As public trust in science continues to wane, it is essential for scientists to demonstrate what science is — and what it is not — to everyone.
“What would happen if two stars crashed into each other?”
A nine-year-old girl stares at me, waiting for an answer to her question. I stand at the front of the classroom in quiet panic, realizing that despite my training in astrophysics, I have no idea what would happen if two stars crashed into each other.
That feeling of panic is strangely thrilling. Getting stumped is one of the joys of my job as a science communicator because it demonstrates the power of human curiosity and the endless ways it can be nourished. A good stumping is an opportunity to share the real magic of science.
Adults rarely ask questions as simple and direct as that nine-year-old’s, nor as difficult to answer. Our curiosity tends to wane as we get older, and our fear of asking a dumb question grows stronger.
One might assume that an astrophysicist automatically knows what happens when two stars collide (and I suspect many of my colleagues do), but my research involves immense clusters of galaxies, each teeming with billions of stars. At those scales, two colliding stars are of no more significance than grains of sand on a beach are to an oceanographer.
As a science communicator, it is not my job to have all the answers, nor to fill people’s heads with facts and data. Instead, my job is to share the excitement that comes from asking big questions and to demonstrate that anyone can ask them. For young people, this mindset can be particularly powerful.
I told that young girl that I don’t know what happens when stars collide — scientists don’t have all the answers — but that there are scientists who work on stellar collisions, and they are studying these cataclysms with incredibly precise instruments. Not only that, I said, but she could someday measure star collisions herself, if she wants to.
If you can capture the imagination of a young mind, you can set them on a lifelong path of asking these kinds of questions. If you turn them off from science, they may never return.
As a science communicator and researcher within a university, my job is part of a bigger responsibility of transparency; taxpayers have the right to know where research funding is being invested, and what scientific dividends those investments are accruing.
The need for authentic, reliable science communications is increasing as public faith in science, and in scientists, declines. The number of Americans who say science has a “mostly positive” effect on society fell by 16 percent since before the pandemic, according to a 2023 Pew Research Center survey, and public faith that scientists had society’s best interests in mind fell by 14 percent.
It’s easy to be dismissive, even hostile, toward flat-Earthers and other purveyors of pseudoscience, but it’s also counterproductive; a 2023 study published in PLOS ONE demonstrated that encouraging critical thinking and analysis is the best remedy to conspiratorial thinking, not fact-laden counter-arguments.
Restoring faith in science is the responsibility of scientists. Spending time talking to children (and parents and teachers) in schools, at science fairs, at home, and in their online lives goes a long way toward humanizing scientists and demystifying the scientific process.
Through these interactions, we can show young people that science is not a monolithic collection of information, nor an exclusive club; science is a toolkit for gaining a deeper understanding of the world.
Because I’m an astrophysicist, I aim to show young people a few simple things: space is cool, I love my job, and they could do it too.
My aim isn’t to encourage everyone to become an astrophysicist, though – we don’t need a world wholly populated by astrophysicists. Instead, by sharing my own experiences in astrophysics, I hope to plant an idea in young people’s minds: scientific exploration, regardless of the field, is a grand adventure.
If I can inspire a nine-year-old, or a 99-year-old, to feel the awe that comes with asking questions about the universe, it’s a good day. If I can encourage a young person to pursue a career in science — whether it’s stopping climate change, curing cancer, or understanding clusters of galaxies — it’s a great day.
I still don’t know what happens when two stars crash into each other. Sure, I could look it up, but I’m hoping that nine-year-old girl will find out and someday teach me.
Roan Haggar is a postdoctoral fellow and outreach coordinator with the Waterloo Centre for Astrophysics at the University of Waterloo. His research involves using simulations to study the evolution of galaxy clusters, and he organizes public astronomy events for the curious public of all ages.
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