I’m sure many of you have been watching The Bear—the TV show that follows Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto, a brilliant young chef who returns home to Chicago to take over his late brother’s gritty sandwich shop, The Beef. Through the chaos of grief and grease, Carmy builds something new: The Bear, a sleek fine-dining restaurant born from heartbreak, hope, and the relentless pursuit of excellence. And yet, he keeps The Beef alive—its humble sandwich window still serving the neighborhood that built it. Amid gleaming, white-tiled walls and sky-high expectations, the crew fights to grow, grieve, and find meaning in their craft. They become a family, forged in heat and held together by love and purpose.
A recent New York Times piece reflecting on The Bear’s Season 4 captured the show’s central tension between the up-scale Bear restaurant and the no-frills Beef sandwich shop perfectly:
“It’s about ambition vs. accessibility, change vs. repetition, risk vs. consistency, complexity vs. simplicity.”
It got me thinking. Over the past 20+ years of my career, I’ve always wanted more Beef than Bear. I craved simplicity—not just in science, but in life. I used to joke that the measure of a person’s life could be found in their keychain. I aimed for two keys or fewer.
But somewhere along the way, the Bear crept in.
Ambition found me. Or maybe I chased it. I threw myself into research, publishing, pivoting. I moved countries several times in pursuit of new opportunities. I left the comforts of traditional academia to dive into international development and returned once more. I pursued sprawling, interdisciplinary projects with too many partners and not enough time. These complex, messy, often maddening endeavors shaped who I am.
That bearish ambition brought me accolades, big jobs, incredible collaborators, and students who have inspired me. But lately, I’ve begun to ask: can I keep going at this pace? Do I even want to? I know I’m not alone in this. An article by Arthur C. Brooks in The Atlantic hit hard:
“Call it the Principle of Psychoprofessional Gravitation: the idea that the agony of professional oblivion is directly related to the height of professional prestige previously achieved, and to one’s emotional attachment to that prestige.”
In academia, no one teaches you how to slow down. It’s always go, go, go. First, you need to raise money just to do your work—and often just to pay yourself and your team. That means writing exhaustive, often soul-sucking grant proposals for donors who want the world for pennies. The odds of success? Dismal. And feedback when you fail? Don’t hold your breath.
Then there’s publishing. To prove your worth and make your science visible, you need to land in the “top journals.” But the peer review process is increasingly dysfunctional—often driven by AI-generated reviewer selection, unpaid labor, and endless revision cycles. Want people to read it? You’ll need to pay for open access. In the end, who benefits? Journals. Not the people we claim to serve.
And that’s just the research. You also need to teach, sit on committees, engage with policymakers, serve the public, and perform the theater of relevance. Academia has become a hamster wheel powered by prestige, productivity, and fear. Don’t get me wrong—I love academia and the freedoms it affords. The opportunity to engage with students is unmatched, and the pursuit of new ideas, discoveries, and knowledge remains deeply fulfilling.
I know I sound old. Maybe I am. I’m 53, and as Jackson Browne once sang, I’ve been running on empty for a while now. The spark is still there, but the fire’s a little dimmer. I’m not interested in building anything new—no more centers, initiatives, or empires. I don’t need another publication, another invisible promotion, or a bigger team.
I want to work differently. Slower. With more intention. Less Bear, more Beef.
That means letting go—not of the science, but of the ego that comes with it. It means embracing the role of mentor, not builder. Teacher, not hustler. I’m ready to spend less time painting the canvas and more time showing others how to hold the brush.
So, as I step into this next chapter—joining the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies in Bologna, Italy—I’ll say goodbye to all that: the pace, the prestige, the panic. If I build or invest in anything now, it will be with intention—to ensure that those who come after me are prepared to navigate the complexities of this shifting world.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll enjoy the art I’ve already made. Hang it up. Share it with others. Teach the next generation how to sketch something of their own.
Because sometimes, success is knowing when to stop chasing stars—and start passing the torch. So, enjoy every sandwich.
