Marie Curie

My name is Maria Skłodowska, though the world would come to know me as Marie Curie. I was born in Warsaw, Poland, on November 7, 1867, into a world where a girl’s dreams were often expected to be small. But in my home, learning was as important as breathing. My father was a professor of mathematics and physics, and he filled our minds with curiosity about the world. My mother, a kind and brilliant headmistress, taught us the importance of hard work and character. We were five children, and our small apartment was always buzzing with lessons and laughter. However, my early life was also touched by deep sadness. When I was just ten, my beloved mother died from tuberculosis, and not long after, my eldest sister, Zofia, passed away from typhus. These losses were heavy, but they forged in me a fierce determination. I promised myself I would live a life of purpose, one that would make them proud. In those days, Poland was under Russian rule, and universities were closed to women. It seemed my dream of a scientific education was impossible. But my sister Bronisława shared my hunger for knowledge. We made a pact: I would work as a governess, a private tutor for wealthy families, and send her money so she could study medicine in Paris. Once she became a doctor, she would then support my studies. For six long years, from 1885 to 1891, I worked tirelessly, teaching children in the countryside. I read every science and math book I could find in my spare time, studying late into the night. It was a lonely period, but the dream of Paris kept my spirit alive.

In the autumn of 1891, my moment finally arrived. With the money I had saved and help from Bronisława, I boarded a train for Paris. I was 24 years old, and my heart was soaring with hope. I enrolled at the Sorbonne, the famous University of Paris. The city was a whirlwind of new ideas and possibilities, and for the first time, I felt truly free to pursue my passion. Life was not easy. I lived in a tiny attic room, a garret, that was freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer. I often had very little money for food, sometimes surviving on buttered bread and tea for days. There were nights I was so cold that I had to pile all of my clothes on top of my blankets just to stay warm. But none of these hardships mattered as much as what I was learning. Physics, chemistry, and mathematics became my entire world. I soaked up every lecture, spent countless hours in the laboratory, and felt my mind expand with each new discovery. My hard work paid off. In 1893, I graduated first in my class with a degree in physics, and the following year, I earned a second degree in mathematics. It was during this time, in 1894, that I was looking for a larger laboratory space. A friend introduced me to a brilliant and kind scientist named Pierre Curie. He was the laboratory chief at the School of Physics and Chemistry. We connected instantly, not just as scientists, but as kindred spirits. We would spend hours talking about our work, our dreams, and our shared devotion to science. He saw me not just as a woman, but as an equal, a scientific mind to be respected. We fell in love, and in the summer of 1895, we were married. Our life together became a true partnership, a shared journey of love and discovery.

Our scientific adventure began in earnest when I became fascinated by the work of a physicist named Henri Becquerel. In 1896, he had discovered that the element uranium emitted mysterious, invisible rays that could pass through solid matter. No one knew where these rays came from. I decided this would be the subject of my doctoral thesis. Pierre was so intrigued by my initial findings that he put aside his own research on crystals to join me. We were given a workspace, but it was hardly a proper laboratory. It was a drafty, abandoned shed with a leaky glass roof. It was cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and filled with dust. Yet, it was in this humble place that we would make our most important discoveries. I began by testing every known element to see if anything else produced these strange rays. I found that the element thorium did, and I coined a new term for this phenomenon: “radioactivity.” But I also noticed something extraordinary. A mineral called pitchblende, which contained uranium, was far more radioactive than pure uranium itself. This could only mean one thing: there had to be an unknown, highly radioactive element hidden within it. To find it, Pierre and I had to process tons of pitchblende. The work was grueling. We spent our days stirring huge, boiling cauldrons of the black, tar-like substance, using heavy iron rods. It was physically exhausting, and we were constantly exposed to the strange energy emanating from the materials. But we were driven by the thrill of the unknown. Slowly, painstakingly, we began to isolate the powerful substances. In July of 1898, we announced the discovery of a new element, which I named Polonium in honor of my beloved homeland, Poland. But we knew there was another, even more powerful element still hiding in our samples. Finally, in December of 1898, we discovered it—a brilliantly glowing element we named Radium, from the Latin word for “ray.” Our work had changed the world’s understanding of the atom. In 1903, the world recognized our achievement. Together with Henri Becquerel, Pierre and I were awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics for our joint research on radiation.

My life with Pierre was a beautiful chapter, but it ended in unimaginable heartbreak. On a rainy day in April 1906, Pierre was tragically killed in a street accident. My world shattered. The thought of continuing without him felt impossible, but I knew the greatest way to honor his memory was to carry on the scientific work that we had started together. The Sorbonne offered me his professorship, and I accepted. On November 5, 1906, I stepped into the lecture hall and became the first woman to ever teach there. I poured my grief and my energy into my research, determined to isolate pure radium and prove it was a distinct element. My efforts were rewarded in 1911 when I was awarded a second Nobel Prize, this time in Chemistry. I remain the only person to have ever won the prize in two different scientific fields. My work was not confined to the laboratory. When World War I began in 1914, I knew science could help save lives. With my daughter Irène, I developed mobile X-ray units, which we called “petites Curies” or “little Curies.” We drove these vans to the front lines to help surgeons locate bullets and shrapnel in wounded soldiers, saving countless lives. After years of working so closely with radioactive materials, my health began to fail. The very elements that I had discovered and given to the world had taken a toll on my body. On July 4, 1934, my life came to an end due to a blood disease caused by my long exposure to radiation. I have no regrets. My journey was one of perseverance against incredible odds. I hope my story shows that curiosity is a powerful force and that you should never let anyone tell you that your dreams are out of reach, especially if you are a young woman with a passion for science. My greatest legacy is not the prizes I won, but the knowledge I left behind to help humanity and the doors I opened for others to follow.