Science has always had women. The silence came from the story, not the work.
Think of a scientist. What comes to mind? Chances are, you pictured a man. Probably white, with disheveled hair, wearing a lab coat, holding a test tube, maybe peering through thick glasses. Classic, right?
Of course, this isn’t everyone’s mental image. Many of us know firsthand that science is far more diverse, complex, and collective than the stereotypes suggest. But here’s the thing: outside of research communities, those clichés still dominate the public imagination.
To see how this stereotype is reinforced, I ran a small experiment. I typed “scientist” into a search engine and analyzed the first 250 images. Every single one showed a stereotypical lab setting: flasks, microscopes, wires, computers, and machines. Seventy-five percent featured white men. The “famous scientists” most often shown were Einstein, Darwin, and Newton. Occasionally, Marie Curie or Barbara McClintock appeared, but they were rare exceptions. Running the same search in Spanish did not soften the bias; it made it even more pronounced.
Science is often imagined and described in masculine terms. In gendered languages, even a single letter can shift meaning and reinforce exclusion. The bias also appears in statues, building names, and university portraits. Who gets portrayed as a genius? Who holds the microphone as the “expert voice”? Who signs the textbooks? Almost always men.
This is not because women have been absent from science. It’s because the way science is communicated in the media, in classrooms, on social platforms, and within academia, is still shaped by a dominant narrative that, consciously or not, leaves women out.
Rosalind Franklin is one of the most well-known examples; her crucial contributions to the discovery of DNA’s structure were overshadowed by her male colleagues. But she’s just the tip of the iceberg. History is full of women whose scientific work was minimized, uncredited, or simply erased from the story. This kind of omission shapes who feels seen, valued, and invited into science today.
Science has a voice. The question is: whose voice is it?
In many scientific circles, communication is still dismissed as a “soft” addition, a translation of the real work that supposedly happens in the lab. In this view, sharing knowledge is treated as a formality for grant reports or institutional requirements. But communication is not decoration. It determines who trusts science, who can use it, who feels part of it, and who is excluded from it. Communicating science means deciding what to say, how to say it, who gets the microphone, and from what position you speak.
For centuries, the dominant scientific narratives were written, edited, and published by white men from the Global North. That history has shaped the biases that remain today. One example is the Matilda Effect. A study in Science Communication found that articles authored by men were rated as higher quality than identical articles authored by women. Both male and female reviewers shared the bias.
This bias has consequences beyond reputation. A 2018 study found that doctors often described men with chronic pain as “brave” or “stoic,” but described women with the same condition as “emotional” or “hysterical.” Women’s pain was more likely to be attributed to mental health causes rather than physical ones. The same invisible patterns that keep women out of textbooks and conferences also influence whose pain is taken seriously, whose symptoms are investigated, and who receives timely treatment.
Changing the narrative is not just about adding more women into the picture; it requires reshaping the very frame through which science is imagined and communicated.
The Myth of Choice
This erasure is collective, cultural, and deeply systemic. When girls don’t see women scientists in textbooks, in cartoons, or in the media… When teachers, sometimes unconsciously, say “boys are just better at math”… When science outreach keeps handing the mic to the same male voices… the message is internalized early: You don’t belong here. You’re not what science looks like. This raises an important question: how can science communicators challenge these narratives and the misconceptions they produce?
Some studies and personal opinions still claim that women simply choose not to pursue science. But how free can a choice be when the environment repeatedly signals that a certain path is not for you? The doors may appear open, but the curriculum, the hiring panels, and the keynote lineups tell another story. Science communication plays a crucial role here: the way stories are told about who belongs in science can either reinforce these closed doors or begin to open them. Thinking critically means asking who built those doors, who has held the keys, and whose stories were erased in the process. Choices are shaped and constrained by centuries of exclusion, inequality, and narratives designed to push certain people to the margins.
