“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”
— Robert Frost
I was born in 1955 and grew up in Saugus, a suburb of Boston, in a solidly middle-class family. My parents were both public school educators — my father a language teacher who finished his career as a high school principal, and my mother an elementary school teacher who took a break from teaching to raise my younger brother and me.
As soon as my brother and I started school, my parents made it clear that our scholarly pursuits were of utmost importance to them and should be to us as well. Living up to this directive was far easier for me than it was for my brother. Other than one B grade in a physical education class, I graduated from high school with a nearly unblemished straight-A record for 12 years.
While I worked hard, I thoroughly enjoyed learning and felt like a sponge at times, soaking up every bit of information that came my way. Needless to say, my stellar academic achievement made me a bit of an outcast among my fellow students, and it didn’t help that during my high school years, my father was the principal of Saugus High School.
Looking back, I vividly remember the pain of not being invited to parties and never being asked on a date, but I was fortunate in that my family also had a cottage on Cape Cod where I was able to enjoy every summer in the company of a different set of friends who didn’t think of me as being different.
“I am not a teacher, but an awakener.”
— Robert Frost
My love of science blossomed in the ninth grade when I took my first biology class. Mr. Connor, our teacher, had an infectious love of the subject, and when we did the requisite fetal pig dissection, I was hooked. Chemistry in tenth grade and physics in eleventh grade further cemented my love of the sciences. I often wonder if I would have ended up where I am today if I hadn’t been so fortunate as to have had great public school science teachers and parents who instilled in me the idea that I could do anything I wanted to do.
As I prepared to go off to college, I assumed that I would focus on pre-med studies and ultimately attend medical school, because I wasn’t fully aware of other options for somebody interested in the biomedical sciences. I enrolled at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) in Troy, New York. It was far enough away from home but not too far, and even more important to me at the time was the fact that the entire student body was interested in science or engineering. It felt to me like I had found my tribe.
The four years at RPI flew by, and I took every science course that I could fit into my schedule. Without a doubt, the highlight of my time at RPI was an independent microbiology research project during my senior year in the laboratory of Dr. Lenore Clesceri under the tutelage of her post-doctoral fellow, Dr. George Pierce. (Dr. Clesceri passed away in June 2022. I’m thankful that our paths crossed many years later when she was at the National Science Foundation so that I could thank her for her inspirational mentorship.)
Although I had begun the process of applying to medical schools, in my last few months at RPI I had an epiphany that what I really wanted to do was pursue a research career. In a hasty and very uncharacteristic way, I applied to a handful of graduate schools and chose the State University of New York at Buffalo so that I could be near my RPI boyfriend, who was working in Toronto, Canada. That relationship didn’t work out, but Buffalo ended up being a very good choice, nonetheless.
I started as a graduate student in pharmacology in the fall of 1977, and within a few months, I was beginning my thesis work in the laboratory of Dr. J. Craig Venter, who had received his PhD from the University of California, San Diego in 1975. My thesis work focused on the molecular characterization of β-adrenergic receptor subtypes, members of a large family of G-protein-coupled receptors (GPCRs), using receptor-specific monoclonal antibodies that I developed as part of my thesis work. I was the first to provide an estimate of the molecular size of these receptor proteins and was also one of the first to suggest that receptor dimerization was an important step in activation.
Craig Venter and I worked closely together during my four years as a graduate student, and the relationship developed into something beyond that of teacher and student. We were married in 1981, soon after I defended my PhD dissertation. This situation would clearly not be tolerated today, but things were very different 40+ years ago. With the support of Dr. Martin Rodbell, in 1984, we moved to the intramural program of the National Institute of Neurological Diseases and Stroke (NINDS).
The intramural program at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) is a unique environment where there are no barriers to doing the very best science, and this provided an opportunity for both of us to learn molecular biology and begin to apply these new skills to our work on GPCRs. It was an exciting time, because the race to clone and sequence the first GPCR was underway. Dr. Robert Lefkowitz and members of his laboratory were the first to reach this goal, although we were not far behind.
At the time, we would never have been able to even think about these kinds of studies had we not been part of the intramural NIH program. (The cloning of the first GPCR, quickly followed by other seminal molecular work from the Lefkowitz group, was recognized in 2012 when the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine was awarded to Drs. Robert Lefkowitz and Brian Kobilka.)
