Navigating a Doctoral Journey with Chronic Illness: A Story of Resilience

My name is Tiffany, and I began my doctoral journey in the Fall of 2023. I’m currently pursuing an Ed.D. in Educational Leadership at Lynn University, where I attend classes one weekend a month for the entire three-year program. I have wanted to attain a doctoral degree since a very young age. My grandfather had encouraged me to do it, even though I would be the first in my family to attain such a degree. My grandfather died in January of 2022, about 6 months later I switched from working in housing at a university to working in Student Conduct at a different university. I was determined to get my doctoral degree, with my grandfather not here to see it, I know he is looking down proud of me. I’m now in year 2, working on my dissertation alongside my coursework—a balancing act that’s both challenging and deeply rewarding.

What makes this journey even more complex is that I’m navigating it while living with chronic illnesses. My health journey began when I was around 20 years old. Initially, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis—a diagnosis that shaped many years of uncertainty and fear. In 2019, I learned that I did not, in fact, have MS. That same year, I was diagnosed with Diabetes, which was a surprise when it happened but looking back, seeing as my glucose of 770, and I had an A1C of 12, it had been going on for a few months before I was diagnosed. More recently, I was diagnosed with Psoriatic Arthritis, which my doctor now believes has been the root of my symptoms all along.

I’m writing this not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I believe that with enough courage—and a willingness to keep going even when things aren’t perfect—you can pursue big dreams. This post is for anyone who might be facing similar struggles and wondering if it’s possible. I want you to know: it is.

There are challenges that come with living with a chronic illness—and there are challenges that come with pursuing a doctoral degree. But doing both while also working full time? That’s a whole different level of complexity.

Balancing my role as a full-time employee with my responsibilities as a doctoral student is already demanding. Add in the unpredictability of a chronic illness, and some days feel nearly impossible. Burnout and fatigue are constant companions. For me, psoriatic arthritis has made things especially difficult—my program involves a lot of writing, and I find that my hands tire quickly, sometimes painfully, from the repetitive typing.

Mentally, there’s also the internal battle. Negative self-talk can creep in when I fall behind or when I’m simply too exhausted to give my best. Physically, attending in-person classes—even just one weekend a month—requires a significant amount of energy. Sitting through lectures, staying engaged, and contributing meaningfully in discussions can be draining when your body is already working overtime just to function.

This dual reality isn’t often talked about, but it’s very real. And acknowledging it is the first step toward finding ways to navigate it.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this journey, it’s that communication is not optional—it’s essential. Talking to your professors and your dissertation chair early and often can make a world of difference. One of the most valuable habits I’ve developed is being proactive: I do my best to understand how my chronic illness shows up for me, and I communicate with my faculty before an issue becomes a crisis. That transparency allows them to support me more effectively, and it helps reduce the stress of feeling like I have to silently “push through.”

Another key lesson? Productivity looks different for everyone—especially when you live with a chronic illness. I’ve had to unlearn traditional ideas of productivity and find rhythms that work for me. That might mean shorter work sessions with more breaks, using speech-to-text tools when my hands hurt, or scheduling creative work during times of day when I feel the most alert. It’s all about adapting without guilt.

Something I learned in one of my doctoral classes that really stuck with me is a quote from Sir Ken Robinson: “If you are not prepared to be wrong, you’ll never come up with anything original.” That reminder gave me permission to let go of perfectionism and embrace growth, even when I don’t get it right the first time. Especially when I don’t.

One area I’m still working on is setting boundaries. As someone who wants to educate others and advocate for myself, it’s easy to overextend emotionally or feel like I have to constantly explain my experience. That’s where therapy has become a lifeline. Working with a therapist has helped me navigate the emotional weight of chronic illness and my doctoral workload. She helps me make peace with my limits, normalize the frustration, and gently remind me that rest is not failure—it’s part of my success.

Over the course of this journey, I’ve learned that surviving—and thriving—in a doctoral program while living with a chronic illness takes more than just determination. It takes strategy, support, and a lot of self-compassion.

One of the first, most practical steps I recommend is connecting with your university’s disability services office. Even if you don’t think you “qualify” or if you’ve been getting by without accommodations, it’s worth having the conversation. Chronic illnesses often fluctuate, and it helps to have formal support in place before you need it. Accommodations like extended deadlines, note-taking support, or flexibility with attendance can make a huge difference during flares or periods of intense fatigue.

Another game-changer for me has been building a support system—both inside and outside of my program. Having peers who understand the academic side of things is important, but so is having friends or family who support you emotionally, remind you to rest, and celebrate the small wins. Don’t underestimate the power of community, even if it’s just one or two people who truly “get it.”

When it comes to staying productive, I’ve had to tailor my workflow to honor my body’s needs. I use voice-to-text tools when my hands hurt, I break up tasks into smaller chunks, and I give myself grace when things take longer than expected. I also try to listen to my energy levels and adjust accordingly. If I know I have class in person over the weekend, I lighten my schedule the following Monday to allow time for recovery.

I’ve also learned that therapy is more than just a nice-to-have—it’s a core part of how I manage everything. My therapist helps me process the emotional challenges of living with a chronic illness and juggling multiple roles. She helps me create boundaries, work through guilt, and show up for myself in ways that feel sustainable.

And finally, one of the simplest but most powerful strategies: ask for help. Whether it’s from a classmate, a colleague, a professor, or your advisor—ask. You don’t have to carry everything alone.

Living with a chronic illness while pursuing a doctoral degree can wear on every part of you—mind, body, and spirit. It’s not just the physical symptoms that make it hard. It’s the emotional weight, the constant pressure to keep up, and the voice in your head that sometimes whispers, “Why can’t you just push through?”

