It’s easy to assume that once you choose a subspecialty, you’ve chosen your academic identity too. But for me, as a transplant surgeon, it’s been just the opposite. The more specific my clinical and research work became, the more I needed a broader academic home. I’ve been part of the AAS since medical school, and it remains a clear thread tying together who I was, who I am, and who I’m still trying to become as a surgeon-scientist.
It’s hard to believe that the first time I attended the Academic Surgical Congress was in 2008. I was a second-year medical student working in the lab of Dr. Herbert Chen — the first person to introduce me to the idea of what it means to be a surgeon-scientist. That first AAS meeting opened my eyes to a broader world — surgeons and surgical trainees thinking broadly about basic science, translational applications, and health policy — pursuing bold ideas that felt far out of reach at the time.
I didn’t fully grasp it at the time, but Dr. Chen practiced within a specialized field while also doing something far more expansive: he mentored, taught, and approached academic surgery as a community mission. One of the most interesting aspects of academic surgery is that, while its focus can seem narrow — rare diseases, grant deadlines, leadership positions, publication metrics — it actually demands broad, interdisciplinary thinking to thrive. You have to bring your whole self: your clinical insight, your scientific curiosity, and your ability to collaborate across boundaries.
As I progressed through residency, fellowship, and now into faculty life, AAS has remained a cross-specialty home — a space for mentorship, collaboration, and academic work that doesn’t always fit neatly within my subspecialty society. It’s where questions and methods matter. It’s where mentoring, at any level, feels like a shared responsibility. And it’s where I continue to learn from surgeons whose work looks nothing like mine but whose values mirror my own.
Some of the most rewarding moments in faculty life don’t come from presenting my group’s work — they come from being out of my depth. Sitting in sessions far outside my specialty, reviewing grants on unfamiliar topics, or learning from colleagues whose methods I’m just beginning to understand — that’s the kind of intellectual humility AAS fosters. And that’s why it remains essential to my growth, both as an academic surgeon and a transplant surgeon.
Academic surgery is a big, diverse space. We thrive when all types of surgeons — from basic scientists to qualitative researchers, from generalists to specialists — show up and engage. The AAS remains one of the only places in academic surgery that invites you to be all of those things at once.
Especially now, in a time of increasing uncertainty, AAS serves as a reminder that being “a surgeon” can still mean something broad, humane, and intellectually generative. I’ve built a career in surgery, a field where precision matters — but to stay whole as an academic, I rely on connection. And that’s what AAS continues to give me: not a platform for exception, but a place to stay grounded in shared purpose.
Joel Adler
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