Academia Won’t Change By Itself

Written by Manya Singh 

My first year of college was my first experience with using disability accommodations.

I didn't tell anyone I used these accommodations.

Luckily, the classes I shared with friends tended to be big lecture classes, and if anyone mentioned not seeing me in the lecture room, I'd make an excuse about wearing black, or sitting in the back... and then I'd change the subject. I was so embarrassed.

My university had a policy that you had to submit accommodation letters to faculty in person, and my anxiety would bubble just under the surface as I arrived at office hours, quickly shoved the letter towards the professor, and attempted a smile before leaving without making eye contact. I knew that these professors got these letters each year, and they had already received the electronic version of mine from the coordinator, and still, the experience of having to identify myself in that moment was awful.

And then, out of nowhere, I started falling asleep.

I can remember the first time very clearly. I was in an advanced math class, as I'd qualified to skip regular algebra, and I was the youngest in that class. The teacher was great, and a legend among the students. I had always done well, especially in math, but I really wanted to impress this teacher with my attentiveness and work ethic.

But one day, I woke up to someone shaking my shoulder, and as I jerked back into reality, I caught the disapproving glance my teacher sent my way. My peers around me tried to hide their chuckles, and the student behind me told me my teacher asked her to shake me awake. I was humiliated and shocked, and I'm sure I left without giving the teacher an explanation... because I didn't have one.

For the next seven years, I would try a million things: increasing/decreasing sleep, giving up coffee, different protein powders, yoga, CrossFit, various vitamin regimes, and lots and lots of medical testing. I probably got tested for anemia, thyroid problems and diabetes every three to five months. Nothing ever worked and testing was always negative. I fell asleep almost every day, in almost every class. I was so embarrassed, especially in college. I knew that professors were thinking that I had stayed up too late partying or cramming or watching TV, when really, I had been in bed by 10:30. I sat in the back of the classroom and rarely participated, because I felt terrible.

I felt like I was inhabiting the body of someone else, a body that would not cooperate with me.

At 19, I was tested for sleep apnea, and I started treatment for that. It had been ruled out initially because I tested negative as a kid. The sleep apnea treatment helped a little, but I still fell asleep in classes. For two years, I waited for my "sleep debt" to end, but it never did. There were some other big changes in my life around this time, including having committed to coming to graduate school. I was tired of being tired, of feeling like less than a whole person, always embarrassed and anxious and hating myself. I started treatment for more severe, clinical sleep disorders.

And it worked. It's not perfect, and the effectiveness of my treatment depends on me committing to my routine, and to maintaining my health more rigorously than the average able-bodied person. My body isn't like most people's bodies, and that's frustrating, but I'm grateful that I've found effective treatment, and I'm okay with this being my reality for the rest of my life.

(It takes an average of seven years to diagnose sleep disorders, since the symptoms overlap, and tend to be ignored or dismissed. sleepfoundation.org is a good place to start if this resonates.)

The experience of my disability contributed to me feeling embarrassed and ashamed of it, but the reality is that there are many disabled people and students, with all kinds of disabilities, who feel the same way. For large segments of society, disability is bad, and we are meant to be embarrassed for being bad. Disability is not bad, but this notion being false, does not lessen the impact.

In academia, this is best represented by the statement: "Well, nobody needed accommodations when I went to school." Impostor syndrome impacts everyone, but it is different for disabled students because it interacts with, and is intensified by, the history and continuation of ableism in academia.

In college, I was co-president of the disability club on campus, and I helped a lot of students navigate accommodations. I would often get a message like, "[Insert example of not complying with official accommodation letters here], is that legal?"

I feel disgusted that there is a need to talk to students about how to negotiate accommodations, as if they are being held hostage, when they've already jumped through administrative hoops to get official accommodations. Each time I've had to do that in my own life, I have felt smaller, and I hate watching others feel that way too.

You feel like you don't belong,

like academia would be happy if you just gave up and left,

like "accommodations didn't exist back in my day" because disabled people have never

and will never be welcome in academia.

