Beef or Bear? On Ambition, Academia, and the Art of Letting Go

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.

Walking the world away

There’s something beautifully liberating about walking. Sure, many people equate freedom with owning a car—the open road, the power to go wherever, whenever. But for me, real freedom looks a little different. It’s in the simplicity of walking. No baggage, no plan—just the steady rhythm of your steps and the openness of the world unfolding around you.

Sometimes there’s no destination, and that’s the point: just you, your thoughts, and the path ahead.

It’s something you can do anywhere—through city streets, across forest trails (what we often call hiking), or wandering the quiet edges of forgotten places. You’re never stuck in traffic. If you hit a barrier, you pivot. You reroute. You move on.

You never have to stop.

I’ve written before about the quiet art of flâneuring—that gentle wandering without aim, where the city reveals itself step by step. It’s a ritual my better half and I have embraced over the years, our own kind of moving meditation. Together, we’ve traced the grid of Manhattan in what we called the MaPhattan Project, roamed the worn cobbles of Rome’s rioni, meandered through Bologna’s shadowed porticoes, and covered miles of our Microcosmic Psychogeography of D.C.'s grand avenues and quiet corners. All past places of residence for us.

We walk and talk. We walk and listen, and sometimes, we walk and share bites of something warm and wrapped in paper. But always, we move forward—one foot, then the next—letting the rhythm of the road bring clarity, connection, and stillness in motion.

Food Archivist flaneuring in Meatpacking District NYC before it become douchebag central. Early naughts.

It’s one of the reasons we always found our way back to New York—the pull of the pavement, the hum of the streets beneath our feet. It is the sweeping equalizer (much like the subway) of the city in that everyone (just about) can do it - it doesn’t cost a cent. Once upon a time, Gotham belonged to the walkers. We moved through it like warriors, bold and unshaken, owning every crosswalk, every corner.

But something’s shifted.

Now the streets hum a different tune—faster, sharper, less forgiving. E-bikes flash past like ghosts, scooters weave through traffic with no regard, and cars ignore the rules like they were never written. Gotham, once ours, has become hostile to the quiet act of walking.

To step off the curb now is to take a risk—to scan left, then right, then left again, heart stuttering with every motion blurring past. But in the early mornings, when the city that never sleeps has yet to awake, one can silently flaneur.

Evidence suggests that walking has multiple health benefits. Walking briskly for 150 minutes a week can reduce risk of heart disease and overall mortality. That isn’t too hard. This NYT article summarizes some of the evidence. I try to get 150 min in and plus some every week. On average, at least according to my phone, I walk about 4.8 miles a day. I also try to walk each and every day no matter how busy I am. If you live far from work, maybe get off a train station further and walk the rest of the way. If you drive to work, maybe make a meeting a walking meeting. There are lots of ways to build it in throughout the busy days.

In a world moving towards utter chaos and disorder, walking remains a quiet act of rebellion—an invitation to slow down, to notice, to reconnect or maybe, to disconnect and put the world on pause. Step by step, it gives us back a sense of place, of presence, and of ourselves.