After my world started spinning, I recalibrated my approach to work

From ScienceMag:

I look at the beaver dam with trepidation. As an ecohydrologist who studies the engineering abilities of beavers, I’ve crossed hundreds of these structures with little hesitation. But now each step feels like braving a precipice. I move slowly, scanning the logs underfoot for stable ground, my students carrying the equipment I once shouldered. I’m conscious that at any moment the world can suddenly spin, leaving me reaching for the nearest willow branch just to stay upright. Vertigo has rewired how I move through wetlands, lecture halls, and life in general, making me hyperaware of balance—both physical and professional.

My vertigo roller coaster began with a strange incident 4 years ago. On my first day back on campus after the pandemic lockdowns, three masked men burst into my office as I met with a student on Zoom. It was straight out of a movie. The student kept talking, unaware of what was unfolding. After what seemed like an eternity, the man closest to me muttered “wrong person” and walked out. They didn’t physically hurt me, or—thankfully—the faculty member whom I later learned they intended to harm. But the intrusion unsettled me in ways I couldn’t shake.

I booked a massage to calm my frayed nerves. Instead, as my neck was being massaged, the room began to violently spin. As I later learned, the pressure dislodged tiny crystals in my inner ear that are crucial to balance. In a single moment, the ground shifted beneath me. And I didn’t know when—or whether—it would stop.

Afterward, days blurred into weeks as I stayed in bed, propped up to sleep upright, afraid to move my head lest I vomit uncontrollably. I abandoned all my duties except teaching, which I did on Zoom with my camera off, my mother-in-law advancing the slides and whispering occasional prompts as I spoke from memory. It was a dark time: harder than the pandemic, harder even than raising children. As the main income provider, I worried constantly about my family’s future if I didn’t recover.

Physiotherapy eventually helped stabilize my inner ear. Gradually the room steadied. But my journey wasn’t over. A year later, the vertigo returned, and then slowly faded over 10 months. Now, I live with the anxiety that at any moment, the floor might begin to shift again.

More than once, I’ve felt the spins come on midlecture, forcing me to grab the edge of the nearest table to steady myself. I’ve learned that vertigo demands constant mental energy just to keep upright. It’s work no one sees. And that’s part of what makes it hard to talk about.

I haven’t had any mishaps when I’ve been out in the field with my students studying beavers. But the fear is always there. So, too, is the shift in how I see myself as a scientist. Despite my love of fieldwork, I have had to accept that some seasons, I will do less of it. I’ve learned to build more flexibility into research plans, delegate in ways that help students grow, and focus on aspects of ecohydrology for which a steady gait isn’t crucial, like data analysis, writing, mentoring, and service.

My own vertigo has made me alert to signs of it in others. I notice the colleague who sits through standing ovations. The one who avoids certain terrain. The one who always takes the elevator. I see now that many of us are navigating invisible limitations while still showing up fully for our work.

These days I move with a kind of cautious attention I never needed before. But a slower pace has also opened up space for quiet gratitude. For months I couldn’t walk without assistance. I couldn’t look at a computer without vomiting. Now, I can be back in the field. I can travel. I can still do the work that makes me feel alive. My steps are slower, and the fear is still there—but so is the joy of taking them.

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