My Personal Journey on Research and Value Generation

When people talk about research, the first thing that comes to mind is probably breakthroughs and big discoveries. But behind every published paper and polished presentation is a winding personal journey, one filled with uncertainty, self-doubt, and growth. For me, research started as an adventure sparked by curiosity and evolved into a deeper understanding of what it means to generate value, not just for myself, but for the world around me. This is the story of how I came to see research not just as a pursuit of knowledge, but also as a journey to impact.

One could say that I started “doing research” when I was a high school student. Two like-minded math enthusiasts fresh out of middle school, my friend and I believed that if we put our minds to it, we could understand anything. Our curiosity was first piqued by a question our textbook left unanswered: How does the Shoelace method actually work? And so, we set out to find our own explanation.

It didn’t take long for us to realize that stepping into unknown territory isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. We were hit with mountains of unfamiliar concepts, abstract definitions, and, most importantly, math problems we couldn’t solve in a single sitting. Though the hurdle might seem trivial in hindsight, this was the first time I truly experienced the difficulty of doing research, and with it came a question I would return to again and again: Why am I doing research?

At first, I thought it was simple: I loved solving puzzles, taking on challenges, and chasing elegant mathematical results. Back then, I had never really “failed” before, and I believed that persistence would eventually crack any problem. But as we dug deeper and ran out of references - no books, no lecture notes, no papers to consult - we had to rely purely on trial and error. That process was messy, slow, and frustrating. Yet, it eventually led us to some meaningful results, and our work earned recognition and national awards. Still, by the end, the sugar coating had worn off. What kept me going wasn’t just curiosity anymore—it was also a refusal to be defeated by the problem.

When our project concluded, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. For the first time, I believed that my efforts had produced something real—something that others could appreciate. I told myself that I had created value, however small, and that my work mattered.

Full of confidence and riding on a string of awards, I decided to apply for the Yau Awards, one of the most prestigious math research competitions for students worldwide. I saw it as the crowning jewel that would affirm everything I had worked for. We made it through the preliminary rounds and presented live in front of the judges. Our presentation was packed with mathematical results, including a graph-theoretic proof of the Shoelace method and extensions of it into higher dimensions. I was proud of what we had done.

But the judges weren’t impressed. Instead, they asked a question that caught me completely off guard:

“How do you apply your results? What are the real-world implications?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Up until that moment, I had viewed our research entirely through a personal lens. I believed that since I had worked hard for two years, I deserved the recognition that came with it. I thought that this was the essence of research: doing something intellectually challenging and being rewarded for it. But that one question shattered my illusion. I realized I had ignored something fundamental: research doesn’t happen in a vacuum. We live in a society, and the value of research must be considered from both personal and societal perspectives.

For a while, I felt crushed. My ego was bruised, and worse, my internal drive was shaken. Did the hard work really pay off? Had I truly created value, or was I just chasing accomplishments for myself? I couldn’t answer these questions, and that uncertainty made me question whether I should keep doing research at all.

It was during this period of doubt that two people helped me find my footing again: the friend who had embarked on the Shoelace project with me, and a mentor I deeply respected. They reminded me of why I started. My friend said something that stuck with me:

“You didn’t fall in love with math because it was useful. You fell in love because it made you think.”

My mentor echoed this sentiment, but added a layer of wisdom: it’s not just about finding elegant solutions to hard problems, it’s also about choosing the right problems to solve.

That helped me reframe how I thought about research. I came to see that starting with pure intellectual curiosity is fine, even necessary, but it isn’t enough on its own. Moving forward, I began to ask different questions when thinking about new projects: Who will this benefit? How might this be used? What broader impact could this have? These questions don’t restrict my curiosity; they direct it. They ensure that the work I’m doing connects to something larger than myself.

Looking back, I don’t regret the Shoelace project and the hard work associated with it. In fact, I’m grateful for it. It taught me to think independently, to persevere, and to navigate the murky waters of unsolved problems. But most of all, it taught me that research is a conversation between personal curiosity and societal relevance. It’s not just about discovering what’s new - it’s about discovering what matters.