Academic life is increasingly characterised by a culture of constant productivity. Today's PhD students are expected not only to conduct original research and complete a thesis within a strict four-year timeframe, but also to publish journal articles (and lots of them), present at conferences, secure funding opportunities, network with other researchers and form collaborations, and prepare for an increasingly competitive job market where a lengthy publication record is increasingly seen as the norm. Success is measured through outputs, productivity, and visibility, creating a culture where there is always another paper to write or another deadline to meet in this ‘publish-or-perish’ academic environment.

For many researchers, these pressures are challenging enough. For those of us living with hidden disabilities, they can feel overwhelming and, at times, profoundly disheartening. As someone who has just completed a PhD whilst living with a brain injury, I experienced first-hand the reality of feeling as though I could never quite keep up.

To me, this reveals a rather fundamental contradiction. Universities increasingly celebrate diversity and inclusivity, yet academic success continues to be measured against standards that assume everyone can work at the same pace, sustain the same levels of productivity, and prioritise their research above all else. For researchers with invisible disabilities, the challenge is often not the research itself but meeting the ostensibly relentless expectations that now come with being in academia.

I'm not afraid to admit that, yes, I have completed my thesis. However, I have not published an article in a journal, I've never been to a conference, and I've often felt as though I was falling behind my peers. In fact, I've ruled out looking at postdoctoral positions altogether. My lack of a shiny publication record would likely prevent me from even getting through the interview door, and with my funding now having come to an end, I need to focus on earning a living rather than finding the time to publish.

Looking back now, I realise I was measuring myself against standards that failed to account for the reality of living with a hidden disability and that, in fact, I should be extremely proud of myself. Yet, this is exactly why this conversation needs to be had.

Disability is not always visible. Although I've improved significantly over the last year or two, my brain injury was a serious limitation for much of my PhD. I was fatigued almost constantly, often sleeping several times a day, struggled with memory and concentration, and could become easily overwhelmed. While my peers were focused on publishing papers and building academic profiles, much of my energy was spent simply trying to get through the day. From the outside, however, I looked like every other PhD student, and I too was judging myself by the same standards.

I became motivated to write this piece after speaking to another PhD student who was experiencing significant challenges outside of their research a few weeks ago. Much of what they were saying was exactly what I thought a few years ago.

There seems to be a common assumption in academia that everyone is able to dedicate eight hours or more a day to their research, churn out journal articles, attend multiple conferences, travel frequently, read or write for extended periods, and maintain this level of output indefinitely. This expectation can (un)intentionally exclude people. I remember constantly comparing myself to others and thinking that everyone else seemed to be able to devote all of their time and energy to their PhD, whilst I physically couldn’t.

I guess the problem is that when a disability or personal challenge is invisible, people often cannot see the barriers the person is facing. From the outside, it can look as if everyone is working on a level playing field. At a departmental meeting, when it became obvious that I would not be able to complete my PhD within four years, I was told that we really shouldn’t be going over four years for a PhD. Whether intended that way or not, it left me feeling as though I was simply lazy, and that was the reason I would not be finishing on time, highlighting the dangers of focusing on visible achievements to someone facing invisible challenges, and the pressure that can create to just ‘push through’.

And this pressure to ‘push through’ is hugely damaging. In a recent study in the Journal of Health Economics, it was found that following the start of their studies, psychiatric medication use among PhD students increases substantially. This upward trend continues throughout the course, and by the fifth-year medication use has increased by 40% compared to pre-PhD levels.

For me, there was a growing feeling that I was being seen as ‘less capable’. As a result, I gradually retreated into a small circle of close friends within the department who knew what I was going through and provided the support I needed. I also stopped attending department meetings, talks, and other academic events. Looking back now, I recognise that some of this was driven by my own feelings of inadequacy within those academic spaces.

However, I don't want this piece to focus solely on the challenges! There are also valuable lessons to be learned about what can help people in similar situations, and I hope sharing my experiences can contribute to a more constructive conversation.

First and foremost, I want to acknowledge that I had incredibly supportive supervisors who were instrumental in helping me complete my PhD. They did not place pressures on me to meet unrealistic deadlines, were flexible about when work was completed, advocated on my behalf, and created an environment where I felt understood. This flexibility around deadlines and expectations is something that I think can provide a useful model for supporting researchers with hidden disabilities or personal challenges moving forwards.

There were also colleagues within the teaching team who were incredibly supportive - offering flexible working arrangements and recognising that productivity does not always look the same for everyone.

I also developed my own personal strategies to manage my workload and found my own ways of doing a PhD. I learned to vary the types of tasks I was doing, moving between reading, writing, and analysing data to prevent my brain from becoming too fatigued. I also became more responsive to how I was feeling on any given day, recognising that some days were significantly better tiredness-wise than others. One strategy that helped was creating a list of ‘energy-intensive’ activities and ‘less energy-intensive’ activities that needed doing to complete my PhD, allowing me to choose tasks based on my energy-levels that morning, rather than forcing myself to work in the same way every day. And most importantly, I learned that it is okay to take breaks. Rest is not a sign of laziness or a lack of commitment to your research. It is what allowed me to keep going when I wanted to give the PhD up.

But there are also things universities can do better. We need to think more carefully about the language and tone we use within academia and recognise the impact that seemingly small comments can have. Clearly, that departmental meeting about finishing my PhD on time stayed with me and had a lasting impact on how I viewed my own abilities, given that I am still talking about it now. The issue was not that anyone intended harm, but that language and assumptions can have lasting consequences, particularly when someone is already questioning whether they belong.

At a wider level, universities need greater awareness of hidden disabilities, more flexible approaches to expectations, and a recognition that disability experiences vary immensely and there are multiple ways to undertake and complete a PhD.

Finishing my PhD is an achievement I am incredibly proud of, but it also reflects the lived experience of completing a PhD with a hidden disability within an academic environment that often rewards constant productivity. It would be a mistake to see this achievement as evidence that my brain injury no longer mattered. If anything, it highlights the barriers that continue to exist within this space.

Academic culture often places excessive value on constant output and the ability to keep up with an ever-growing list of expectations, but this does not reflect the reality of everyone’s experience. Completing a PhD with a hidden disability has taught me that achievement is not always (and should not always be) measured by how much you produce, but by the resilience and determination it takes to actually be there.

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