An administrator once told me that academia would improve in the next ten to fifteen years, as the people within it filtered in and out. I remember thinking: Is all we can do wait? Did we say the same thing ten years ago?

Have we always been waiting for academia to change on its own, rather than actively trying to change it?

When do we accept that hasn’t worked?

About the Author

Portrait picture of
Manya facing the camera
and smiling.

Manya Singh is a doctoral student in botany studying how drought impacts plant-soil feedback in invasive grasses. She has been active in student advocacy, with a focus on disabled students, since 2017. Follow her at manyasingheco.wordpress.com.

The Fog

Written by Ian 

Trigger warning - mention of suicidal thoughts.

Cutting through the fog is what I needed to do.

The lone scholar myth persists and is still the model of an academic. Individual achievement and “genius” is what the system is geared to reward. The relentless academic tournament where only a few “win” is exhausting and takes a toll on mental health, especially when things aren’t healthily competitive, but hyper-competitive as they are now.

I bought into the lone “genius” scholar model. Probably both consciously and subconsciously. Academia can be isolating and has been for me.

My internal dialog has an outsize influence. It has the credibility of a scientist working to falsify any positive idea I might have. The negative, harsh voice is one I would never apply to anyone else. Connecting to others can be challenging partly because depressive mood is not something I want to spread. However, luckily, I do have a few close friends—whom I would take a bullet for—to open up to, although none of whom I speak with enough.

There’s pain in the fog; a longing for light to cut through or for me to find a way to part it, if only temporarily.

At its thickest, there are two solutions to dealing with the fog. Waiting for the fog to abate, even partially. And there have been times when it feels oppressive and functionally no different from being dead. Suicidal thoughts crept in. I never had means to act on these thoughts, and had one motivation to not carry through: those good friends and family. I would wish to get hit by a bus or have some other fatal accident befall me.

Having these thoughts obviously didn’t help my work.

The fog thickens in times of uncertainty.

I’ve had to come back from that oppressive fog that began six years ago, when I nearly didn’t go on. That was a time I somehow waited out the worst. A time when taking any steps, any actions, seemed futile.

Coming back from that has been a big accomplishment, and I feel shows strength. All through this I kept going, kept learning, and was kind and patient with myself. I found new ways of connecting to people, mainly through Twitter. I started talking openly about depression and mental illness, particularly as it affects academics. I started writing about science too, beyond the technical writing, by guest writing on other blogs. I’m learning to be an editor. I’ve decided I want to step away from the lab bench, which has recently happened. As of this writing, I don’t have anything full time lined up. This latest uncertainty is a test of the network I have built up of close friends and acquaintances, and a test of my ability to go after new opportunities and reach through the fog to ask for help and connect to the wider world. How much will the fog close in this time?

Depression, even when well managed and apparently in the background, seems likely to be with me the rest of my life. The fog can thin and even disappear for a time, but never seems far away. Though even when it’s away, some of the habits developed in the fog’s isolation remain.

I fear stepping into another situation like academia. My next career step is one where I hope I can still further science, education, critical thinking, and the public’s connection to stories of science. Ultimately I hope it’s a career that’s better for my mental health than academia has been, by allowing me to connect more.

There are systemic and cultural changes to academia that can and should be called for like truly preparing PhDs and postdocs for careers beyond the tenure track. But for individuals coping with depression or another mental illness, I encourage them to find someone outside the fog to talk to. To build a support network (like Chronically Academic) of close friends/family and acquaintances, one at a time. Starting with a therapist is fine too. Medications may help lift the fog enough to feel and act normally as well. Resilience is easier when there are supportive people that are visible and accessible. That may include your advisor and other mentors—always build up a network of more than one mentor. Mentors can be anyone that positively influences you or your learning and having people to go to for specific things makes you less isolated and I believe learning from others, or just learning new ways of thinking, can help treat depression (it’s not *that* simple, but it has helped).