Once the first GPCR had been cloned, labs around the world began to use the power of molecular biology to further elucidate the properties of this large protein family. I began a new research program in site-directed mutagenesis that would reveal many new insights into the relationship between receptor structure and function. I look back on this time with great joy; it was an exciting time to be working in the molecular biology field, especially since the first version of an automated DNA sequencer from Applied Biosystems had been delivered to our NIH lab. Nobody could predict what a game-changer that was going to be.
But all was not perfect. I had been hired at NIH in late 1984 with the promise of an early tenure review. Soon after I signed on as a government employee, I was told by the NINDS scientific director that I needed to wait several years to even be considered for tenure because I was too young. I was 29 years old at the time.
After four extremely productive years in NINDS, I asked to be reviewed for tenure, and after a grueling review by an all-male committee, this promotion was denied. I was absolutely devastated, and while I very much wanted to fight this decision, I asked a small number of very close NIH colleagues for advice.
I received essentially the same message from multiple sources. They were unanimous in suggesting that this was a battle that wouldn’t be won easily, if at all, and if I chose to appeal the decision, it would likely become all-consuming. I was urged to keep doing the best science possible and to take a longer-term view. This was hard to swallow, but it was what I ultimately decided was best for me, although to this day, I still second-guess my decision to back down.
I was recruited to the National Institute in Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism (NIAAA) in 1989 to start a new section on molecular neurobiology, and this was a much more supportive environment. Shortly before leaving the intramural program in 1992, I was proposed for tenure in my new position at NIH. (A couple of years after I left NIH, several female scientists at NIH came forward with allegations of gender discrimination in the workplace that laid bare the challenges of being a female scientist at NIH, but also in a broader context. While progress has been made in this regard, we still have much work to do on diversity, equity, and inclusion.)
“How many things would you attempt If you knew you could not fail.”
— Robert Frost
One of the lessons that I learned during my time at NIH was how to be fearless in approaching scientific research. It’s all too easy not to pursue the most difficult experiments for fear that things won’t work. And, unfortunately, grant reviewers often use this as a reason not to fund new proposals. This learning was critically important in my post-NIH endeavors.
Craig and I and a handful of our laboratory staff members left NIH in 1992 to build The Institute for Genomic Research (TIGR), a not-for-profit research organization that was initially established with private funding from Health Care Investment Corporation led by Wally Stein. The initial focus of TIGR was to leverage the power of automated DNA sequencing to identify novel human genes with therapeutic potential. GPCRs fit squarely into that mandate; more than 50% of all prescription drugs on the market target a known GPCR, and I looked forward to further uncovering the diversity of this receptor family.
From my perspective, I was excited about the possibility of leaving the trials and tribulations of NIH behind, but this move also felt a little like jumping out of a plane and hoping that your parachute would open.
After we got things up and running at TIGR, my GPCR work was humming along beautifully, and it was unthinkable that I would ever walk away from it, but that’s exactly what happened in 1995. Through a chance meeting between Craig and Hamilton Smith, who was at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, followed by a series of very thoughtful discussions among the TIGR leadership team, we decided to apply the firepower of automated DNA sequencing along with the new and growing capabilities in the field of bioinformatics to the challenge of sequencing and assembling an entire bacterial chromosome.
This was boldly going where no research team had gone before, and the idea was met with overwhelming skepticism and derision from the entire scientific community. Within 15 months from start to finish, with more than a few nerve-wracking obstacles along the way, the team at TIGR proudly announced the successful sequencing, assembly, and identification of the approximately 1800 genes in the chromosome of Haemophilus influenzae, a human pathogen and the bacterial species from which the first restriction endonucleases had been isolated.
This seminal achievement was published in the July 28, 1995, issue of Science, and a schematic diagram of the H. influenzae chromosome graced the cover of Science that week. I then led the second bacterial genome sequencing project on Mycoplasma genitalium, the smallest self-replicating bacterium known at the time; this paper was also published in Science later in 1995.
