Duty of Care Guest Post

I live with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and I also work in the very research space that seeks to understand and treat it. For a long time, those two facts felt incompatible. Research asks for objectivity, consistency, and reliability. PTSD, on the other hand, is unpredictable. It shows up in the body as much as the mind, often without warning. I spent years trying to keep these worlds separate, believing acknowledging the overlap would undermine both.

What I’ve learned is that they don’t have to oppose each other; they can inform and strengthen each other in meaningful ways.

My PTSD developed following medical trauma during an inpatient admission for the treatment of anorexia nervosa. For a long time, I found it difficult to speak about this. The impact showed up in ways I didn’t always have words for – panic, flashbacks, hypervigilance, and a deep mistrust of systems that were meant to help. Even now, there are parts of that time I’m still learning how to understand.

Therapy Is New for Me (and I’m Still Learning)

Despite working in mental health research, being in therapy myself is a relatively new part of my journey. For years, I suspected that I was living with PTSD, but I didn’t want to fully admit it to myself. Part of that was fear – not just of revisiting painful experiences, but of what a diagnosis might mean for my career. I worried that acknowledging it would change how I was seen or quietly limit what I thought I could achieve.

Knowing, intellectually, that therapy could help didn’t mean I was emotionally ready to begin. It’s one thing to study PTSD; it’s another to recognise yourself in the diagnostic criteria. For a long time, it felt safer to keep moving, to stay (relatively) functional, and to tell myself that I could manage on my own.

I’m now in trauma-focused therapy, including EMDR and CBT, and learning what it means to engage with that process. Therapy of course can’t take away what happened, but what it has offered me is language, perspective, and moments of relief that once felt out of reach. It’s helping me learn about myself both personally and professionally. Being in therapy while working in trauma research has changed how I think about the questions we ask, the outcomes we measure, and the human reality behind the data.

Living Two Roles at Once

Holding the roles of both researcher and patient is hard. There are days when work must pause because my mind or body won’t cooperate. Other days, I move from lab work straight into therapy, swapping one kind of analysis for another. From the outside, it may look like balance. From the inside, it often feels like survival.

I feel guilt often – for missing meetings, for prioritising therapy, for needing flexibility in systems not designed to provide it. But I’m slowly learning that putting myself first isn’t failure; it’s what allows me to be reliable, ethical, and safe in my research.

Duty of Care – To Others and to Myself

In my work, I often hold responsibility for tasks that require focus, precision, and care. On difficult days, I quietly check in with myself: am I steady, focused, well enough to do this properly? Holding responsibility for something important while feeling fragile creates a particular tension. Research systems are built to protect participants and ensure safety and reliability, but there is often little recognition of what happens when the researcher is struggling.

There’s no formal protocol for what happens when PTSD symptoms intrude into working life. No contingency plan for panic, insomnia, or flashbacks. The hardest part isn’t just the logistics; it’s the guilt. Guilt when symptoms interfere with work. Guilt when appointments push back research deadlines. Guilt for needing flexibility in systems not designed to offer it.

However, I’ve slowly come to understand that duty of care cannot stop at others. It has to include ourselves too.

The Importance of Support

A key reason I’m able to continue this work while learning to live with PTSD is the support of my supervisor. From the start, my diagnosis was never treated as a barrier or a flaw. Instead, the question was always: “How can we make this work for you?” That simple, open question has made all the difference. It has brought flexibility, understanding, and reassurance that my value isn’t measured by how invisible my struggles are. Importantly, it hasn’t lowered expectations – if anything, it has allowed me to meet them more reliably, because I feel safe speaking up when I’m not well enough to carry out certain tasks.

I hope sharing this encourages others to have these conversations with their own workplaces. Asking for support isn’t a weakness; it’s how we create conditions to remain engaged, ethical, and effective in work that matters. Support like this doesn’t erase PTSD, but it reduces harm and allows us to do our best work while caring for ourselves.

A Practical Tool That Helps Me Feel Safer

One small but powerful tool that supports me every day is my PTSD communication card from PTSD UK. I carry it with me at all times. The card explains that I may experience symptoms such as panic or flashbacks and might need understanding or support. In the workplace, it’s especially helpful: I can show it to colleagues if I’m struggling to explain what’s happening, and other times just knowing it’s there helps prevent stress from escalating. It allows me to continue contributing effectively while managing symptoms, without needing to over-explain or justify myself.

Simple tools like this can make the workplace safer and more manageable for anyone navigating mental health challenges.

Final Thoughts

I’m still learning – about myself, about PTSD, and about how lived experience and research can inform one another without either being diminished. Sharing stories like this matters, because PTSD doesn’t exist only in textbooks or diagnostic criteria. It exists in people, in workplaces, in quiet moments, and in the slow, brave decision to seek help when the time feels right.

Duty of care (to others and to ourselves) isn’t something you achieve once. It’s something you practise, imperfectly, every day. You are allowed to set your own pace, to ask for support, and to put your wellbeing first – because that is what ultimately allows you to do your best work and live your life fully.