In the Quiet Hours: A Year of Science and Storytelling
- Heather McSharry, PhD
- 2 days ago
- 13 min read
Summary
A year ago, this podcast started as a way to make sense of infectious disease in a noisy, often confusing information landscape. What it became…was something more layered.
In this anniversary episode, I step back—not to revisit every topic, but to reflect on what changed along the way. From the limits of simply explaining the science, to a deeper understanding of how trust, systems, and lived experience shape what people believe. And from there, into something I didn’t expect at all: creative storytelling, immersive episodes, and conversations that opened new ways of thinking.
Along the way, I share a few moments from the past year—clips that capture what this show has become: careful, sometimes unsettling, occasionally funny, and always grounded in the science.
And because not everything fits into an episode, I’m also introducing Field Notes—a short, free, weekly email where I return to one idea, follow the threads a little further, and track what’s starting to shift.
If you’ve been here from the beginning, thank you. And if you’re new, this is a good place to start.
Listen here or scroll down to read full episode.
Full Episode
There are moments that happen every week—usually late—when the house is quiet, and I’m sitting in my office with a small lamp on, recording or processing an episode. My dog is in here with me, and the mic sometimes catches her nails on the floor. I’ll take that out later. And down the hall, my son is asleep—protected from diseases that, not that long ago, people didn’t have to think about anymore.
And now… we do.
And if you’ve been paying attention—even a little—you’ve probably felt that shift too. Things that used to feel settled don’t feel as settled. Things that used to feel distant…don’t.
And in those moments—even when I’m exhausted and furious, especially when I’m exhausted and furious—I remember why this matters. Not just for me. For all of us trying to make sense of what’s happening in real time.
A year ago, I thought I knew exactly what this was. A place for clear, accurate information in the middle of all the noise. And that part hasn’t changed. But what I didn’t expect… is that somewhere along the way, the focus would expand. Not away from the science—but deeper into it. Into why truth doesn’t always land. Why misinformation takes hold in the first place. Why simply correcting facts doesn’t always fix the problem.
Because if you’ve ever found yourself wondering—why something that seems obvious to you doesn’t seem obvious to someone else…or why clear information doesn’t always change minds…there’s a reason for that. And once you start to see it, you can’t unsee it.
There were moments this year that made it impossible to stay abstract about any of this. Like watching measles come back—not as something theoretical, but something we’re actually dealing with again. Reading about cholera outbreaks where the scale is almost hard to process—and realizing how far removed that feels from most of the conversations happening here. And then, in the same stretch of time, seeing completely preventable things reframed as debate. I knew there was a need for science communication to reach more people. I didn't realize how bad this new anti-science agenda was going to be.
And that’s really where this started. Or…started again. And starting it again wasn’t a comfortable decision. But when you look at what’s happening around you—the way information moves, what gets amplified, what gets lost—you realize something pretty quickly: Staying quiet isn’t neutral. It just feels easier.
And easier wasn’t really an option I was comfortable with.
I was hesitant—not because I didn’t trust the science, but because I take it seriously enough to know how much responsibility comes with explaining it. So the goal was never just to speak. It was to get it right. And at the beginning, I thought I understood the assignment: There’s misinformation. Some of it is intentional. So the job is to push back—with evidence. Clear. Direct. Correct.
Simple.
For a while, I thought if I just explained things clearly enough, that would be enough.
The Moment the Show Grew Up
But of course…that started to feel incomplete. It's not enough. And one of the first times I really saw it clearly was in a conversation with Conor Browne, who pointed just slightly outside the frame I’d been working in: Maybe the problem isn’t just what people believe. Maybe it’s how they got there in the first place. And then other conversations started layering on top of that. Mark Ungrin and I talked about how people don’t experience healthcare—or public health—as clean, abstract systems. They experience them personally. Messily. Sometimes frustratingly. And when people feel dismissed…or unheard…or like they’re asking reasonable questions and getting incomplete answers—those gaps don’t stay empty. Misinformation moves right in and fills them. And that's not just because people are being careless. But because something real wasn’t addressed. And once that clicked for me, a lot of things started making more sense.