Blaming women’s “preferences” turns a structural problem into an individual one. This is also a communication issue: narratives that frame women’s trajectories as mere ‘preferences’ translate structural inequality into individual choice, reinforcing exclusion rather than questioning it. The issue isn’t lack of interest; it’s the absence of spaces reshaped to truly invite, recognize, and enable women to thrive. And those conditions must be free from violence, harassment, and the constant demand to prove you belong.
Recognizing this means acknowledging that communication is not neutral; the narratives we circulate about science can either deepen the barriers or help dismantle them. In other words, answering the earlier question means embracing science communication not as an accessory, but as a powerful tool to reframe who belongs in science, and who gets to shape its future.
The Latin American paradox
In Latin America and the Caribbean, 41% of STEM graduates are women, a higher proportion than the OECD average of 37% (UNDP, 2021). Yet very few manage to enter and remain in scientific careers. Why? Because there’s a perfect storm:
● Gender bias in hiring, salaries, and leadership.
● Lack of visible local role models.
● Narratives that link science to rationality, coldness, and masculinity.
● Stereotypes pushing women toward “caregiving” careers.
An intersectional lens reveals even more. Indigenous women, Afro-descendant women, women from rural areas, LGBTQ+ women, and women with disabilities face additional barriers, from racism and classism to ableism and geographic inequities that limit access to quality education, mentorship, and research opportunities.
On top of this, there is the burden of unpaid, invisible labor. Many women scientists are also caregivers, mothers, and household managers, living double or triple workdays that institutions rarely acknowledge, let alone support. Science systems in the region lack flexible schedules, childcare support, and policies that recognize caregiving as a structural barrier to scientific careers. This isn’t a side issue; it’s a systemic problem that too often forces women to step away from their professional paths in science.
Ignoring these layers of inequality costs us the perspectives, questions, and solutions science urgently needs. For science communicators, this means acknowledging our responsibility: the way we represent women scientists, highlight diverse role models, and frame systemic barriers can either reinforce exclusion or help dismantle it.
How do we repair the narrative through communication?
Here are some key points we can put into practice right now:
Don’t translate, transform. Communicating science is not about making it prettier or easier; it is about adapting it with respect, considering the audience and the context. If the message does not connect with those who need it, it is incomplete.
Make it visible without exoticizing. Women, communities, and ancestral knowledge are not exceptions or ornaments. They are an essential part of knowledge production.
Tell from experience. Bodies, emotions, and contexts matter. Science is lived, felt, feared, and enjoyed; communication should reflect that reality.
Practice narrative justice. Go beyond simple inclusion and ask: Who is telling this story? From what place? Who is missing? Who gets the credit? Visibility without structural change is only a softer form of invisibility.
Avoid the “gender-neutral” trap. So-called neutrality often erases the very realities it should address. In systems built on exclusion, neutrality preserves the status quo and keeps the same voices at the center. Repairing the narrative means naming inequity clearly, not hiding it behind false universality. Humans are diverse, not neutral. For example, neuroscientific tools like EEG (electroencephalography) or fNIRS (functional near-infrared spectroscopy) often fail to capture reliable data on people with darker skin or curly hair. Yet, participants are labeled as ‘non-responders’ as if the fault lies in them, not in the design. Communicating this as neutral science disguises structural bias as objectivity.
Telling differently is resisting
Giving a voice to those who’ve been silenced misses the point; they already have a voice. What’s needed is opening space, questioning why the microphones keep pointing in the same direction, and making room for other ways of knowing to light the way.
Because yes, science needs more women. But it also needs new ways of telling its story, narratives that challenge old hierarchies instead of decorating them.
And in that work, we communicators are not bystanders. We are gatekeepers, bridge-builders, and, when necessary, disruptors. Science communication is inherently political. Every choice, whose story we tell, whose words we amplify, and what we leave out either reinforces the status quo or helps dismantle it. That’s a responsibility we cannot, and must not, delegate.