Navigating through life with a fog of depression over the brain isn’t easy, but it can also make those managing depression mentally tough and more resilient than may be apparent to even them.

About the Author

Ian is a plant scientist, science writer, and editor who recently transitioned out of academia. His science writing can be seen on his blog, The Quiet Branches. He can be found on Twitter at @IHStreet.

Breaking the Stigma

Written by Juan Pablo Ruiz 

#OktoSay: Let’s Talk Mental Health in Academia

About a month ago, Head’s Together launched their #OktoSay campaign to destigmatize mental health in the UK. Around the same time, a study done in Belgium was published that showed that “one in two PhD students suffered from psychological distress, while one in three were at risk of a common psychiatric disorder.” As soon as it was published, I had three people send me the article. It seemed that, at least in my network, I had become the go-to whenever this type of news showed up. This isn’t surprising given that a year ago, I founded my blog and resource, Labmosphere.com, where one of our core pillars is addressing mental health issues in academia.

Dark and ironic then, that those messages went ignored because I was at the time dealing with crippling levels of anxiety and, for the first time in my life, depression.

When I started my blog, I had just finished taking a free positive psychology course called the Science of Happiness, and before that had been trained as a Peer Supporter at the University of Oxford to help students dealing with mental health issues. At the time, I was dealing with stress and anxiety from my personal life, but believed that when I solved the situation, so too, would my life get back on track. Lab was a haven from everything outside, because things here were objective, and the data flowing continuously.

I was the happy-go-lucky grad student who was known for yelling “Science!” and running into the lab excitedly whenever an interesting result surfaced. I danced through the empty halls of the institute on weekends, blasting music and singing at the top of my lungs. Life was good, science was good. I wanted everyone to experience that. I thought I was immune.

But my anxiety continued to return, especially after I hit the expected third-year slump in my PhD. Sometimes, there was no clear cause or trigger for it; I would spend whole days in front of the computer in lab, using all my energy and lessons in mindfulness to regain the sensation of breathing freely and the ability to focus on my work.

That’s when my aunt, a psychologist who works at a clinic in Mexico, suggested I might have Asperger’s Syndrome, or Autism Spectrum Disorder Level 1. Until then, I had thought I was just unique and quirky: someone who was overly enthusiastic, intense, and avoided weekend plans to spend days shut in his room reading and writing about the strangest of topics. The professional diagnosis came a month later, but the recognition clicked as soon as I obsessively read the resources my aunt recommended. There were others like me, others who understood the gifts and challenges I had been unsuccessfully trying to describe to friends, family, and partners (cue the Tarzan music).

As freeing and joyful as the news was, and as much as I wanted to try on this new identity I was receiving in exchange for the thousands of labels I had accumulated over my life, the diagnosis coincided with a break-up and another slump in the PhD that left me at my lowest self-image I had had in a long time:

Maybe there WAS something inherently wrong with me, rather than just different. Maybe I shouldn’t aspire to do certain things because my brain just wasn’t built for them.

This is when the depression began, and managing that, alongside my anxiety, became overwhelming. It’s something I would never wish on anyone.

Being on the autism spectrum puts me more at risk for mental health issues, but no one is truly immune. The experience did give me much needed perspective: where before there was only empathy for those struggling with mental health issues, there is now solidarity. I too, am walking this path.

I understand what it is like to have weeks fly by without data because your motivation and concentration to work go out the window, what it is like to miss meetings because you’re in bed unable to get up, or hiding in an empty corner of the tissue culture room because you just broke down in tears and how difficult it is to recognise and admit that you need help and to ask for it.

I understand from a deep place of gratitude that having a powerful support network in my supervisor, friends, and family, made all the difference during the recovery from depression, and while I still work on my anxiety. And I understand that, unfortunately, not everyone has such a strong support system available to them.

This is where environment plays a huge role in either mitigating or exacerbating the mental health struggles we can all experience. We cannot continue to ignore the countless anecdotes, now being backed by hard data, such as the Belgium study. These point to the sad truth we must all face: that the current academic culture and environment are doing more exacerbating than mitigating.

