I Live with Depression and Anxiety. Do I Belong in Academia?

For as long as I can remember, academia has been the place where I’ve found purpose and passion. But due to my experiences living with depression and anxiety, I have occasionally questioned whether I truly belonged in this space—especially within the neoliberal university, a system increasingly focused on productivity, consistency, and ever-growing expectations.

The pressure to publish, the constant drive to meet rising standards, and the unrelenting demand for "excellence" can be overwhelming for anyone, but especially for those of us navigating mental health challenges. As someone living with depression and anxiety, I’ve often wondered: How can I keep up? Is there space for me here? These questions have lingered, not just because of the work itself, but because of the culture that surrounds academia.

We sometimes do ourselves a disservice by internalizing and perpetuating the elusive expectations that academia imposes. We compare ourselves to others, measuring our worth by the progress of our dissertations or the number of publications, asking one another, "Are you done yet?" as if success can only be marked by completion.

We wonder how others dare to carve out time for a life outside of academic work, as if taking a break signals a lack of commitment. I remember vividly, as a graduate student, sitting in the university cafeteria with a fellow student, enjoying a rare coffee break. A professor walked by and, with a hint of disapproval, asked, "How do you have time for coffee breaks?" That moment stayed with me, a sharp reminder of how deeply these unrealistic expectations are ingrained.

This kind of thinking isn’t healthy—it erodes our well-being and creates a toxic culture of overwork and guilt, where rest and balance are seen as luxuries rather than necessities. We need to rethink what productivity and success mean, and recognize that taking time for ourselves doesn’t make us less dedicated—it makes us human.

The neoliberal university prioritizes productivity above all else. We are expected to churn out papers, apply for grants, mentor students, serve on committees, and maintain a public-facing presence as experts in our fields. For those of us with mental health challenges, this relentless pace is not just exhausting—it can feel impossible. Living with anxiety means that some days, the smallest tasks can feel insurmountable, and living with depression can make it difficult to find motivation to do work I know I care about deeply.

At my lowest points, I have asked myself if I could continue on this path. Was academia a space that would allow me to thrive, or was I destined to burn out in the pursuit of expectations that seemed unattainable? I wrestled with the fear that I simply didn’t belong.

Navigating Academia with Mental Health Experiences

The truth is, it hasn’t been easy. But over time, I’ve learned to navigate academia on my own terms, taking steps to create space for myself while rejecting the toxic demands of productivity that define much of the academic experience.

One of the first steps I took was to recognize and embrace my mental health needs. Instead of viewing depression and anxiety as obstacles to overcome, I began to see them as parts of my lived experience that required care and attention—just like any other aspect of my well-being. This meant setting boundaries around work, seeking support from trusted colleagues and mentors, and finding ways to prioritize other parts of my life (my cat, Randy, sure is grateful) without guilt.

Combatting Sanism in Academia

As I became more comfortable advocating for my own needs, I also became more aware of the ways that academia, intentionally or not, perpetuates sanist practices. Sanism refers to the discrimination, prejudice, and oppression directed toward individuals with mental health conditions. It’s embedded in the way we structure our expectations around work and productivity, often glorifying overwork while pathologizing those who cannot “keep up.”

Sanist attitudes are particularly pervasive in academia, where consistent productivity is often seen as the only path to success. Scholars with mental health experiences are frequently stigmatized or dismissed, our struggles viewed as weaknesses rather than legitimate experiences deserving of accommodation and understanding.

I have taken deliberate steps to ensure I do not reproduce sanist practices in my own teaching, research partnerships, and mentorship experiences. In my teaching, for example, I’ve adopted flexible deadlines and have been transparent with students about the importance of mental health. I try to create an environment where students feel comfortable asking for accommodations and where they know they won’t be penalized for prioritizing their well-being. This transparency doesn’t just humanize the learning experience—it also encourages students to take their own mental health seriously.

In my research partnerships, I am intentional about creating collaborative spaces that recognize the varied experiences of my colleagues. I strive to foster a culture of mutual support, where taking time for self-care or mental health isn’t seen as a failure or a disruption to the work, but as a necessary and respected part of the process.

As a mentor, I prioritize open conversations about mental health with my students and early-career colleagues. I want them to know that they don’t have to sacrifice their well-being to succeed in academia, and that it’s okay to ask for help. I try to model these practices in my own life—setting boundaries, recognizing when I need to step back, and encouraging others to do the same.

I count myself lucky, as a critical disability studies scholar, to have had the opportunity to engage deeply with Mad Studies, both in my reading and teaching. Mad Studies is an interdisciplinary field that critically examines mental health, psychiatric oppression, and the experiences of individuals labeled as “mad” or mentally ill. It challenges dominant narratives about mental illness, rejecting medicalized views that pathologize individuals, and instead, focuses on lived experiences, self-determination, and resisting psychiatric oppression.

The field of Mad Studies has profoundly influenced the way I approach my work, shaping how I understand and navigate mental health within academic spaces. By drawing on the insights of Mad Studies, I strive to create more inclusive and compassionate environments in my teaching, research, and mentorship—ones that honor the complexities of mental health and resist sanist attitudes that often dominate higher education.

Reimagining Academia

Despite the many challenges that come with living with depression and anxiety in a system that doesn’t always accommodate these realities, I have found ways to belong in academia. I don’t belong because I’ve managed to “beat” my mental health conditions—I belong because I’ve learned to build an academic life that accommodates them. I’ve redefined what success looks like for me, embracing the notion that it’s not about how much I can produce, but the quality of the connections I make, the students I support, and the community I build.

This journey hasn’t been without struggle, and I know that many others face the same questions I once did: Do I belong here? For anyone asking themselves this, I want to say: Yes, you do belong. Academia needs scholars like us—scholars who challenge the status quo, who bring diverse perspectives and experiences, and who are willing to push for change in how we define success, productivity, and well-being.

Ultimately, I remain hopeful that the more we share our stories, the more we can transform academia into a space where mental health is not a barrier, but a recognized and respected part of our academic journeys.

Final Thoughts

Living with depression and anxiety while pursuing an academic career is no easy task, especially in a system that seems to value relentless productivity over well-being. But it is possible to find ways to thrive, to challenge the sanist practices that persist, and to create a more inclusive, supportive academic environment—for ourselves and for future generations of scholars.