Joyful, glittery, and unapologetically bimbo

An interview with science communicator Dr. Naomi Koh Belic  

Naomi Koh Belic, PhD, is part of a growing wave of creators who are redefining what science communication can be. A self-described “biracial, bisexual, bimbo biologist,” she has built a practice that is bold and playful yet deeply data-driven and committed to representation. From drag shows that double as sex education to co‑created projects with Indigenous communities, Koh Belic’s work amplifies voices too often excluded from science and fights for communication that is participatory, inclusive, and accountable. In this conversation, Koh Belic reflects on her journey, her commitment to authenticity, and why community is at the heart of her approach.

Hi, Naomi! Why do you choose to identify yourself as a “biracial, bisexual, bimbo biologist”?

“Being a bimbo is such a core part of my identity! I’m a hyperfeminine girly pop. Growing up on the Gold Coast, I feel like bimbo culture is just part of how I was raised. I like making my identity visible, because during my PhD I hid many parts of myself. There isn’t much space to just be a woman of color in science and academia, and that made it harder for me to come to terms with being queer. It wasn’t until the very end of my PhD, during the COVID lockdowns, that I finally had the distance to reflect and embrace who I am. That’s why visibility matters so much to me.”

You were 22 when you “stumbled into” science communication. During your PhD in stem cell biology, you featured as a biology expert on Discovery Channel’s Dr Karl’s Outrageous Acts of Science and hosted five episodes of Sciencey, an Australian Broadcasting Company show. How did you land these gigs?

“Honestly, it started because I wasn’t getting paid enough during my PhD. I saw there was a $200 cash prize for the science faculty’s Three Minute Thesis in 2016, so I entered with the sole intention of winning—and I did. At the university finals, one judge told me I was “dumbing science down.” She was so condescending that, out of pure spite, I took the exact same talk and entered it into competitions and made it through to the national finals for both Fame Lab in 2017 and Amplify Ignite in 2018. During that period, I landed a spot on the Discovery Channel, and then at the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, or ABC. So really, I didn’t stumble into science communication—it was spite that pushed me there.”

You went from doing a PhD to working as a presenter and producer in science and health for ABC. How did you manage to make that switch?

“You’d think that after landing all those gigs and building up so much experience, I’d realize science communication was a real career. But that was absolutely not the case. There weren’t people in the field I could look up to. Yes, there was Dr. Karl—and I respect him deeply, we still work closely together—but I didn’t see myself reflected in him or in anyone else around me. So I stayed in academia. The switch came about because of my incredible mentor Helena Asher-Chiang. She sat me down and was frank and honest with me, and she gave me the confidence to chase something that felt so unachievable. Helena helped me map a pathway with tangible steps I could take towards that dream. Since making that leap out of academia, I’ve now taken another leap out of ABC and into full-time freelancing where I can speak in my own authentic voice and better amplify underrepresented voices.”

You’ve moved into freelancing, creating community-driven events like The Love Lab and The Drag Experiment. Can you tell me about these projects, and how they connect to your decision to leave ABC and work independently?

“Working at ABC was a logical step for me—it was secure, full-time work in an organisation that I respect dearly. But I always knew I wanted to create my own projects, in my own voice. At ABC, I felt my voice being molded into something more palatable, while with freelancing, I’ve found the freedom to tell stories authentically.”

"So far, I’ve developed four shows. The Love Lab was a matchmaking experiment I ran with Shu Ezackial, using science to help people find love—and yes, we even saw couples making out, so I’d call that a success. Peer Reviewed Gossip was a more recent event I ran with some friends, where we literally gossiped about science. Then there’s The Drag Experiment, a science drag show that uses queer storytelling to make education fun and accessible, and its adults-only spin-off, The Drag Sex Experiment, which focused on sex education. What’s exciting is that these creative approaches reach new audiences: for example, 69% of Love Lab attendees and nearly 60% of Peer Reviewed Gossip attendees said it was their first science event. And with The Drag Sex Experiment, 100% of people reported learning something new—some even booked cervical screenings after hearing about self-swab tests. That kind of tangible impact is huge."

You’re part of a growing wave of creative presenters and producers who are challenging traditional science communication. For instance, in 2023 you gave a keynote lecture at the inSTEM conference titled: Science Communication That Isn’t Crusty, Old or White. How did you start to notice this, and when did you start to think that you could be doing things differently?