Behind each of these data points is a story, a life, some of which are tragically lost to mental health issues. We cannot continue to feel isolated and alone.

Those of us that can and are willing must join our stories and voices to advocate for ourselves and those who cannot. It’s #OktoSay. As someone who has been there, I urge you to reach out. It gets better, and you are never truly alone.

In healing solidarity, Juan Pablo Ruiz.

About the Author

Image of Juan wearing a labcoat
and taking notes in a laboratory
with glassware in the background

Juan Pablo Ruiz is currently working towards a DPhil in Biomedical Sciences. His research interests are in tissue and stem cell engineering, as well as developmental biology. He also has a wide array of interests which include positive psychology, literature, and creative writing. He recently received an ASD level 1, or Asperger's diagnosis, and is now working to break the stigma surrounding mental health and neurodiversity in academia

Taking time off your PhD for recovery

Written by Daniel Rough

At some point in our PhD lives, nearly all of us experience feelings of self-doubt. We may feel that we aren't 'good enough' to be doing a PhD. We might feel like despite our best efforts, our progress has hit a standstill. The pressures of academic life can end up taking their toll on our mental health. Indeed, an article in The Guardian reported that there is a 'culture of acceptance' of mental health issues pervading academia (you can read this article here).

Cycle showing that lack of progress leads to stress and anxiety which in turn leads to lack of focus and a further lack of progress.

One part reads: "...I see students and academics who view the researcher development service as unnecessary. I see students who imagine using our services as an "admission of defeat". To come to us, is to announce that you are not a perfect researcher."

For too long, I felt this way. I felt that admitting I was struggling was to admit that I was incapable, that I was weak, that I wasn't cut out for this. "Everyone else seems to be doing fine, what's wrong with me!? I'm obviously not working hard enough" I'd tell myself again and again. I tried to ignore the fact that starving my body was starving my brain, but I knew I was caught in a vicious cycle where work was affecting my health, and health was affecting my work.

Taking a leave of absence was a lifesaving decision. Since returning to university, I've felt much happier, and able to manage my life better. I'd like to reflect a bit on the factors that helped my leave of absence to go well.

#1: Keeping busy

One thing that hit me when I went off on leave, is that I made the transition from overworking myself to suddenly dropping all work altogether. This took a lot of adjustment, and my anxiety shifted from "I've got too much work to do" to "I'm wasting my time being unproductive!" Despite being off to relax, it was having the opposite effect, aaaargh!

I recommend setting yourself a project of some sort. It can be anything that has you put your mind to something. As humans, we naturally thrive on the satisfaction of work (admittedly some more than others) and have a need to feel useful. Using my example, I would strongly recommend starting a blog! Being able to chart my progress, while exercising my creativity, gave me a sense of purpose.

Of course, don't go starting your PhD work again while you're off on leave. However, acquiring knowledge that could be helpful for your research and career is also a productive path to go down. Whether it be learning a new programming language, learning how to write in a certain style, or even learning how to organise your life goals.

#2: Staying connected

In the months leading up to my leave of absence, I became socially isolated. I worked hours that would minimise the chance of meeting anyone in the office. I would ignore any social opportunities, if anyone asked, I would reply "I have some work to finish off". The PhD is generally a sole undertaking; you work on it yourself and are responsible for the outcomes. That means when we stop communicating with others, stop maintaining a social life, PhDs can be very lonely indeed.

When off on leave, I had my family there all the time, who I could talk to about anything, positive or negative. Eventually I made an effort to meet up with friends, too. In time I realised the importance of staying connected with people. I'm not suggesting for a minute that this is easy. Feelings of disconnectedness and anxiety can make social interaction terrifying.

Take it slow. Even just sharing a post on social media or having a chat about the weather with the cashier in Tesco, learning to socialise again was a big step in my recovery.