Burnout can sneak up fast when you’re constantly pouring from an empty cup. Between work, school, and managing a fluctuating health condition, I’ve learned how important it is to pay attention to the signs: mental fog, irritability, chronic exhaustion, emotional numbness. Those aren’t signs of weakness—they’re warning lights telling you to slow down.

That’s where self-compassion comes in. One of the most powerful shifts I’ve experienced came after reading Self-Compassion by Dr. Kristin Neff. She writes, “With self-compassion, we give ourselves the same kindness and care we’d give to a good friend.” That quote hit home for me. I would never criticize a friend for needing rest or struggling with a tough season—so why was I doing it to myself?

For me, practicing self-compassion looks like:

• • Letting go of perfection and focusing on progress.

• • Allowing myself to take breaks without guilt.

• • Accepting that rest is not a reward, but a necessity.

• • Reminding myself that struggling doesn’t mean I’m failing—it means I’m human.

Therapy has been an essential part of developing this mindset. My therapist helps me untangle the thoughts that keep me stuck in comparison or self-judgment. She helps me make space for grief on the hard days, and celebrate resilience on the good ones. She also reminds me that advocating for myself doesn’t mean I have to constantly perform my illness—it’s okay to set limits without explanation. Creating small rituals of care has helped me stay grounded. That might look like journaling, listening to calming music after class, or taking a short walk when my joints allow. Even little things can go a long way in replenishing emotional energy. Most importantly, I’ve learned to forgive myself when I don’t get it all right. Because I won’t. And that’s okay.

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned on this journey is that you cannot do it alone—and you don’t have to.

Support can take many forms, and it’s not always obvious where to find it at first. Within my program, I’ve been fortunate to connect with peers who understand the academic pressures and can relate to the highs and lows of doctoral life. Even just having one or two people to vent to after class or check in with during dissertation crunch time can make you feel less isolated.

But the truth is, not everyone in your academic circle will understand what it’s like to live with a chronic illness. That’s why finding support outside of the program has been just as critical for me. Whether it’s friends, family, or online communities, having people who validate your lived experience—and don’t expect you to justify or explain your pain—is powerful.

One online community that has brought me unexpected joy and solidarity is the Chronic Illness Warrior Card Swap. It’s a simple concept: people living with chronic illness send each other encouraging cards through the mail. But the impact is huge. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone—that others out there are fighting their own battles and choosing to reach out with compassion. Those little notes often show up exactly when I need them most.

Support also includes professional care. As I mentioned earlier, working with a therapist has been instrumental in helping me process both my academic stress and the emotional complexity of chronic illness. She helps me set boundaries, challenge negative thought patterns, and remember that I deserve kindness—even from myself.

If you haven’t found “your people” yet, don’t give up. They’re out there. Whether it’s a peer in your cohort, a chronic illness advocate on Instagram, or someone in a Facebook group for doctoral students with disabilities—connection is possible. And it can make all the difference.

If you’re reading this and you’re living with a chronic illness while navigating a doctoral program (or even just thinking about it)—I want you to hear this clearly: you are strong.

This path is not easy. Some days will be filled with doubt, discomfort, and exhaustion. There may be moments where you feel behind, disconnected, or discouraged. But none of that means you’re not meant to be here.

Your presence in academia matters. Your voice, your ideas, your lived experiences—they matter. Chronic illness doesn’t disqualify you from contributing meaningfully to your field. In fact, it often gives you a deeper well of empathy, insight, and resilience that enriches your work in powerful ways.

It may take longer. You might have to approach things differently than your peers. You may even have to advocate more loudly than you’d like. But you belong in these rooms, in these conversations, and in this journey.

You’re not weak for needing rest. You’re not a burden for needing support. You are navigating two incredibly demanding things at once—and you’re doing it with courage.

So please, give yourself credit. Give yourself grace. Keep going when you can, rest when you need to, and know that others—like me—are walking this path with you.

This journey has taught me so much—not just about educational leadership or how to write a dissertation, but about myself. One of the biggest lessons has been learning my limits and honoring them. That’s not weakness—it’s wisdom. And when I forget that, when I’m feeling down or questioning whether I can keep going, my support system reminds me: You’ve got this.

Being part of a cohort model at Lynn University has been a huge blessing. We’re in this together, and we make sure no one feels alone. We hype each other up, check in on one another, and push each other toward the finish line. That kind of community is everything when you’re carrying more than just textbooks.

If there’s one thing I hope you take away from all of this, it’s that your voice matters. Your lived experiences matter. Your ideas are valid and worthy of space in academia. Chronic illness doesn’t cancel your potential—it just means your path may look different. And that’s okay.

So if you want to pursue a doctorate, do it. And if you’re already on the journey and just need someone to say, “You’re not alone,”—consider this that moment.

If you ever want to connect, ask questions, or just need someone to cheer you on, I mean it: reach out to me. tiffanymarlene@gmail.com.

You don’t have to do this alone.

Tiffany S.

https://www.instagram.com/tiffanmyah/#

*About the Author Tiffany is the Assistant Director of Student Conduct and a doctoral student in Educational Leadership at Lynn University. Based in sunny South Florida, she’s passionate about education, leadership, advocacy, and amplifying LGBTQIA+ lived experiences. When she’s not working or writing, you’ll find her reading, coloring, taking nature walks, spending time with her partner Joanne, or hanging out with friends. Fun fact: she earned her master’s degree at LSU—Geaux Tigers!