“Academia is the home of institutionalized discrimination, and that bled into the science communication that I was seeing around me. So many communities were being left out, so I set out to do something about it. There are two pillars to the way I work. The first is using creative forms of science communication, because those approaches reach audiences who don’t usually engage with science—I would argue that those are the people who need to be included the most. I want to do the opposite of academia: instead of shutting people out, I want to bring them in and make them part of the conversation. The second pillar is amplifying underrepresented communities. Almost all my projects are designed with this in mind."

"If I’m working with a community I’m not from, I’m not the one leading. Leadership and decision-making must belong to someone from within that community. My role is to support, facilitate, and do the work alongside them. For me, that’s the only ethical way to approach it.”

What advice do you have for making co-creation projects genuinely empowering, rather than tokenistic?

“The most important thing is to listen. Communities already know what they want—you’re there to facilitate and support, not to impose solutions. Too often there’s a white savior mindset where outsiders arrive with answers that don’t reflect the community’s needs. Real co-creation means giving people the autonomy and power to shape projects themselves. That’s at the core of it all.”

“That’s how the DeadlyLabs: Robinson River project came about. I worked with Corey Tutt, CEO of DeadlyScience—a not-for-profit that delivers educational resources to Indigenous children in remote schools. Corey is an Indigenous man, and together we came up with the idea of creating science kits and secured funding, and then I had the privilege of building meaningful relationships with Elders in Robinson River to platform their knowledge. Aboriginal people are the first scientists; they already hold deep scientific knowledge. My role was to listen, learn, and support them in sharing it. Together we created a kit with resources for teachers and students, an experiment, and a documentary filmed on country, where we show Elders sharing their knowledge with children—and the children, in turn, becoming the teachers. When kids in other remote communities see those experiments explained by children just like them, they see themselves as scientists too. That’s what empowerment looks like.”

“It’s also about building lasting relationships, not just optics. With Robinson River, we didn’t just run workshops and leave—we kept going back, staying connected, and making sure that the community maintained ownership over the project. That community is now deeply part of who I am, because they welcomed me in so generously. That kind of emotional connection is what makes projects meaningful.”

Your work often tackles taboo topics—from #HotGirlsHaveIBS to why ornamental pear trees smell like cum. Some of it has been criticized as “highly sexualized” or dismissed as a “waste of taxpayer money.” Can you talk about the backlash you’ve faced, and how those experiences shaped you?

“One of the biggest controversies came after I posted a video for the ABC about the health benefits of masturbation. That single video sparked over thirteen articles and ruffled some political feathers. The narrative they were claiming is that the ABC was telling gay kids to touch themselves. For the record: I would tell queer kids to masturbate, because it’s normal and healthy for everyone. But the video never mentioned queer communities or children—those assumptions came from people projecting their own discriminatory views.”

“More recently, politicians called my science drag show a waste of taxpayer money. The irony is that the project was funded through a competitive science grant, and we collected the data to prove that we achieved all of our communication goals.”

“I’ve been told I’m too young and girly to be an expert, asked what it feels like to be the diversity hire, and told to ‘keep my eyes open’ while filming—my eyes were open, I’m just Asian. But all these experiences have only reinforced why I do what I do: science communication that is unapologetically inclusive.”

Given the kind of content you make now, which often ruffles feathers, what advice would you give to others facing pushback?

“Therapy. I’d be lying if I said it was easy. Every time there’s pushback, it hurts, it feels personal, and I get emotional. Having a good therapist has been crucial—someone trained to help me navigate those moments. I know that telling stories will always invite criticism, and often it feels like an attack on me or on the communities I’m trying to uplift. My therapist reminds me not to dim my anger in these moments —because my anger isn’t baseless. It’s a valid response to very real systemic problems being directed at me and at the communities I care about. Instead, she helps me frame it as a flame that can keep me going through those challenging times.”

As a second-generation Australian and first-generation university graduate, do you think your background has shaped the way you’ve built your career, and what advice would you give to others trying to carve out their own path?

“Without a doubt. I’m not following any path that was laid out before me—I’m creating my own, and that gives me the freedom to build things the way I want to. Being a second-generation Australian and the first in my family to go into academia means I didn’t have a roadmap. That lack of precedent has actually helped me, because it forced me to define my own values and keep checking in with them.”

