When I was three years old, doctors misdiagnosed my tumour as cancerous. The prolonged and debilitating chemotherapy, combined with the delayed surgical removal of what ultimately was a benign tumour, caused significant damage, resulting in my dependence on a wheelchair.

Even as a child, I was curious about how things worked, constantly digging deeper into the mechanisms behind the processes we learnt about in class. The long hospital stays and recovery time at home gave me the perfect opportunity to read and study. I realized that science and engineering were the two fields that had the greatest impact on our lives, and I wanted to be a part of the change that they bring. However, from an early age, I understood that this path might be challenging — not necessarily because of my health condition, but because it would probably require significant effort to demonstrate to others that my professional abilities are not defined by my disability.

I still wonder who people see when they look at me in the laboratory: a sample-preparation pro, a well-organized researcher, a great teacher — or simply a woman in a wheelchair? The first time I meet someone, the last description might be likely to come to their mind. Although I can’t change how I get around or my need for workplace adaptations, I can influence how people perceive me — even in the first few minutes of a conversation.

Application strategies

During the third year of my undergraduate studies in biomedical engineering, I prepared my first scientific CV when applying for short-term internships, a mandatory part of my study at Poznań University of Technology in Poland, near where I grew up. As a disabled student at the beginning of my scientific career, I spent countless hours rethinking each application before submitting it, debating whether to mention that I use a wheelchair. I knew my CV was strong and my grades and academic experience were excellent, and I wanted to be evaluated on that basis. But I was also afraid to completely hide my disability. I feared being told that the workplace was not accessible for people with mobility impairments or that the company hadn’t anticipated accommodating someone with a wheelchair. I would have preferred an immediate rejection after disclosing my disability in my CV rather than going through an interview, only to be told that although my application was impressive enough to warrant a conversation, my disability ultimately made me ineligible.

As a compromise, each of my internship applications included subtle hints, with phrases such as “I was a swimmer in the disabled students’ association,” “I held two records in para swimming” or “I served as vice-chair of the Disabled Students Association.” This approach led to an offer to work on data analysis at an institute for infection research. It was a great experience, but I felt that data processing was only one facet of the work I wanted to pursue. I missed the hands-on nature of conducting experiments but felt deep anxiety about whether I could work independently in a lab environment.

I did my master’s studies in molecular bioengineering at Dresden University of Technology in Germany, where I had an opportunity to work on practical projects in proteomics, genomics and stem-cell engineering. It was a supportive environment in which mistakes were embraced as part of the learning process, and colleagues and teachers guided me every step of the way. Although I was grateful that I could rely on help from my lab partners when something was not accessible (such as a lab bench at standing level), I had no idea how my independent work would go.

But over the course of my studies, I had the opportunity to explore various methods and techniques, giving me a clear understanding of the challenges I might face. Before interviews with potential supervisors for my master’s thesis — which I would write in the final six months of my degree programme — I mentally prepared a list of potential difficulties and their solutions: “I won’t be able to use the eyepieces on a microscope, but I’ve mastered focusing on samples using computer software”; “I can’t carry heavy objects, but even in a wheelchair, I can operate a trolley with one hand”; “What if supplies are on higher shelves? A gripper will solve that”. The list went on, but I quickly realized that I could navigate most of the obvious issues. I arrived at the interviews fully prepared — not only to discuss the details of the project, but also to address any concerns about my ability to work independently. I was ready to convince everyone that my disability does not hinder my qualifications and ability to perform lab work.

Changing tides

My approach to preparing job applications and handling interviews evolved significantly when I began applying to PhD programmes. I started searching for research positions six months before graduating from my master’s programme. To build confidence and refine my ability to sell my skills, I attended three interviews for industry positions, treating them mostly as practice without the pressure of pursuing my dream role. By that point, I had spent three years studying abroad, I was finishing my first publication, I felt confident in my lab skills and, for the first time, I started feeling that my achievements alone should define my capabilities as a scientist. I stopped including anything in my applications that might hint at my disability. I wanted neither to be chosen because of my wheelchair, nor overlooked because hiring me might seem like a challenge. What mattered most to me was being evaluated equally.

During one interview, my soon-to-be PhD supervisor — physicist Łukasz Piątkowski at the Poznań University of Technology — told me that, after receiving my CV, he had looked me up online and was fully aware that I use a wheelchair. My social-media profiles are intentionally public — they showcase that, despite using a wheelchair, I travel extensively, have an amazing family and service dog, love crime novels and, in a number of ways, lead a more active life than many people without disabilities.

For the first time, I found myself discussing not only what I might bring to a research group, but also what I might need. Looking back, it shocks me that in my previous roles, I chose to endure back pain from wheelchair use by taking painkillers instead of simply asking for a spot where I could lie down and stretch — a symptom of being desperate to prove that I could do it all and wouldn’t be held back by my disability.