Our contributing editor Layla Parast recalls how tough she found graduate school—until she found her people, a “pod” of friends…for life:

As the new academic year begins, one of my favorite traditions is meeting one-on-one with each of our incoming PhD students. This year, that tradition is a big undertaking: we have 19 new students, our largest cohort yet, due in part to the fact that our graduate students are not dependent on NIH funding. This is more than double our cohort just five years ago.

I love putting faces to names, hearing about their hobbies, what drew them to statistics, and why they chose UT. After each meeting, I write down notes about each person because, let’s be honest, I won’t remember everything otherwise. But I want to. I like knowing our students.

When I was a first-year PhD student, I had a really hard time. There’s no other way to say it. I wanted to quit almost every day—not because there was anything wrong with the program, but because I constantly felt stupid, like I didn’t belong. I was certain they had meant to admit someone else—Kayla Darast, maybe—not Layla Parast. I was far from family, in a cold and unfamiliar place, and I felt deeply alone.

The only reason I didn’t quit? Quitting seemed harder than staying. It would have meant talking to the graduate advisor, breaking my lease, finding a job, moving, switching health insurance, finding a new doctor, a new dentist… The logistical barrier to quitting was just high enough to keep me in the program.

And then, slowly, it got better. It was still cold, and I still missed home, but I found something that made it bearable: friends. My cohort stuck together. We were all struggling in different ways, but we understood each other. We studied together, made snow angels together, explored Boston together. I started working with an advisor who was brilliant, kind, inspiring—and, crucially, patient. Eventually, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Looking back, I realize now how good those days were. I had one thing to focus on: my thesis. At the time, I couldn’t see it. But I see it now.

(A quick note: My PhD at Harvard Biostatistics was funded entirely by NIH training grants—grants that no longer exist. Without them, I wouldn’t be where I am today.)

Let me tell you about three of these friends in particular. The four of us formed our own little pod, still holding strong almost 20 years since beginning our PhD together. Every year (minus COVID year), we take a girls trip together. Unlike perhaps more traditional “girls trips”, ours usually consists of a very long hike with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich picnic lunch, exploring a small town, and then board games, cooking dinner in our Airbnb, and soaking in a hot tub each day. The only rule is that the location has to be a direct flight for everyone, which isn’t easy with two of us in Austin, one in Portland, and one in Albuquerque. Over the years, we’ve adapted. When one of us was pregnant or had a newborn, we picked a destination close to her. We’ve planned around pumping breaks and made sure our Airbnbs had refrigerators. Somehow, we’ve never had two people pregnant at the same time. Now, with seven babies between us, we’re cautiously considering longer trips. Occasionally, we wonder: Should we do a big family trip with partners and kids? The answer so far has been, “Hmm… not yet.”

On these trips, we talk about life, marriage, kids—and yes, still statistics. Sometimes we admit we’re not even sure we like statistics all that much anymore. One of us left academia, went to law school, and is now a practicing lawyer. Who could’ve predicted that?

Here’s a confession: I don’t have a lot of friends. I’m not particularly good at making them. Unless you want to talk about statistics, CrossFit, or kids, I probably won’t be that interesting to you. I don’t want to go to brunch. I don’t want to get drinks. I’m just not that kind of gal.

However, sometimes, at statistics conferences, I feel like a social butterfly. I see so many familiar faces. Conversation flows. I feel cool. I think, “Maybe I am a social butterfly?” And then I come home and go to [insert any non-statistics social event] and immediately remember: nope. I’m not. Please take me back to my quiet house where I can roll out on my foam roller and go to bed at 8:45. And honestly, I’m fine with that.

Because I have my people. They may not live nearby, and we may only see each other once a year, but they are mine—and I cherish them.

So, to the students starting this fall: Welcome to graduate school. It will probably be hard. You may wonder whether you belong. You do. And if you feel like quitting, maybe just don’t do it today. Meet someone for coffee. Ask a classmate how they’re doing. Start building your pod. Maybe you’ll come out the other side with a PhD, sure (and if you don’t, that’s also OK), but also, maybe, with friends for life.