As a psychology Ph.D. student, I’ve learned to care for myself while caring for others

From ScienceMag:

My dream of becoming a psychologist was becoming a nightmare. After being diagnosed with two chronic conditions during the second year of my Ph.D., I was caught endlessly cycling from doctor’s appointments to research meetings, late-night studying to late-morning crashing, physical therapy to office hours, hospital visits to practicum training. I could no longer meet my expectations of what it meant to be an academic: productive, efficient, capable. Was this career even possible for me? The question weighed heavily. Even heavier was my reaction: Maybe it wasn’t. I had been trained to recognize what I was going through: grief. And yet, I felt lost.

My academic training had gone smoothly until early in my second year of graduate school, when I started to experience fatigue, chronic pain, and occasional fainting. As my peers pulled all-nighters to complete their first papers, I struggled just to make it to class on a full night’s sleep. Imposter syndrome flared. Because of pain, I had difficulty spending extended amounts of time at my desk. When I got up to stretch, my heart raced and my head spun. What started as a 15-minute break would sometimes turn into an entire day off. I missed deadlines. Absences accumulated. To save energy for school, I opted out of social and leisure activities that were critical for managing my stress, sending me into a major depressive episode. The more I forced myself to achieve the way I was used to, the worse my symptoms became.

After copious testing, I was eventually diagnosed with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome and hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. I had to finally face the fact that I would never be able to push my mind and body too hard without pushing myself over the edge. I registered with my university’s disability resource center, but hesitated to use its support systems or explore ways to make my work more manageable. Instead, I muddled through another year on my own, alternating between feeling uncomfortably different from most of my colleagues and trying to practice self-compassion.

Then, in the fourth year of my program, I began a practicum experience—as a therapist at the same disability resource center. I noticed that nearly all of my clients faced the same internal struggle I did, wondering whether they were worthy of the accommodations they sought. I found myself echoing a phrase: “Just because your cup is different doesn’t mean you can’t pour from it. But no one can pour from an empty cup.” I realized what a hypocrite I was. I finally acknowledged I deserved the support to refill my own cup, too.

I learned about what assistance was available to me: practical and financial tools I hadn’t even considered, such as funding to support basic needs and medical supply costs, and connection to people with experiences very similar to mine. I began to see a therapist to manage the stress of my studies and my conditions, and I stopped letting self-care become secondary to school. I consulted with the faculty in my program to make my workspace more functional and accessible, for example by using tall stools when I teach and creating open spaces in my work areas for my mobility aids. I workshopped my hours with my advisers to make sure I was working when I felt better and resting when I felt worse.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing. When the elevator to my training clinic broke down for multiple months, the first suggestion from my faculty was not to find an alternative way for me to do my work, but to find alternative students to do the work for me. But, through persistent conversation and collaboration with the faculty, I advocated for the accommodation to work remotely and demonstrated to myself and my mentors that I could still do quality work, even if it looked a little different from everyone else’s.

Through this journey, I discovered I’m not alone, and that asking for help is a sign of insight and confidence in myself that is invaluable to the work I do. In all I lost to my illnesses, I gained in my voice and agency to decide not only that, yes, I will be a psychologist, but also the kind of academic I want to be: compassionate, determined, and balanced in my science, my service, and myself.

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