Chronic health conditions, fertility struggles, and the precarity of academic life shape the lives of countless academics, yet these truths often remain unspoken in professional spaces. I was preparing to defend my PhD when my body quietly, irrevocably, rewrote the script of my future without consent or asking permission.

The floral dress I chose for that appointment, a cheerful yellow dotted with tiny daisies, hung perfectly as I sat across from doctor. They delivered news that forced me to rethink every assumption I had carried for over thirty years, back when I was still in my thirties, long before I crossed into my forties. Premature ovarian failure syndrome. The clinical terms couldn’t soften the reality: my body was moving into menopause decades ahead of schedule, taking with it the easy assumption that I had time to figure out motherhood later, after I finished my viva, after I started my postdoc, after I finally found a permanent position.

What followed wasn’t just a health crisis; it was a collision between the relentless demands of academic life and the sudden fragility of my own body. This is the story of how I learned that survival in academia isn’t just about publishing papers and securing funding; sometimes it’s about learning to live authentically in a world that rewards high performance above all else.

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