Moments before I presented my first seminar as a postdoc to my lab group, my eyelids grew heavy and my sense of alertness dissolved into a dreamlike state. It was a sleep attack—a result of narcolepsy, which I was diagnosed with 2 years earlier. I apologized for my incessant yawning and continued with my talk despite an overwhelming urge to sleep. It’s one of many moments when my narcolepsy made my career difficult. But ever since I learned of a renowned scientist who has narcolepsy, I’ve known I can succeed in science, too. > “I … feared my career in science had reached a dead end.” I’ve fought the urge to sleep for much of my life. At a young age, I fell asleep in bizarre places—on the front lawn, in a pile of stuffed animals—and in school I was frequently reprimanded for yawning. Fearing others would think I was lazy, I got in the habit of working harder on my schoolwork than everyone else. As an undergraduate, I relied on energy drinks to keep me awake through long hours studying. But when exams were over, I’d stay in bed for days to recuperate. Graduate school was more difficult because my work was never “done.” There was always a new paper to read or an experiment to plan. Shortly after passing my Ph.D. qualifying exam, I worked in the lab every day for more than 30 days straight. That sapped what little energy I had in the first place. The stress and exhaustion exacerbated my sleep issues. On more than one occasion, I had to postpone planned experiments and rush home to take a nap. During conversations with my mentor, my stream of thought would sometimes run dry midsentence and I would have to ask him what I was talking about. I thought depression caused my brain fog and fatigue, so I started seeing a psychiatrist. After 2 years, and multiple medications, I was no better. So she had me complete a sleep questionnaire, which led to a referral to a sleep clinic and a series of sleep tests. Shortly thereafter I received my diagnosis: narcolepsy. The news was a relief because it meant I might finally receive appropriate treatment and learn how to manage my symptoms. But I also feared my career in science had reached a dead end. As a neuroscientist, how could I uncover the inner workings of the brain with one that is “broken”? How could I succeed if I had to put sleep hygiene ahead of science? Then I stumbled on an article about George Church, a prominent Harvard University geneticist who has narcolepsy. Calling his condition “a feature, not a bug,” he said his daytime bouts of sleep are opportunities for creative, quasi-conscious thought, when he’s hatched some of his best ideas. Reading about his condition was empowering. It gave me a sense of belonging, one that went beyond “sure, you can enter our circle” to “you’re in our circle and we’re better for it.” I wrote Dr. Church an email, telling him how much his perspective meant to me. To my surprise, he sent a detailed reply. “Lecture classes were very hard for me,” he wrote. “I even flunked out of my first attempt at Ph.D.” His words helped me cultivate a fierce sense of self-compassion. I began to accept that my best can look different from day to day and that I might struggle with some aspects of academia more than others. I also implemented many of the strategies he recommended for dealing with narcolepsy, including waiting until evening to eat a large meal and breaking up the day physically with a mixture of standing, pacing, and sitting. I registered with my university’s disability office and made requests for workplace accommodations. The university bought me a standing desk, which helped me feel more alert, and I received permission to take naps at work. I made similar requests when I started a postdoc last year. I still harbor fears of seeming lazy, and I worry that the brain fog I suffer from will one day settle and never lift. But these fears do not stop me from continuing to pursue my goal of managing my own lab one day. Thanks to Dr. Church, I know it’s possible—as long as I take care of myself.
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Oct 3, 2021
Muritala A Amidu + 1
Open Access
