Attending my first large international conference as a third-year PhD student was a milestone that I had been looking forward to for years. The time had finally arrived: the British Ecological Society annual meeting in Edinburgh was meticulously organized, buzzing with people, ideas, and ambition. From the seamless scheduling to the conference app, everything seemed to work exactly as it was supposed to. I, on the other hand, was not so reliable.
Earlier that year, I had been diagnosed with endometriosis. I was taking hormonal medication to manage the symptoms, not to cure the condition, but to reduce the risk of sudden, debilitating pain. Even with treatment, discomfort was constant.
When I opened the program a few days before travelling, excitement quickly gave way to overwhelm. So many sessions, so many accomplished researchers, so many reminders of how small my own work suddenly felt. I spent the weekend oscillating between enthusiasm and a familiar sense of inadequacy, repeating to myself that my research was valid and that I belonged there.
What I did not anticipate was how much energy it would take simply to exist in that space.
A Mix of Excitement and Familiar Doubts
On the first evening, the scale of the conference finally became clear to me. Hundreds of conversations unfolded at once. Most early career researchers were navigating the same sea of introductions and half-remembered names. As I attended talks that overlapped closely with my research, I found myself not just inspired but also understood. Conversations flowed easily. Ideas sparked in my mind. It was, in many ways, exactly what I had hoped a conference would be.
The next day, I arrived holding my fabric poster, already anxious. Would it stay up with the adhesive provided? How high should it be placed? Would people be able to read it comfortably? As trivial as these questions sound, they carried disproportionate weight in a room full of confident-looking scientists. Once the poster was up, I felt a new kind of anxiety: months of work tracking vegetation rhythms from space, seasonal cycles, climate signals, ecosystem change, were now pinned to a board for anyone to stop and question. I looked around me to see people like me, having the same thoughts in their minds. That, at least, was a relief.
And yet, beneath the professional excitement, my body was quietly protesting.
Running on a Low Energy Budget
With endometriosis, some symptoms are part of everyday life: fatigue lingers; bloating appears unpredictably, sometimes making it hard to sit comfortably and reshaping what I can wear. I have learned to dress strategically and to calculate how long I can stand, walk, or talk before needing rest or lying down. None of this was visible to anyone around me, and I kept it for myself. However, as endometriosis affects 10 percent of reproductive-age people assigned female at birth, realistically, I wasn’t the only one in that room navigating it, even if it felt that way.
By the third day, which was the day of my poster presentation, I took a deliberate decision to skip the morning sessions. Instead, I went to the gym, took time to rest, and focused on conserving social energy. It felt counterintuitive at a conference designed around constant engagement, but it was the only way I could be fully present later that afternoon.
The strategy worked. During the poster session, people stopped to ask thoughtful questions about my research. I spoke continuously, aware of my own intensity and hoping I wasn’t talking too much. A friend took photos of me mid-explanation, and for a moment, I looked exactly how I imagined a confident researcher should look.
I left the session exhausted but relieved. I had shown up. I had participated. I had not had to leave early because of pain. However, most importantly, I had listened to my body, trying not to give up completely while still accommodating it and being understanding, all while trying not to feel guilty.
By the last day, however, the cumulative toll was unavoidable. I attended the final sessions, but my body felt heavy, and I didn't feel like myself. When the conference ended, I returned to my accommodation and slept for hours.
Academic Systems Are Built for a Body I Do Not Have
This conference was my first major academic meeting and my first work trip. It was also my first time navigating such a professional milestone while managing a chronic, unpredictable condition. The experience forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: Many academic spaces are designed around an assumption of physical neutrality, a body that is always available, consistently functional, and unaffected by pain. For many researchers, particularly women and others with chronic or invisible conditions, that assumption does not hold.
Attending this conference taught me that succeeding in academia is not only about intellectual preparation or professional confidence. It is also about learning how to work within systems that were never designed with all bodies in mind and about recognizing that adapting to those systems often requires invisible additional labor.
