, my brother from Italy, my husband from the USA, and my friends joined in from all corners of the world. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as loved, supported, or complete as I did that day. Seeing the proud look on my dad’s face and the pure happiness in my mom’s eyes — that quiet, unspoken moment of shared joy is something I know I’ll carry with me for a lifetime.

Of course, academia isn’t just about discovery and wonder there’s also the politics of it all. Navigating systems, expectations, and invisible hierarchies taught me resilience in ways no textbook ever could. There were moments of frustration and disillusionment, but also moments of strength learning when to speak, when to listen, and when to simply keep going. Those lessons, though hard-earned, are perhaps the ones I value most.

Now, as I take a step into the world beyond academia, I find myself standing again at the edge of the unknown. It’s scary and exhilarating, a mix that feels all too familiar. After much contemplation, I’ve decided to explore what lies beyond the academic path, partly out of curiosity, and partly to navigate the very real barriers that come with building a life abroad as an immigrant. I want stability, space to grow, and the chance to discover new ways of using what I’ve learnt. But even though my path is shifting, the science isn’t leaving me. It’s in how I think, how I question, how I make sense of things. I’m glad I understand the workings of the universe a little better than when I started and that sense of wonder is something I’m carrying with me, wherever I go.

If my PhD taught me anything, it’s that I don’t need to have everything figured out. I just need to keep showing up. And I will.