So that was the shift here. That doesn't mean I stop calling out the antivaccine machine—because that is still very real, and very intentional. But it does mean I think about context....because that determines how the truth is recieved. If you don’t address the conditions that make misinformation take hold, you’re always going to be playing catch-up.
The Surprises: Joy, Creativity, and Storytelling
But not all of the changes were heavy. Some of them caught me off guard in a completely different way. I didn’t expect to enjoy this as much as I do. Or at least—not all of it. The main feed feels necessary. There’s a weight to it—a responsibility to make the information clear, grounded, and careful. But the creative episodes… those feel different. More alive. And those episodes were inspired by one simple idea. A friend suggested I do an episode on Plum Island (which I will do at some point). And it sounds obvious now, but at the time, it genuinely hadn’t occurred to me that I could do something other than a straight disease deep dive. I’d been so focused on getting the science right that I hadn’t really thought about the various ways I could tell the scientific story.
And the idea that I could think outside the box I'd put myself in led me to rethink the episode I was working on at the time, which was the rabies episode. So I changed that one from a standard pathogen deep dive to a pathogen deep dive framed around how rabies shows up in movies and tv shows and called it Biting Mad: When Rabies Becomes the Reel Villain. I used sound effects and even recreated a criminal minds scene which had me in stiches as I recorded it. And after making that episode…and loving it… I realized I didn’t have to choose between accuracy and storytelling. That the science didn’t have to sit outside the narrative. It could live inside it. And once that door opened…I barreled right through it and didn’t look back.
This made it into the final cut of that episode:
Rabies Clip:
A disease so feared, so lethal, that we literally remove heads to be sure. Rabies doesn’t just end lives—it demands a kind of narrative finality. Diagnosis through dismemberment. Horror made protocol. [hatchet thwack]
And that moment right there—that’s something I didn’t expect when I started experimenting with storytelling. How a story can transform something you understand into something you actually feel. Something that stays with you—even after the episode ends.
And that’s what led to Month of the Macabre. I love fall. I love Halloween. And I wanted to do something creative that didn’t just recycle the same ideas you see everywhere. So instead of just saying “brain parasites look like lycanthropy” or “TB inspired vampire myths,” I wanted to build something more immersive—something that let you sit inside those ideas for a minute. And those ended up being some of my favorite things to make. And, apparently, some of your favorites to listen to.
And I’m expanding that style now—beyond October—when it fits. Like the recent BSL4 walkthrough. Or the Outbreak After Dark Christmas Carol episode…which, objectively, should not exist—and yet, somehow, does.
Speaking of Outbreak After Dark…that was the other direction I didn’t see coming. I invited Kate and Sam to join me, mostly because I thought it would be fun to sit around the fire, have a drink, and talk about weird, interesting things. And it turns out…that was a very good decision. Some of our episodes are genuinely unhinged. And I mean that in the best possible way. There are lines in those recordings that I cannot believe made it into a published episode. And they had to. I couldn't leave them out.
Samantha: I'm sorry what the fuck is a goat yoga?
Heather: That's our next topic!
Sam: No that's not a real thing!
Heather: Yes it is!
Sam: Excuse me?
Heather: Yes!
Kate: Who thought it's a good idea to have a goat put its butt in your face anyway?
Heather: Excellent question, Kate.
And as ridiculous as that sounds…those moments matter more than I expected. Because they’re the ones that make this feel human. Not just something you learn from—but something you’re actually in for a minute. But underneath the absolute fun of recording those episodes, there’s something else happening. They’re a different entry point—where history, fear, humor, and science intersect. And they’re meant to be experienced that way too—not just listened to. Something you can sit down with, make something for, and feel like you’re part of it.
So—thank you, Chris. That one suggestion opened up an entire side of the show I didn’t even know was there.