#3: Enjoying hobbies

I feel that it's important to give yourself a sense of purpose while you're off on leave. Remember though, you're taking a break from work! One of the best opportunities that leave affords is time to pursue hobbies and interests. When you return from leave, maintaining a work-life balance is essential. Do you have anything you used to love doing that you've had to sacrifice? Or maybe it's a good time to find a new passion!

When we focus on nothing but work, it can be like putting all our eggs in one basket. If work is going well, then it's easy to be positive and motivated. However, when research hits a stumbling block, we all need something at the end of the day to make us feel better. Take your mind off work by going for a walk, reading a novel, baking a cake, whatever you enjoy! I wouldn't discount Netflix and chill either.

#4: Embracing change

Image containing the saying that "The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new...".

At university, I had a routine, which became somewhat of a ritual. I felt extreme discomfort and anxiety in deviating from this routine. In returning to live with my family, I was no longer a slave to this routine. This took some getting used to, and initially it was quite frightening to not have those daily rituals.

In time, however, I learnt that I could cope without them. Routines are great and can keep us focused, but when we get tied into ritualistic behaviours, they can be damaging. Taking time off on leave is an opportunity to test yourself. Do something a bit different, shake up your routine. Again this is something I would take slowly, but it can be as simple as taking a different walk or having something new for lunch!

All in all

Taking leave may seem like a 'last resort' but try not to see it that way. Looking after your health is your top priority. With time to dedicate to your mental health, you can come back stronger and more focused. If a football player breaks their leg, they don't insist on playing as normal, they take time off to get better. Your mental health is no different!

About the Author

Photograph of the author

My name is Daniel, and over the last year I've been blogging about my recovery from anorexia at roughrecoveryblog.wordpress.com I want to offer my experiences, insights, struggles and achievements on my path to recovery. In doing so, my goal is to give hope and assurance to those in a similar situation. I’m 25, Scottish, and a PhD student at the University of St Andrews. Last year I took 6 months off my PhD to focus on anorexia recovery, during which I started my blog. Please have a look at this post on why I decided to take this time off. When I'm not researching or blogging, baking is my passion, and if I get fed up with the PhD, my fallback plan is to open a bakery 😃

An Undergraduate Perspective on Recovery

Written by Krishna Udaiwal

In the winter semester of my second year undergrad for philosophy/biology major, I underwent a period of uncontrolled pressure and a breaking point leading to severe depression & social anxiety, as well as cancelling the entire semester before the exams. It was a horrible experience, one which I wouldn’t prescribe to my worst enemies. During the worst of it, there was a breakdown event, loss of interest, severe self-deprecation and quarantine-like isolation. Fortunately, I took the seemingly irrational, but courageous, step to book an appointment with a doctor. Unfortunately, it was over 3 weeks after the initial month of agonizing despair, where hounding social anxiety tried to convince me to cancel the appointment (luckily, I hated using the phone or going outside even more). My decision wasn’t irrational and was the best course of action possible. It was the lowest consecutive time for me, where hearsay cases of micromanaging students ‘faking’ mental health conditions for advantage/grades (in my opinion displaced competitiveness from instructors) and my own lack of self-confidence/ineptitude initially deferred me from making that appointment. When learning of diseases & conditions the first lesson is to never self-diagnose, which is equally true for self-un-diagnosing mental health; you inherently cannot make an accurate judgment. It is essential to speak with a trustworthy source.

Once I spoke to the doctor (or General Practitioner, GP, in mental health lingo) it was obvious to them I needed medical help due to physical & mental signs, although some may not present any signs at all. The signs at my stage were tremors (without any stimulants), inability to look directly at someone, muffled speech, inability to focus or calm myself (these are self-observations post facto). GPs are, as they ought be, limited in declaring specific diagnosis & treatments in a single visit (for long-term diagnoses) as there may be false-positive cases (like hearsay cases) as mentioned before. As such, I was referred to a psychiatrist for in-depth analysis of my condition. For the immediate alleviation of my symptoms, I was conveyor-ed through a passive regiment of steps to recovery including counsellor visits to mitigate immediate risk and the psychiatrist diagnosis for long-term specific severity analysis. In addition, on-going appointments with my GP were booked immediately to ensure my condition did not break me off from seeking help, as very likely. Lastly, I was scheduled to speak with an academic counsellor to contemplate my options regarding my semester (they also immediately understood the gravity of my condition and weren’t intrusive, likely being used to such). Further medical treatments were thereafter discussed with the GP in consequent talks.

