Author: Emily Cocker // Editors: Ayobami Esther Olanrewaju and Erin Pallott

Reading Time: 5 minutes // Feature Photo by Unseen Studio on Unsplash

I started my Epidemiology PhD in October 2022. I missed the Disabled PGR Induction by a few weeks, so I felt lost not knowing where to start from Day One. The generic PGR induction was my first day on-site. I walked out of the car park, taking several breaks, pretending to be texting, so that others would not notice the young seemingly healthy student struggling to travel short distances. In hindsight, nobody looked because nobody cared. We all walk around, living our lives and moving forward. So why I felt so insecure, I’m not sure. In general, I’m invisible, which is the way I like it. Most of the time, I don’t think people notice me. But, when my invisible disabilities show up in public, I feel like the whole world has a microscope pressed up against me. This microscope analyses my every defect and deficiency in the cold light of day.

I found the building for the induction but hesitated. I rang my partner in panic. I was anxious to step inside and be around (presumably) so many people. I was trying to remember what I was “supposed” to do around others. Listing them in my head: smile, make eye contact, refrain from talking about your special interests, don’t have a meltdown, ask questions about others, don’t hunch over in pain, breathe. Repeating them in my head is my mantra on appearing “normal”. I gathered the courage following the phone pep talk and entered. I immediately forgot my “how to be normal” list, that I developed from years of internalised ableism through society, despite being disabled. I walked in with my head down, pretending to text again so not to lock eyes with anyone unexpectedly. I saw the tallest set of stairs that can only be described as my Mount Everest, and gulped. I follow the signs to the lift a short walk down the hall. “Out of Service” was plastered on the smeared glass. I notice someone else there, “not an ideal start” she says through laughter and disbelief. I mimic her reaction, but panic swells in my gut. How will I get up the stairs to the induction? Although I arrived 20 minutes early, I’m already panicking about being late. I plan, and I like plans, but this wasn’t part of the plan. The lift was supposed to work. It completely threw me off.

Photo by Dirk Spijkers on Unsplash

We approached a member of staff. They apologised for the “inconvenience” but there’s no alternative. I laughed in my head, it isn’t an inconvenience, it’s a barrier to equal access for all students. We struggle up the stairs, taking one step at a time and holding the stair rail as we encourage each other to move forward. A queue formed behind us. It’s small enough to not create traffic, but large enough that I feel the pressure to move faster: “Come on Emily, move!” I berate myself internally.

We enter the large room, with high ceilings and tall windows, that looks like a room you’d expect at Hogwarts. Ah, Hogwarts. I feel comfort, Harry Potter is one of my special interests. I imagine I’m walking into the Great Hall with my Hufflepuff attire and wand at the ready. But then this image starts to blur, and I notice how overcrowded the room is. As the noise resonates against the large walls, I can feel the light intensity darting through my eyes, and I can smell hot beverages and pastries being carried. I take a deep breath: “you won’t be there long, it’s okay”, I hear my partner say in my head from our phone call. 

Photo by Artem Maltsev on Unsplash

I bypass the busy stands and sit in a hardback chair with not much back support. I wiggle around to try and get comfy, when all I want to do is sit on the floor with a pillow. But I can’t do that, right? Everyone’s eyes move forward as the talks start. I try to concentrate, but my pants itch, and someone nearby rustles a bag. It’s so hot with so many bodies close together. But I can’t take my jacket off as it feels like I’d be removing layers of armour. This would be taking away additional barriers to the world, leaving me more vulnerable than I already feel.

The talks are over. What did they say? I quickly jot down the links on the PowerPoint for where we can “get all of this information online” since I couldn’t concentrate on the speakers. My brain was too full. I went to the stalls; I enjoyed them more than I thought. I managed to talk to people without too much anxiety, but without eye contact. I forgot eye contact. I kick myself; I was doing so well. “No, I AM doing so well”, I reassure myself.

The induction ends, I hastily leave accompanied by my bag of information leaflets and free pens. I yawn, rummaging through my backpack for my pain killers that are now due (and much needed). My pain drowns me. I can’t reach the surface for a breath. I need to go home. I rushed to my car. I had to pull over a few minutes down the road. The meltdown I had kept at bay for 3 hours erupted volcanically. I ring my mum, the only person I want in this moment of desperation despite being a nearly-30-year-old woman. She reassures me, and I feel safe driving again after some time.

I return home in the early evening and go straight to sleep, not waking up for more than 24 hours later. But I’m still tired. Exhausted even. I then thought about the day, and the comments I had heard in passing: ‘What society should I join?’, ‘What skills sessions are there for new researchers?’, ‘When is the next PGR social event?’. And all I can think of is how will I cope with being on such a busy campus? How many people will I share an office with and mask in front of them daily? How do I make friends when I have so many barriers?

I tell myself, Emily, just breathe. Take it easy. You completed the first day.  You even met others who may have had similar struggles, but you succeeded and might help each other overcome those struggles. After all, isn’t that what it is supposed to be all about? Building a community of support to get you through tough times. It was a tough induction for me, but I did it, and you can do it too. We’ve got this.

Photo by Gregory Pappas on Unsplash