Reimagining Science Communication: Personal Lessons from Sir David Attenborough

Ever since I was a little girl watching David Attenborough bring the world's mysteries into our living room, I was hooked. The idea that one could spend their life exploring and sharing the wonders of the natural world seemed like the best job ever. Inspired, I chased a degree in Zoology, buzzing with dreams of my own wild escapades. But the stark reality of a scientific career soon hit me—it was less about adventurous explorations and more about being tethered to a desk, grinding out paper after paper. My childhood dream, along with the essence of Sir David's enchanting storytelling – sharing science with the world- seemed to slip through my fingers.

My academic journey through ecology and zoology was intense. I learned how to dig deep into research and present findings in the crisp, clean and proper format academia revered. But this rigorous training, I later realised, had unwittingly narrowed my capacity to communicate beyond the ivory towers of science. The academic world, obsessed with high-impact publications, often misses the forest for the trees, forgetting that the core of science is about spreading knowledge far and wide.

Now, stepping into my role as a Science Communicator, I've learned that this job isn't about wielding complex jargon or gatekeeping knowledge; it's about "just being normal and talking to people." This realisation was a stark departure from my early days in academia, where it felt like we were being trained to forget how to communicate creatively and effectively.

The prevailing academic system, with its harsh publish-or-perish mantra, traps many scholars in a vicious cycle that saps their will to reach beyond academic circles. I often hear my peers ask, "Where must I find the time to communicate my science?" But we make time for what's important—be it family, hobbies, or catching that much-needed breath of life (at least I really hope we all do!). So why not carve out time for effective communication? The pervasive culture of burnout in academia isn't something to wear as a badge of honour; it's a deep-seated problem that screams for a solution at every level of institutional hierarchies.

So, let's talk money—because, let's face it, money talks in academia. Institutions measure a researcher's worth by their publication output. Picture this: an average scientist churns out three papers a year, and maybe one lands in a high-impact journal. That paper might catch a modest wave of attention, let's say 208 reads and a sprinkle of citations. Now, imagine a popular press article based on that same research exploding to over 20,000 reads across multiple platforms, igniting social media buzz and earning substantial media spotlight—that's a whirlwind of advertising value potentially topping R1.1 million a year. This kind of visibility not only boosts the university's prestige, attracting more funding and brilliant minds, but also propels the researcher's stature, paving the way for more citations and collaborations.

Why, then, aren't we pushing harder to embed communication at the undergraduate level? Are we too proud, thinking ourselves above the humanities? Or are we just cogs in an unsustainable system that values quantity over quality, cranking out young scientists on an assembly line, prepped to publish but not to communicate?

I propose a revolution. Let's weave science communication into the very fabric of science degrees. Let's teach our future scientists not just to churn out studies, but to engage the world with their findings, keeping their unique voices loud and clear—just like Sir David Attenborough, my hero, who continues to inspire millions by simply sharing the natural world.

As someone who now guides other scientists in "being normal," I am utterly convinced: to truly advance science, we need to shake up our priorities. It's time for a bold shift, not just for the benefit of scientists, but for the future of science itself.