My GP was closely linked with the university healthcare network, so a passive & systematic approach was in-place to handle my situation. I could only hope to have a similar regiment should I have approached another unlinked GP, where an active search for information would be left up to the distressed student. Very likely, the student may have a better chance by breaking down the issue into personal rehabilitation & academic recovery.

Personal rehabilitation must necessarily take precedence, as the self-development requires a ready mind, which mental health issues take away. Self-development is necessary & core to studying at University. For my preservation, the actions undertaken were recurring GP appointments, counsellor visits, psychiatrist diagnosis and an appointment with the academic counsellor. The first three were part of personal rehabilitation and I would like to briefly summarize why they were necessary. Recurring GP appointments are, concurrent with the counsellor & psychiatrist appointments, for making the overall decisions in regards to personal rehabilitation options from mental health diagnoses. The treatment options usually include cognitive/speech therapy and medication. With each mental health disorder (anorexia, OCD, depression, etc) there are a multitude of different possibilities, so cognitive therapy and/or medication may work better alone or in combination. The psychiatrist is a specialized doctor who has the training and knowledge to accurately make mental health diagnoses, and to a much greater extent than a GP. Thus, GPs seek a psychiatrist’s diagnosis & recommendations, to determine if cognitive therapy and/or medication may be best. Any treatment prescribed depends on the patient’s approval, where patients may be against medication in some cases. In the case of depression, various medications target different neurotransmitters against potential chemical imbalance. Unfortunately, as causes vary and understanding is lacking, non-chemical imbalance causing depression leads to failed treatment by medication, off-putting many patients due to side-effects. Often, the timeframe towards making a diagnosis may be long, therefore a counsellor is needed to relieve pressure and defuse immediate thoughts of self-harm. A counsellor however is not a doctor nor is allowed to diagnose or prescribe therapies/medications to patients, but is very helpful towards the ongoing recovery. In summary, all three are usually needed for higher chances of rehabilitation.

Regarding academic recovery, it depends on your faculty, where different options may be present including cancelling the semester, deferring the exam (& shifting weight all to the exam), or continuing under variable accommodations discussed as per need. Unfortunately, my perspective is limited, as described previously, to what my academic counsellor allowed. I would not expect much creativity from academic counsellors however, as personal experiences & interactions highlight that they aren’t allowed to do much for undergrads anymore, more so within larger faculties.

Lastly, I want to mention during therapy, I learned that ‘suicidal thoughts weren’t normally present’ in healthy individuals. After partial results from treatment, it was apparently true. In addition, the rate of self-loathing thoughts decreased exponentially, as well as their severity, to metaphoric levels between bully-laughed at within a class of students to taking a vacation-nap on an isolated beach. Sure, the isolated beach may lead to some anxiety of unknown lurkers away from the beachfront, but only to such an amount that probability rules in relaxation. Since the hazardous time, I have also experienced that those vile thoughts can be relieved from socializing with trusted compatriots, which may be lacked within the isolated student. The academic environment where learning is secondary to undergrad hierarchy (GPA -> grants, graduate programs, competitive jobs, self-confidence to seek help/opportunities from instructors) reinforces that notion for introverts. After all, it is random chance that guides forming a friendship between two individuals.