The first two successful sequencing projects kick-started the field of microbial genomics, and I don’t think any of us who were involved in the H. influenzae study would have predicted where it would all lead. Within a couple of years, all the major U.S. funding agencies (DOE, NIH, USDA, NSF) started programs in microbial genomics, and until the early 2000s, TIGR was the only research organization with the expertise to get this work done.
We were hiring faculty and staff at a furious pace, and we were engaged with funders and collaborators around the world to sequence a diverse collection of bacteria. This was a heady time when nothing seemed impossible. Each new sequence revealed insights into the unique biology of a given species, and yet an important common theme had also emerged across all these projects: every genome sequence contained a substantial number of predicted genes of unknown function. Even with the entire genetic blueprint of an organism in hand, we still did not fully understand the inner workings of even the simplest free-living organisms.
Between 1995 and 2005, according to Thomson Scientific-ICI, I was the most-cited investigator in microbiology. This was both an enormous personal achievement and validation that the application of genomics technology to the study of microbiology was having a profound impact. Today, there are almost 400,000 isolate genome sequences in GenBank that have been generated using essentially the same methods that we pioneered in 1995.
The bacterial sequencing efforts expanded to include fungi, single-celled parasites, plants, and some mammalian species, including my beloved standard poodle, Shadow. Although not complete, his is the first dog genome sequence that made it into GenBank.
One of the things I remember most fondly about these early days was the synergy that was created by bringing scientists with diverse backgrounds together to tackle what, at times, seemed insurmountable challenges.
“Being the boss anywhere is lonely. Being a female boss in a world of mostly men is especially so.”
— Robert Frost
Another significant but unanticipated career change for me took place in 1998. Craig was offered the opportunity to partner with Applied Biosystems and form a company to use their latest-generation DNA sequencer to sequence the human genome faster and more cheaply than the government-funded Human Genome Project that was in full swing at the time.
After some intense strategic discussions, Celera was born. This meant that the TIGR Board of Trustees had to find a new president and director, and I was asked to step into this role. At first, I was reluctant, not only because it meant I would have less time to be fully engaged in the exciting science that was underway but also because I had no idea if I had the skill set to be successful in this leadership role. But the alternative of finding somebody else to fill this position was not something I or any of the TIGR faculty wanted. We had created a highly collaborative culture, and nobody wanted to risk losing this — most of all, me.
The transition from peer to boss was far from seamless, but the trust and respect that each of the TIGR faculty members had for me and for one another helped enormously. One of the most rewarding aspects of this new role was the ability to serve more effectively as a mentor for the TIGR faculty. I quickly found that their successes brought me great joy and satisfaction.
The organization enjoyed tremendous growth during the eight years that I served as president. Our extramural research funding grew almost four-fold, to $60 million per year, and TIGR was able to train some of the best and the brightest investigators who helped to define the field of microbial genomics and who have gone on to push scientific frontiers in their labs around the world. I’ve stayed in touch with most of these people, and some of us from the early TIGR days are still working together.
Another very rewarding aspect of being president and director of TIGR was the increased visibility that came with this role and the opportunities that it created to have a seat at the table as an advisor to all the major federal funding agencies (NIH, DOE, and NSF).
Many of our discussions were focused on where microbial genomics could and should go as a new discipline. The big initiatives that were launched, and the enthusiasm to use genomics as a powerful tool to better understand the diversity and evolution of microbial life on Earth, have paid off in big ways: new diagnostics and vaccines, pathogen surveillance and outbreak tracking that included the Amerithrax (short for American anthrax attacks) investigation in collaboration with the Department of Justice, and identification of numerous new branches of the microbial tree of life, to list just a few.
These research efforts paved the way for the study of microbial communities in almost every environment on the planet. Around 2005, my own research moved into the study of the human microbiome.
“Always fall in with what you’re asked to accept. Take what is given, and make it over your way. My aim in life has always been to hold my own with whatever’s going”.
— Robert Frost
Despite all the professional achievements and accolades that came my way during this time, my personal life was in a state of ever-increasing upheaval. The tensions between the government-funded Human Genome Project and the privately funded effort at Celera were playing out publicly in a very acrimonious way, and they also spilled over into my marriage. The last straw for both of us came in 2003 after Craig was fired from Celera, and he attempted to come back and take the helm of TIGR again.
