MamaWritesSpells

Clarity isn’t dilution—it’s translation.

Let’s start with the part most people won’t admit out loud.

They want to understand research.
They really do.

They just don’t want to feel stupid trying.

Somewhere between the abstract and the conclusion, academic writing often stops speaking to people and starts speaking around them. Dense sentences. Stacked clauses. Citations doing heavy lifting where explanation should be.

None of this means the research is bad. Usually, it means the opposite. The work is careful. Nuanced. Earned.

But when research is shared with the public exactly as it was written for peer review, something gets lost.

Not intelligence—orientation.

Public audiences don’t need less rigor. They need context.

They want to know:

• Why this research exists
• What problem it’s responding to
• Why it matters now

Before they care about methodology or limitations, they need a reason to stay.

Strong research communicators understand this instinctively. They don’t flatten ideas—they sequence them.

They start with stakes, not frameworks.
They define terms before stacking them.
They use examples that live in the real world—daily routines, familiar systems, moments people recognize.

And yes, they shorten sentences. On purpose.

Because clarity isn’t about simplifying thought. It’s about reducing cognitive friction.

Most people reading public-facing research content are doing so between obligations. On phones. With divided attention. That doesn’t make them unserious—it makes them human.

When academic communication ignores that reality, readers disengage. Not because they don’t care, but because the effort required outweighs the reward.

The best public scholarship meets people where they are without talking down to them.

It says, “Here’s the idea. Here’s why it matters. Here’s how it connects to your world.”
Then—then—it invites readers deeper.

Breaking down complex research isn’t about watering it down.

It’s about opening the door.