I sincerely hope, if you are undergoing suicidal thoughts, you will talk to someone you can trust or a telephone helpline. Please don’t speak to former abusers, whom you have a history with no matter how optimistic. If you feel self-deprecating, seek a volunteer organization where people appreciate you so you can regain some of your spirit, this being my method towards personal well-being post-therapy. If you’re in a temporary crisis mode, or over-stressed, change your objectives to personal well-being immediately! An assignment or test can be deferred or re-weighted, but a breakdown has lasting consequences. You are not the first to be in crisis, and the faculty must accommodate.

If you feel of no consequence, let me know and I can try to brainwas—I mean encourage you towards some social causes I believe could use additional help (after some semblance of recovery of course). For instance, international agriculture, medical aid, food miles, local communities, cycling and botany.

 About the Author

Krishna Udaiwal, BSc, affected 2nd year of undergrad, dealing with the complications one at a time. Still impassioned & always reading on molecular life of plants and miRNA, aiming for MSc. Promoting science communication on Twitter, and always happy to help peers.

Giving Yourself Permission; especially for invisible illnessess

Written by Sophia Frentz

The most important thing I’ve ever learned how to do is to give myself permission.

If you’re reading this, it’s likely you’re an overachiever, that you’ve pushed yourself to (and past) breaking point multiple times, and that you’re not very good at saying no. I understand; I’m all that and more when it comes to toxic relationships with work. I’m pretty sure the only reason I survived my honours year is that the sound the heaters made at night scared me so I had to go home regularly.

My Coping Mechanism

When it comes to being chronically ill the most important coping mechanism is to give yourself a break. I have had depression for most, if not all, of my life. My anxiety and other brain quirks rear their heads when I push myself too hard. I’m good at ignoring them and getting on with work. I’m also good at getting distracted and forgetting to eat for a week. Neither of these are positive traits. When I gave myself permission (to be sad, to be afraid, to take days off, to take care of myself), a few things happened.

What happened when I cut myself some slack?

I stopped getting so defensive when people asked me about it. I’m constantly afraid of disappointing people in authority, but once I give myself permission to put my health first and told people that, there was very little argument. The people around you often want to be supportive, but can’t take your situation into account until you say “I’m taking today off because otherwise I will lie on the floor and cry instead of doing work”.

Secondly, I got healthier, happier, and more productive. This may seem obvious, but the “don’t do work to do more work overall because you’re not as sick” equation isn’t one I totally get. When I am sad or stressed, my go-to is to throw myself into work and yes, obviously that isn’t healthy or productive, but I liked it. Treating myself the way I would treat a sick partner made me better at research and happier with my life.

I became more confident. The pressures of being a woman in science means we’re not “meant to” have emotions (see: Tim Hunt’s failed “joke”). By giving myself permission to be “feminine” in the sense that I have feelings meant I was being myself a lot more, which made me a more confident researcher. It also meant I wasn’t bottling anything up, so my mental illness let up a lot. It surprised me how much of my anxiety was tied up in the fear of how people would respond to who I was.

Acceptance, Asking for Help and Healing

It also became easier to ask for help - I wasn’t hiding my mental illness any more, or pretending it was a “blessing in disguise” (I went through a few weird stages of relating to my mental health). Rather, I was allowing myself to have it and in the same step letting myself not be superhuman. I still don’t quite get along with the term “disability” but a fully healthy person probably couldn’t do what I push myself to try, so giving myself permission means taking a breath and not getting frustrated with my limitations. This resulted in me both thinking about my mental illness as an illness, and initiated getting on medication, which has been one of the best choices I’ve made.

Giving myself permission was instrumental when healing from trauma. At a recent talk about the barriers women in science face, a panel I was on was asked how we dealt with our personal barriers. I said that I cry a lot.  Allowing myself to cry, be angry, and to experience the full spectrum of human emotion has been invaluable. It has contributed to my growth as a human and as a scientist and has facilitated managing my illness while studying and working. 10/10 would recommend.

About the Author

Sophia Frentz is a PhD student in Genetics at the University of Melbourne with a fun cocktail of mental health issues, predominantly depression. She's learned a lot of lessons along the way but still struggles with giving herself a break.