After working to grow TIGR into a first-class research organization and creating a vibrant, collaborative culture, I wasn’t about to hand this over and risk seeing all the positive changes in the organization be undone. I knew that in standing my ground on this, I was sacrificing my marriage, and Craig and I divorced in 2005. From my perspective, Craig and I worked together in various ways as colleagues for 23 years, and our professional relationship was incredibly productive.
“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”
— Robert Frost
The time had come to move on to the next chapter in my professional life, and I was excited about the possibility of doing something significantly different, but there was also a desire on the part of many TIGR faculty members to stay together as a group, if possible.
I personally explored many options, but the offer to join the University of Maryland School of Medicine to start a new genomics institute was too good to pass up, and in the spring of 2007, a group of approximately 50 TIGR faculty members and staff moved to Baltimore to begin a new adventure.
Our mandate from the new dean, Dr. E. Albert Reece, was to forge new collaborations that would integrate genomics approaches into both the basic and clinical research agenda at the School of Medicine. In the past 15 years, we’ve recruited an extraordinary group of new faculty members who have allowed us to expand the scope of our research to cover the entire phylogenetic tree of life. We’ve more than met our charge to embed genomics into the research portfolio, and we’ve had numerous high-profile collaborations with colleagues, not only in the School of Medicine but in all the professional schools on the UMB campus.
IGS has done extraordinarily well in terms of research metrics — extramural funding and publications — and I credit this success to the supportive and collaborative environment that we have all created. I’ve derived great satisfaction from what I was able to build at the University of Maryland School of Medicine and the opportunity to mentor a number of outstanding students, post-docs, and junior faculty members.
Without question, another career highlight came in 2019 when I was elected to the role of president-elect for the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS), the largest multidisciplinary scientific society in the world, with over 110,000 members. This was a remarkable honor, as I joined an elite group of former AAAS presidents, all of whom have left their mark on science in many ways. Being able to engage, albeit remotely, with AAAS members from multiple disciplines during my tenure in the presidential line served as an important reminder to me that many scientific breakthroughs happen at intersections of expertise.
Unfortunately, my year as AAAS president coincided with the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown, and I delivered my presidential address entitled “Understanding dynamic ecosystems: Lessons from the COVID-19 pandemic in an interconnected world” in February 2021 from my home office. My take-home message was clear: All of us who make a living in science have bigger roles to play than we typically do in tackling the biggest problems facing society and in engaging with the public in ways that build trust and respect for science and scientists.
“But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.”
— Robert Frost
I am writing this during part of a one-year sabbatical that has allowed me to expand my repertoire of activities, many of which have been in an advisory capacity for large med-tech companies, small venture-funded companies, and a nonprofit organization focused on science policy. I’m enjoying this opportunity to apply my scientific skill sets in different ways.
I’m also enjoying the chance to spend more time on my passion outside of science, competitive ballroom dancing. It’s a hobby that’s technical, artistic, physically demanding, and good for body, mind, and spirit. Nothing I’ve ever done has brought me such joy. I don’t know what all my future endeavors will be, but at this stage of my career, I embrace that uncertainty with a sense of excitement for what is to come. I remarried in 2013, and my husband, Jack Kammer, is my biggest supporter who makes everything more enjoyable.
I have had a remarkable career beyond anything I ever aspired to do when I began my scientific training. I attribute my success to five things:
Hard work (enough said);
The support of many mentors and sponsors who have provided sage advice throughout my career and new opportunities along the way;
The realization that growth and advancement don’t happen when you’re in your comfort zone;
Resilience to keep moving forward even under adverse circumstances; and
A strong moral compass.
Without a doubt, a career in STEM requires hard work and sacrifice for anybody who chooses this path, but the knowledge that your work really matters makes it all worthwhile. Women and other demographic groups have long faced additional challenges that come with being a minority in what, for a long time, was a white male-dominated profession.
This situation has improved somewhat during the past four decades, but the work is far from over. We need to bring everybody on board if we are to fully leverage science to tackle the biggest issues confronting our world today and in the future.
Excerpted from Lessons Learned: Stories from Women Leaders in STEM, edited by Deborah M. Shlian, MD, MBA (American Association for Physician Leadership, 2023).