The Interviews
And then there are the parts I avoided entirely…until I didn’t. Interviews were one of those. I put them off for as long as I could—not because they aren’t valuable—they absolutely are—but because I’m an introvert, and you don’t know exactly where a conversation is going to go. And then afterward…there’s the editing. Which is how you discover that a perfectly normal conversation contains a surprising number of “ums,” restarts, and three slightly different versions of the same answer.
But once I started doing them, I realized something I hadn’t fully appreciated before: There are things you only understand when you hear someone think through them out loud. Not the polished version. Not the final takeaway. The process. And that’s what interviews give you. They let you hear how people approach a problem. Where they hesitate. What they emphasize. What they don’t say right away. And that’s often where the interesting part is. Like this great quote from Mark ungrin.
Mark Ungrin interview Clip:
Mark: "There's a quote from the science fiction author, Philip K Dick, that "reality is that which when you stop believing in it doesn't go away." So messaging can influence what people believe, but in the end, the reality will catch up with you."
And that’s the kind of thing you don’t get from a script. You only get that when you let someone think out loud—and that is so incredibly cool.
There was one interview that almost didn’t make it at all because I kept losing the edited file. Over and over again. At some point, it stopped being frustrating and just became…a test of will. And if there’s one thing I am, it’s persistent.
Everything else aside, I’m deeply grateful to the people who say yes—who trust me with their time, and their thinking, and sometimes the less polished version of both. And I’m looking forward to more of those conversations. Because every time, I walk away understanding something a little differently. And ideally…you do too.
Small Audience, Big Meaning
And somewhere in the middle of all of this…people started listening. I didn’t have expectations for growth this last year. The content is there for the people who want it—or who just happen to find their way here. And people have. There are listeners in 70 countries right now. Which is still a little surreal. The audience is small. But it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. Because I never know who’s listening. I don’t know what context they’re coming from…or what finally clicks.
And every once in a while, I’ll get a message. No backstory. Just something like: “That helped.” “I finally understand this now.” “I hadn’t thought about it that way before.” And I’ll never know what else was going on for that person when they heard it. What they were dealing with. What question they were trying to answer. Why that moment was the one that stuck. But it’s enough to know that it did. Because that hits differently than numbers do. Not because numbers don’t matter—but because they don’t tell you that. They don’t tell you when something actually reached someone. And when people I don’t know—researchers, clinicians, or other people in this space—say they can’t recommend an episode loudly enough…that means a lot.
And if you’re listening right now—whether this is your first episode, or you’ve been here from the beginning—you’re part of that. Even if I don’t know your name. Even if you’ve never said anything. Because this only works if something, at some point, clicks.
And I don’t get to choose when that happens. Or for who. I just build the best version of it I can—and trust that it will meet someone where they are.
So—thank you. Truly. I’m really glad you made it here and I’m more grateful than I can say.
And the strange part is…all of that—every message, every moment where something clicks—comes from this. These late nights. This quiet room.
And it still looks exactly the same as it did a year ago. Same setup. A dog who has no idea she’s part of the process—but absolutely is.. Gypsy is always in here with me—her nails on the floor, the occasional shift or dreaming whimper, sometimes a bark at nothing I can see. And sometimes…those sounds make it into an episode.
There are also moments that stay with me. One of them was the Salem episode. My son helped me with it—doing voices, leaning into the story in a way that made it feel less like work and more like something we were building together. We laughed so hard making that thing. And that changed something for me. Not just in how I make these episodes—but in what they can be.
Salem 1692 Clip:
[steps on wooden platform]
Man 1: “That is not justice—it is cruelty.”
Man 2: “Confession is confession. Rope knows no mercy.”
Man 1: “You hang the fever, not the cause!”
[back & forth sound of rope, swinging side to side...tense with the weight of a condemned woman]
And then…that ending. It still unsettles me. Even now. That episode ended up being the most downloaded of Month of the Macabre. Which I love—not just because of the numbers, but because it means that something about it worked for you.
