As a Ph.D. student with bipolar disorder, I’ve found strength in a perceived weakness

From ScienceMag:

I remember the moment my mentor in medical school told me she wouldn’t be writing me a letter of recommendation for my Ph.D. application—my planned next step. “You’re too sensitive,” she said. As if something at the core of who I was—something I couldn’t change—disqualified me from the future I had worked so hard for. At the time, I was devastated. Honestly, 4 years later, I still am. It felt like a punch to the gut, delivered by someone I respected and trusted. That moment planted a doubt I’ve carried ever since. But it also ignited a spark that led me to realize what others see as a weakness is ultimately a strength, albeit one that comes with daily challenges.

After six intense years of medical school, my mental health had slowly deteriorated without anyone, including myself, noticing. Right after graduating, I jumped into a Ph.D. program abroad, intending to pursue a career that would combine medicine and research, satisfying both my altruistic side and my fascination with human physiology and disease. That period was full of firsts: first time on a plane, first time living away from my family and boyfriend, first time stepping into the unknown of academic research.

Things quickly unraveled. I was anxious, constantly distracted, and overwhelmed by tasks others seemed to do with ease—such as pipetting, or handling animals during experiments. I’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced I’d left the cell incubator open, even though I’d checked it several times. The stress built up until I reached a breaking point. I switched labs, effectively starting over, and finally began to take my mental health seriously. In the second year of my Ph.D., I saw a psychiatrist and received a diagnosis: bipolar II disorder.

Living with bipolar disorder as a Ph.D. student means sensitivity isn’t optional—it’s part of how I move through the world. Science is meant to be thrilling, but for me, every new experiment brought waves of stress and doubt. I’d dive deep into the research, trying to eliminate every unknown—sometimes so much that I’d miss deadlines. People saw this as procrastination, and I kept hearing the same message: “Toughen up.” So, I learned to hide my struggles, even if it meant pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. But once I began treatment, I began to feel I was finding some stability for the first time.

Then, in October 2023, conflict came to Israel, where I was studying. With air raid sirens and drones overhead, I made the hard decision to return home to Serbia. But coming back brought its own pain. As a queer person, I didn’t feel safe or seen in my home country. My newfound stability began to unravel, and I knew I couldn’t stay. I left again, this time for Denmark—to start my Ph.D. anew in a place where I could live more freely.

Since arriving here, I’ve figured out ways to make this journey more sustainable, through trial and error. At the suggestion of a friend, I take pictures and record videos of my experiments, so I don’t have to stress about taking perfect notes. I’ve learned to accept criticism without interpreting it as a personal attack. I take my medication and reach out when I need help. Most of all, I speak up for myself, letting my supervisors know which situations will likely be a challenge for me.

My mentor’s comment about sensitivity still echoes in my mind when things get hard. Sometimes I wonder whether she was right. But with time I’ve come to see my sensitivity as something other than a weakness. It’s the source of the empathy that compelled me to become a physician in the first place, and it’s what pushes me to do research and learn more about the patients I will one day treat. My own experience with a chronic condition has convinced me that patients need doctors who can combine scientific precision with compassionate practice.

The rigid, high-pressure environment of academia isn’t easy for people like me. But I’m stronger for having learned how to protect my well-being while pursuing my passion. My mental health struggles have forced me to check in with myself, respect my limits, and make space for emotion in an environment that treats it as a liability.

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