Reflections on the Accessibility of the Biomedical Sciences PhD Admissions Process
Having been physically disabled since birth, I quickly had to get comfortable with the idea that I would have to work differently, longer, and oftentimes harder than my nondisabled peers to accomplish the same tasks or goals. Never wanting me to be discouraged, when I was young, my father offered me the quote, “Your brain will take you farther than your legs ever could,” and I took this declaration seriously—perhaps a little too seriously, as my mother has a distinct memory of me walking out of preschool, pulling my walker behind me, boldly proclaiming, “I want to be a paleontologist!” I was thrilled at having learned there was a way for me to study dinosaurs as a grown-up.
Back then, the practicalities did not matter. I wasn’t thinking about the accessibility of fieldwork—the uneven surfaces, elevation, heat, need to stand for long periods, or working on your hands and knees. At that time, the only barriers seemed to be that the word paleontologist was hard to spell and that I would need to explain further when adults asked me, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”
While overall this memory is a happy one, I can’t help but feel a tinge of sadness (and perhaps longing) for the ignorance of that time, a time when I could not conceive of all of the barriers I would face trying to navigate the world as a person with a disability, particularly in academic spaces (see some of these barriers summarized here).
Eventually, my answer to “what do you want to be when you grow up?” morphed into “some kind of biomedical scientist,” and so I set off on this path during undergraduate.
Despite being sure of my goals, I was uneasy. While I had navigated my high school laboratory spaces with minimal challenges using a walker or crutches, upon graduating, I had transitioned to being a full-time wheelchair user. With this new mobility aid, I was unsure of how I would navigate laboratory spaces. To alleviate my uncertainty and help me troubleshoot, my father, also a scientist, offered me the opportunity to work in his biochemistry lab for a summer prior to starting college.
Now, I recognize how incredibly privileged I was to have this opportunity. Not only did the experience prepare me for obstacles that I would face and overcome—tall benches, narrow or cluttered walkways, high shelves, tight closets, heavy reagents or equipment, etc.—but it also got my metaphorical “foot in the door.” It served as a proof-of-concept to future PIs that I, a wheelchair user, was in fact capable of conducting scientific research, if only they were willing to make some modifications.
In this way, my father served as my “on-ramp” to pursuing scientific research. That first research experience opened the door to the next one, and so on and so forth, as each subsequent experience further proved my ability to go down this career path. If not for my privilege of having an academic parent (i.e. someone who was willing to take a chance on me and figure things out), I am not sure if I would have ever broken into science.
I say this because even with this “on-ramp”, I still found myself faced with challenges along the way to pursuing a PhD. When I settled on research as my future career, I knew I needed to branch out from my father’s lab to be taken seriously. Yet, when I sought research opportunities during my undergraduate years, I was met with interest, but also uncertainty about how the lab spaces and safety protocols could be modified to accommodate me. Ultimately, I decided to pursue a summer research experience specifically for students with disabilities, so that I was guaranteed the supportive and accessible environment I needed.
While I had enriching summer undergraduate research experiences, I ended up pursuing two post-baccalaureate research experiences prior to graduate school (see this article for a more in-depth explanation of my journey and accommodations). The first was largely brought on by the fact that I lacked the neuroscience-relevant research that I hoped to pursue during my PhD and because the onset of the pandemic limited summer research opportunities. The circumstances leading to the second post-bacc were less benign, however.
During my first post-bacc experience, I loved the wet-bench research I was doing but found myself struggling to successfully complete my experiments in a timely manner. I couldn’t physically work fast enough for some protocols, or some tasks required a level of fine motor skills that I simply did not possess as a product of my disability. Due to these challenges, it was harder for me to have multiple experiments going on at once, and my productivity suffered relative to my peers in the lab.
These were obstacles that I was unable to anticipate through my previous summer experiences, which were designed to be very structured and supported. Subsequently, these issues only emerged when I was met with the new challenge of full-time, independent research. I tried my best to address these barriers through specialized equipment, working longer hours, and enlisting the assistance of undergraduates and technicians, but I had limited success in “turning the tide” of the experience. At the end of the program, I was advised that I wasn’t in a position to put forth a competitive graduate school application given that my most substantial, years-long research experience culminated in a stagnant project, zero tangible research outcomes (e.g. poster, presentation, conference, paper), and unresolved obstacles to productivity.
While I was keenly aware that my experience wasn’t ideal, I had chalked up the outcome to the often messy and failure-filled scientific process. Some lines of inquiry are dead ends, some projects fail and never see the light of day, and while disappointing, I had been telling myself, “It is what it is. That’s science”. That outlook is what kept me coming to lab each day to try again.
Yet, after my graduate prospects were deemed more or less doomed, I found myself at a crossroads, and instead blaming myself, asking: Is it really realistic for me to pursue a career as
a scientist? If these types of techniques are difficult for me, what would my future even look like in this field that I love? Do I even have one? Where do I go from here?
As dejected as I was, I decided I would pursue a “scientific Hail Mary,” as I like to call it, and go for a second post-bacc at the NIH. If this one didn’t pan out, I would consider myself done with scientific research. Forever.
I ended up staying at the NIH for three years. My extended stay was prompted by a pivot from wet-lab molecular biology to entirely dry-lab, bioinformatics focused on neurogenetics. Initially, I was hesitant to make this transition. I had heard many stories about disabled students in STEM being relegated to computational work because it was automatically assumed that they could not perform wet-lab work, and I was determined to beat the stereotype.
Yet, I found myself loving this new skillset and enjoying my work more because it alleviated my challenges and anxieties while enabling me to become a more consistent, active contributor in my lab. Because my computational work could be done remotely, I found that it was more accessible to me. I didn’t have to worry about dead power chair batteries, inclement weather, or the need for task assistance hindering my progress. Yet, I was still investigating scientific questions that mattered to me.
Because of these more flexible circumstances, I found myself able to achieve scientific milestones I had never reached before, including posters, presentations, and even a first-author manuscript. I still experienced challenges in my work, but they were more in line with those of my nondisabled peers and thus were more readily navigable.
Because my “scientific Hail Mary” had paid off, I found myself re-energized to pursue research professionally, so I applied for Neuroscience PhD programs for the Fall 2026 cycle. Submitting those applications felt surreal after what would ultimately amount to three undergraduate summers and five post-baccalaureate years of full-time research spanning biochemistry, molecular biology, and bioinformatics.
Given the uncertainty of this current scientific climate, I ended up applying to nine schools and was worried about how my nontraditional background would be received. To my surprise, I was fortunate enough to receive interview invitations to seven schools, translating to multiple acceptances. With this outcome, I recognized that I would be in the rare position to focus on assessing whether each school was equipped to support me in my identity as a disabled person and wheelchair user.
I also recognized that I could draw on each of these interview experiences to offer insights and advice about what worked—and what didn’t—as far as the accessibility of the PhD admissions process, at least from my perspective as an ambulatory (someone who is able to walk) power wheelchair user, which brings me to the second part of this blog.
This is Part 1 of a two-part series. In Part 2, Monica shares her experiences navigating the PhD interview and recruitment process as a scientist with a physical disability. She also provides some advice on best practices for accessible PhD recruitment. Check back in the coming weeks for the conclusion.
About the Author:
Monica Mesecar is a graduate student at the University of Michigan, where she recently began her PhD studies. As a scientist with a physical disability, she brings a firsthand perspective on navigating graduate education, including the application, interview, and recruitment process.