And another part of that episode working belongs to my friend—Wendy—who suggested I rearrange Gypsy’s audio cameos to be part of the atmosphere for that episode instead of editing them out. And she was right.
That’s the part people don’t see. How many of these moments come from small suggestions, or accidents, or things that almost didn’t make it into the final version.
And if you were there for those episodes—you know exactly what I mean.
There’s also been this unexpected experience of going back to older episodes. Like the vaccine series. And realizing how much is already there. Work I barely remember making, because I was already moving on to the next thing. And that’s been a quiet reminder: Some of the things you’ve already heard…are still worth sitting with.
And after this past year, I don’t think the core of how I approach this has changed. I still care about getting it right. But I’m less focused on getting everything perfect. Because those aren’t the same thing. And it turns out, if you wait until something feels perfect…you never actually let it go. Part of doing this consistently is learning where that line is.
And being willing to cross it. Not because the standard changed—but because I understand it better now. Where it matters to hold the line…and where it doesn’t.
Going into the next year, I’m thinking a lot about how this evolves. Not just more episodes—but different ways of telling these stories. The main feed, Month of the Macabre, and Outbreak After Dark…those aren’t experiments anymore. They’ve each become something distinct. And that means, depending on what you’re looking for, there’s more than one way into this. If you want something grounded and clear—you’ll find it. If you want something more immersive—something that pulls you into the story—you’ll find that too. And sometimes…those overlap.
I’m still figuring a lot out. That part hasn’t changed. And I don’t think it should. Because this only works if it keeps evolving—if it keeps responding to what’s happening in real time, and to what actually helps things land. What I do know is this: I want to keep expanding the creative side. Not just to make things more interesting—but because it works. Because people remember stories in a way they don’t always remember explanations. And if something sticks…that matters.
And alongside that, I want to build things that are useful to you outside of the episode itself. Ways to come back to an idea. To revisit something when you need it. To make sense of what you’re seeing—without having to sort through all the noise on your own.
Some of that is already in motion. Some of it will take time. But the goal is the same: Clarity. Context. Trust. Things you can actually use. I’m also working on things beyond the episodes—writing, longer-form pieces, some serious, some a little more experimental. And over time, I’ll share more of that process too.
And I’m still just getting started.
And when I step back and look at all of this together…this is what it comes down to. A year in, it still looks a lot like it did at the beginning. Late nights. Careful edits. A quiet room.
But it feels different now. More settled. Less like I’m trying to prove something—and more like this is where I’m supposed to be. And it’s not a big production. It’s just me…working later than I should, trying to get one more thing right before I let an episode go. Focused, solitary work still suits me.
And over the past year, I’ve realized something about how these episodes come together. What you hear each week…that’s the most complete version of an idea I can shape in that moment. But it’s never the whole thing. There’s always more sitting just outside the edge of an episode. There are always questions that don’t quite resolve, threads I don’t have time to follow, connections that only start to take shape after I’ve finished recording. And I didn’t want to lose that.
So I started keeping what I’ve been calling Field Notes.
It’s where I go back to one idea and sit with it a little longer. Where I track what I’m watching, what’s starting to shift, and what might matter next. And starting with next week's episode, I've decided make that available to you as a short, free, weekly email—something you can read in a few minutes, but come back to when you need it...so if you want to follow those threads with me—if you want to continue the conversation... you can.
I’ll link the sign up in the show notes and on the website.
I know this will keep evolving. It should. But the core of it—the reason I started, the reason I came back—that part is still the same. And when I listen back—not every time, but often enough—I hear something I’m proud of. Something careful. Something honest. Something that might actually help. And that’s…not nothing. In fact…that’s kind of the whole point.
So for now, I’ll keep showing up. In this small, dimly-lit room. With Gypsy at my feet. And my son asleep down the hall. Creating one episode at a time.
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