“I keep a work journal where I map out my core values and dream projects. For example, I went to a burlesque show and saw Demon Derriere perform. They were gorgeous, their fat bouncing and jiggling—and I thought, ‘That’s hot,’ but also, ‘Maybe we can use burlesque to break down stigmas about fat bodies and health.’ I reached out, we applied for a grant, and together we made FA(C)TS, a documentary that premiered at the Museum of Contemporary Art Australia and won a runner-up prize at QueerScreen.”

“My advice is: define your values, dream big, and don’t be afraid of failure. Some projects will overwhelm you, some will flop, but each one teaches you something. The key is to keep learning from your mistakes and clawing out your own path.”

In the Unsung Stories archive of the Australian Academy of Cinema and Television Arts, you spoke about discovering your queer identity during lockdown. You’ve also been involved in queer Asian artist-led projects like the Worship Queer Collective’s Gaysian Stories. How has your background as a mixed-race, queer person shaped the way you think about belonging and community?

“My parents are Singaporean and Croatian immigrants. At my first school in a small country town, I was the only Asian kid—classmates would literally pass me around just to touch my hair. In Australia, I was always Asian, but when I went to Singapore, suddenly, I was white. I grew up feeling like I didn’t belong in either space. As a kid, I used to say I was half Singaporean, half Croatian, and a whole Australian—and honestly, baby Naomi was right all along. It just took me years to build the confidence to embrace that.”

“Lockdown gave me the space to reflect and come into my queer identity, and it felt strangely familiar—being biracial made coming to terms with my bisexuality so much easier, because I’d already learned how to live between worlds. That’s why I care so much about creating spaces where people can come as their authentic selves.”

“One of the most moving experiences for me was attending Worship Queer Collective, founded by Dyan Tai, the gaysian empress of Sydney. It was the first queer Asian space I’d ever seen. It was such a joyful and wholesome night, but I still cried because I couldn’t believe places like that existed. Dyan welcomed me into the community and they invited me to host their queer Asian runway show and to speak at Gaysian Stories. Finding community is hard, but I have wonderful role models like Dyan Tai and Demon Derriere to learn from. I strive to build community through my work by listening to others and building spaces together.”

As science communicators, we’re often trying—and failing—in public. Do you have any tips for handling that?

“The reason I’m such a nerd is because I love learning, and honestly, I’ve learned the most from failing. I used to be terrible at public speaking. In high school, I shook so badly during my first presentation that my teacher left the room and came back with a music stand so I could rest my paper on it. Later, in my first university presentation, I shook so much I tore the paper I was reading and ended up slamming it down on the assessor’s desk while towering over her, reading word for word. It was mortifying.“

“The irony is that now, I speak for a living—I’ve presented in front of thousands of people—and the only reason I can do that is because I failed. As much as those failures sting in the moment, I know I’m only going to get better if I try—and that I would regret not trying more than I would regret failing.”

“I’ve also learned that even with the best intentions, projects don’t always land the way I want. I reflect, iterate, and welcome the fact that my work could have been better. That’s part of the process. At the same time, I’m working on celebrating successes. I’ve always been my harshest critic; nobody who’s read me for filth online has even come close to the things I’ve thought and said to myself. But I’m learning to quiet that inner critic and to actively be proud of what I’ve achieved. That’s why I’m throwing a launch party for my latest project, Bimbo Biology Body Breakdown— because it’s worth celebrating, and it’s so important to come together with your community.” 

Can you tell me more about this project?

“Bimbo Biology Body Breakdown is the first time I’ve been able to create content entirely in my own voice, made possible with Screen New South Wales and Australian International Documentary Conference funding. It’s my hyperfeminine health series—an exploration of the body that answers the questions you didn’t even know you had. Like: ‘Can lesbian mums both feed their baby?’ Yes. ‘Are clits basically just dicks?’ Also yes. It’s playful, pink, glittery, and silly, but also deeply informative. My illustrator, Jenny á La Mode, has created the most gorgeous, iridescent medical diagrams I’ve ever seen. The launch event on January 31 in Sydney will have pole dancers, tattoos, manicures, and ribbon hair styling. It’s my dream science event—one that brings community together in a way that’s joyful, glittery, and unapologetically bimbo.”

Photography by Gabriel Murphy and Teresa Tan