Marie Curie

Hello. My name is Maria Skłodowska, but when I was a little girl, my family called me Manya. I was born on November 7, 1867, in Warsaw, Poland. My world was one filled with books and ideas, as both of my parents were teachers. My father, who taught mathematics and physics, filled our home with scientific instruments that seemed like magical toys to me. From my earliest days, I had a burning curiosity about how the world worked. But the world I grew up in was a difficult one. At that time, Poland was under the rule of Russia, and our culture and language were suppressed. Worst of all for a girl like me who dreamed of science, the University of Warsaw was forbidden to women. I could not accept that my gender would be a barrier to my education.

My older sister, Bronisława, or Bronya, shared my dream of a higher education. We knew we would have to leave Poland to achieve it. So, we made a secret pact. I would work as a governess and send her money so she could study medicine in Paris. Once she became a doctor, she would then support me. It was a risky plan that required years of patience and sacrifice, but our determination was unshakable. For several long years, I worked and studied on my own, reading everything I could and performing experiments in secret. I never lost sight of my goal: to one day join my sister in Paris and become a scientist.

In the autumn of 1891, my dream finally began. I packed my bags and traveled to Paris to enroll at the great university, the Sorbonne. Life was not easy. I lived in a small attic room, often cold and hungry, surviving on little more than bread, butter, and tea. But I felt more alive than ever, completely absorbed in my studies of physics, chemistry, and mathematics. I spent my days in lectures and my nights studying by the light of an oil lamp until I was the top student in my class. It was during this time, in 1894, that I was looking for a laboratory space to work in and was introduced to a scientist named Pierre Curie. He was a brilliant, thoughtful man with a deep passion for science that matched my own. We found that we could talk for hours about our work and our dreams for the future.

Our connection was immediate and profound. We were not just colleagues; we were soulmates who saw the world through the same lens of scientific wonder. Pierre understood my devotion to my work in a way no one else had. We fell in love and were married in the summer of 1895. I became Marie Curie. I had found more than a husband; I had found my greatest collaborator. Our small apartment became our home, and our laboratory became our world. Together, we were about to embark on a journey that would change science forever, forming a partnership that was as strong in our personal lives as it was in our scientific pursuits.

Our scientific adventure truly began after a discovery in 1896 by a scientist named Henri Becquerel. He found that uranium salts emitted mysterious, invisible rays that could pass through solid objects. What were these rays? Where did their energy come from? I was completely fascinated and decided to make it the subject of my doctoral thesis. Pierre was so intrigued by my initial findings that he put his own research aside to join me. Our laboratory was nothing grand—just an old, drafty shed with a leaky glass roof. It was freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer, but it was our scientific sanctuary. We began testing different minerals, and I soon made a startling observation: a mineral called pitchblende was far more powerful, or 'active,' than the uranium it contained. I hypothesized that there must be an unknown, highly active element hiding within it.

To prove my theory, we had to find it. We obtained tons of pitchblende waste from a mine and began the grueling work of chemical separation. For four years, we stirred boiling vats of chemicals, grinding, filtering, and crystallizing, searching for this invisible substance. It was exhausting physical labor. Finally, in 1898, our perseverance paid off. We discovered not one, but two new elements. The first I named Polonium, in honor of my beloved homeland, Poland. The second was even more extraordinary. It was hundreds of times more active than uranium and glowed with a faint blue light in the dark. We named it Radium, from the Latin word 'radius,' meaning ray. I coined the term 'radioactivity' to describe this strange energy. In 1903, our work was recognized when Pierre, myself, and Henri Becquerel were awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics.

Our life was filled with the joy of discovery and our two wonderful daughters, Irène and Ève. But in 1906, our world was shattered. On a rainy April day, Pierre was tragically killed in a street accident. My grief was overwhelming; I had lost not only my husband but my closest scientific collaborator. For a time, I felt completely lost. But I knew Pierre would have wanted me to continue our work. I made a solemn promise to carry on for both of us. The Sorbonne offered me my husband's professorship, and I accepted, becoming the first woman ever to teach there. I poured all my energy into my research, determined to honor his memory by finishing the work we had started. In 1911, my solitary efforts were rewarded when I was awarded a second Nobel Prize, this time in Chemistry, for successfully isolating pure radium. I was the first person in history to receive the honor in two different scientific fields.

I always believed that science should be used to help humanity. When World War I began in 1914, I knew my discoveries could save lives. I developed mobile X-ray machines, which became known as 'petites Curies,' or 'little Curies.' I learned to drive a car and became a mechanic so I could take these units to the front lines, helping surgeons locate bullets and shrapnel in wounded soldiers. It is estimated that over a million soldiers were helped by my X-ray units. But my many years of working so closely with radioactive materials had taken a silent toll on my body. The energy that I had discovered was powerful, but it was also dangerous, though we did not fully understand that at the time. My long exposure made me very ill, and on July 4, 1934, my life came to an end.

My story is not just one of scientific discovery. It is a story about the power of curiosity and the courage to ask 'why?'. It is a testament to perseverance in the face of immense obstacles, whether it was poverty, prejudice, or personal tragedy. I hope my life shows you that you should never let anyone tell you that your dreams are impossible. Science is a thing of beauty, a path to understanding our world, and a powerful tool to make it a better place. Follow your curiosity, work hard, and never, ever be afraid of the unknown.