When I was much younger, I learnt that complex, delicate things such as love, once they break down, cannot be truly fixed. It is an irreversible operation, as I learned a few years later while studying physics.
Today I realised that stopping doing research is also an irreversible operation.
Being an active scientific researcher means you are part of small communities of peers debating a research topic in near real time through papers and conferences.
In Sheffield, in one of the University buildings, there is a Paternoster lift, a continuously moving, doorless passenger elevator that loops up and down on a shared chain without ever stopping. I always hated the thing; it scared me. And every time I had to step into it, I would hesitate for a little while, enough for the car to move too high to get in, so I had to wait for the next car.
Research is a bit like this: you have to stay in the loop. If you step out, even for only a minute, everyone else moves on, and you cannot catch up. Or, to be more precise, to catch up, you have to make a huge effort just to return to where you were before you left; I am sure everyone who has experienced a long sick leave or maternity leave can relate. But in my case, I stopped doing research not only because of an external factor (a health problem) but also because I was tired. Even if I wanted to, I would not have the energy to catch up.
Why this rant? Yesterday, the VPH2026 conference started in Milan. VPH stands for Virtual Physiological Human, the name the European Commission gave to the very first funding stream in this research domain. Today, we call it in silico medicine. For those who do not know me, I co-authored the white paper that in 2005 proposed the term VPH; in 2007, I was the editor of the first research roadmap; In 2011, I founded the VPH Institute (now VPH Society) that represents academic research, and in 2016, the Avicenna Alliance, which represents industrial research. Also, I co-founded and directed the Insigneo Institute for in silico medicine from 2012 to 2018. At the conference, there are 600 delegates; I bet I know half of them personally. And with many of them, I shared much of my life, and I consider them friends.
So, some time ago, I realised that I had to show up at an event with so many friends, only a one-hour train ride from where I live. And today I did.
It was nice to see so many friends from all over the world, and I was delighted to see that this crazy idea we had that the computer models could help cure people today is a solid reality.
But as I attended the lectures, as I had a million times before, I felt something was wrong. Some introspection brought me here: it was like being in the Paternoster car with one foot in and one out. I was listening to and understanding most of what was said, but I was not as involved as I was before.
Now I am writing this on the train that takes me back home. As I do, I realised that this is an irreversible decision; once you are out, you are out for good. Much of what I learned over 40 years in my profession will not become obsolete tomorrow, so I can still teach, mentor, and write popular science. But doing research is over.
When a love ends, you are usually sad, even if you broke up; you miss the good things that love gave you. Right now, I am sad. I had a true passion in my life, and now it is gone.
But one thing old age teaches you is that life is all about loss. When it happens, you cry a little, you remember the good days (but not too much, or you will live in the past), and then you move on. There is a lot more to lose in front of you.
