April 22, 2025

By Emily J. Harris

I’m not looking for sympathy. I don’t deserve it, not after what I did. I just need to get this out. I’m hoping maybe by putting it all down, I can finally come to terms with my actions—although I know that’s going to take a lot longer than one confession.

Growing up, I wanted nothing more than to be a scientist. I thought about curing diseases, finding answers to the questions no one else could. My life was about science, and I worked incredibly hard to get into a good college. I sacrificed a lot, including time with friends, just to be in labs, studying, working during every vacation, doing everything I could to be successful in my field. I wanted to make a real difference, and I thought that if I just put in enough effort, I could.

But reality doesn’t always work out the way we hope. In college, things weren’t going the way I expected. Research was hard. Results were often disappointing. I felt like I was constantly stuck, unable to progress, while others seemed to be flying through their studies. My professor started putting pressure on me for results. I couldn’t keep up, and I was afraid of failing—of losing the chance to have the career I always dreamed about.

And then, it happened. I faked some data.

I didn’t mean for it to spiral out of control, but it did. I manipulated the numbers and put together an experiment that seemed perfect. I convinced myself it was okay because it was “just to get ahead” and “everyone does it.” I thought I’d be able to fix things later—maybe it wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

But it did matter. A lot.

I submitted my work as part of my thesis, and it was accepted. My professor was thrilled, and I was too. I thought I was going to make it. I thought that my hard work would pay off at last.

But then, someone else plagiarized it. They took my work, presented it as their own, and it went viral in the scientific community. I felt a sickening wave of dread as I realized what had happened. I thought I’d gotten away with it, but no one would ever know what really happened. I had put the work out there, and now it wasn’t just my lie—it was someone else’s too.

I still feel disgusted with myself for what I did. I never should have faked that data, never should have let my fear of failure take over. But what haunts me more is the fact that I never came forward. I never owned up to what I did, and I never had the courage to apologize for the damage I caused.

What’s worse is that I know my actions set off a chain of events that I can’t undo. People trusted my research. People trusted my word. And I lied.

I don’t know how to fix this, but I need to keep living with the consequences of what I’ve done. I’m not proud of this, and I don’t want to pretend like I haven’t ruined my own chances, as well as others.