For most of one’s education, the first day of school is a gentle introduction. Whether it’s kindergarten, high school, or even college, you needn’t fear any activity more stressful than going around the room and telling everyone an adjective that begins with the same letter as your name.

The first day of my Ph.D. program was different. After my morning class, I reported to my “rotation lab.” (At my school, first-year students rotated through four different labs for 2 months each, a timespan so brief that it seemed designed to guarantee the student couldn’t accomplish anything.) Stepping into my new lab—which, at that time, had occupied its space in the building for 40 years—felt like invading someone else’s workplace. This was probably because I was invading someone else’s workplace. Yet it was now my workplace, and whatever traditions and legacies filled the lab—from the curling photos and yellowing printouts on the bulletin board to the dusty, rarely accessed chemical bottles on the top shelf—would now be mine to disrupt.

The first day of my Ph.D. program was different. After my morning class, I reported to my “rotation lab.” (At my school, first-year students rotated through four different labs for 2 months each, a timespan so brief that it seemed designed to guarantee the student couldn’t accomplish anything.) Stepping into my new lab—which, at that time, had occupied its space in the building for 40 years—felt like invading someone else’s workplace. This was probably because I was invading someone else’s workplace. Yet it was now my workplace, and whatever traditions and legacies filled the lab—from the curling photos and yellowing printouts on the bulletin board to the dusty, rarely accessed chemical bottles on the top shelf—would now be mine to disrupt.