On Mentors

What makes someone a mentor, dear readers? Is it their gift of attention, time, and honest feedback? Is it someone who is in your corner even when there’s nothing in it for them? Or maybe it’s simpler: a mentor helps you become the person you want to be, even when you’re not sure who that is yet.

Sure. All of that and a pair of spectacles.

I don’t usually write grateful, mushy pieces. For better and worse, I’m more comfortable critiquing than celebrating. But I’m in a happy place today and I want to acknowledge and celebrate some of the people who shaped me over the years.

I’ll start at the beginning.

Avi Ben-Zeev was my PhD advisor at Brown University. Actually, he was my second advisor—my first was denied tenure. Scrambling to find someone new after realizing my first advisor’s termination would derail my entire career was no fun. But once I started working with Avi, I understood what an advisor could be. An Israeli from a working-class background, Avi got me. He gave me the freedom I needed to explore my ideas, but he also called me out when I deserved it, like when I was chronically late to meetings. He was patient and genuinely interested in my work, but direct and critical when necessary. No bullshit. He also made sure I had the resources I needed to run my studies, which wasn’t a given for a grad student at the time.

The biggest thing Avi taught me was how to write. I will never forget what my drafts looked like after he went through them: far more red than black, with practically every word modified. His editing was relentless. But that relentlessness made me a better writer. I’ve lost touch with Avi over the years, but I recently learned he left academia to pursue an MFA and wrote a memoir called Trans Bear Diaries: Calling My Deadname Home. He’s now a writing mentor, which is fitting. The thing he taught me best is what he’s now teaching others.

Joshua Aronson was my postdoc advisor at NYU. As a first-generation college student, I was clueless about academia, even as a postdoc. Josh grew up in an academic family and understood the hidden curriculum better than most. He helped me navigate department politics and recognize the stakes of our work on stereotype threat. He taught me that the real purpose of writing grants isn’t just getting money—it’s clarifying your research ideas to yourself and setting an agenda, whether you get funded or not. Josh invited me to be his postdoc before we ever met. He just believed in me.

What I loved most about my time with Josh were our academic lunches. That’s where the real learning happened. We’d talk about research, gossip about the field, and Josh would explain the unwritten rules of the game.

Here’s the hard part: whenever I speak about the replication crisis as it relates to stereotype threat, I feel tremendous guilt. Like I’m disrespecting him. But Josh has never stopped supporting me. He’s never discouraged me from speaking up, even when it complicated his own legacy. That’s true mentorship.

Eddie Harmon-Jones was a close friend for years and profoundly shaped my career, even if we’ve had our intellectual differences along the way. (Intellectual differences? Me?) I met Eddie at the first-ever Summer Institute in Social and Personality Psychology—basically a two-week nerd camp for psychologists. I loved it there. I liked Eddie from the minute I saw him. He was not only a badass social neuroscientist, but he had long hair like Chris Cornell. I could tell immediately we’d get along.

Beyond becoming drinking buddies, I admired Eddie because he’s a rigorous scientist. When I met him, I’d just become interested in neuroscience but had no idea how to actually run neuroscience studies, specifically studies using the electroencephalogram (EEG). Eddie taught me. I sent him countless emails and made countless phone calls asking stupid questions. He never treated me like a nuisance and always walked me through the technical details.

I also admired how Eddie conducted science. Unlike me at the time, Eddie didn’t chase sexy research areas. He conducted incremental research, addressing one small question at a time. Each study laid a single brick; after a while, you could see what he was building, and it was rock-solid.

I wanted to be a scientist just like Eddie. And I still do.

Simine Vazire is someone I’ve admired from our first interaction. She’s younger than me but wiser than I’ll ever be. When I think of Simine, I think: courage, conviction, integrity, honesty, humility. She’s a walking virtue ethics course. I hang on every word when we talk. And I know she’ll be embarrassed reading this.

As a science reformer, Simine has been outspoken about psychology’s problems, but instead of just complaining, like me, she did something about it. She started an entire society to improve psychology. She’s now editor-in-chief of Psychological Science—arguably our most important journal—and she’s transforming how it operates. When I first started speaking out about the replication crisis, I was following her lead. She then became a supporter and stood up for me when it mattered most.

Is it weird to call Simine a mentor when she’s younger than me and we’ve never collaborated? I don’t think so. I look up to her. I want to be more like her. I’ve changed for the better because I know her. If that’s not mentorship, I don’t know what is.

Where do I even begin with Paul Bloom? Paul is a close friend, occasional pickleball partner, neighbour, and colleague. But before all that, he was generous to a stranger.

Years ago, when I was just some rando asking for writing advice, Paul agreed to a video call. He was kind and generous with his time. Since then, I’ve watched him do this for countless others. Paul never says no when someone asks for help.

Paul also has this amazing quality: he can criticize kindly. When I criticize, I get worked up. Paul gently pushes, critiques with equanimity. His conversation partners leave with their dignity intact, which has two benefits: they don’t feel bad about themselves, and because of that, they’re more open to what he’s saying. You won’t see Paul Hitch-slap someone—less entertaining for viewers, maybe, but more effective. This style is so different from mine, but I’m trying to be more like Paul.

Since we became colleagues, Paul has been my biggest booster. He knows tons of famous academics, and whenever I’m around, he introduces me and talks me up. He makes me feel special and never fails to sing my praises. Just two weeks ago, over a shared dinner, he was telling Steven Pinker about my work. When I thanked him, Paul shrugged it off: Of course. You’re my friend. This is what friends do. Whenever I have good news, Paul is genuinely happy for me, as if it’s happening to him. He opens doors and then acts like he did nothing at all.

Thank you, Paul.

My last mentor was, once upon a time, my student: Alexa Tullett.

About a dozen years ago, Alexa and I met at a conference to discuss research. She’d become passionate about open science and asked for feedback on an opinion piece she was writing. The gist: social psychology was broken, and we needed to be much more rigorous in how we conducted research.

At the time, around 2013, I wasn’t yet convinced our problems were that severe. I’d mostly kept my head down, but I’d witnessed the scorn piled onto reformers: people questioning their motives and calling them all kinds of nasty names. As a protective advisor, I didn’t want Alexa caught up in this. I warned her there could be a political price to pay for her advocacy. I said something like: It’s dangerous and perhaps unwise to speak out as pre-tenure faculty. The people who should speak up are senior, with less to lose—someone like me.

I left that conversation feeling embarrassed. Here I was, advising a young, idealistic scientist to avoid telling the truth in the name of careerism. What a putz. Alexa taught me courage in that moment. She showed me what it looks like to stand up for what you believe in, even when it costs you something.

That conversation changed my career more than any other single moment. It changed my science, my worldview, and how I’m perceived in the field. Alexa woke me up. She made me realize that staying silent was wrong. If Alexa had the courage to speak up, then so would I.

Can a student be a mentor? Absolutely. If they transform how you see yourself and your work—if they help you become the person you want to be—that’s mentorship. Alexa did that for me. I’ll forever be in her debt.

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So, what makes a mentor? Someone who supports you. Someone who transforms you. Someone who helps you become who you’re meant to be. Sometimes they’re older and wiser. Sometimes they’re peers. Sometimes they’re your own students, teaching you courage.

I’ve been lucky. These people abided with me.

Thank you to my mentors, all of them. Find yours. Thank them. And when it’s your turn, be one.