When I got my acceptance letter to the University of British Columbia, my entire world changed. It wasn’t just an invitation to pursue my PhD – it felt like recognition. One of the top universities in the world had seen me.
I knew it was going to be difficult, but had not yet grasped the gravity of academic demands, the echoing halls of imposter syndrome and the constant effort and quiet exhaustion required to establish myself in a scholarly space.
Growing up in Jamaica, research was never on my radar. Any career days held between primary and secondary school usually highlighted doctors, lawyers, teachers, policemen, soldiers and the odd veterinarian. It wasn’t until university, when I faced rejection from Medical School, and had to hastily find a new major, that I discovered pharmacology.
The privilege of pursuing tertiary education was the result of my parents balancing demanding work and family responsibilities. My parents’ perseverance in supporting my educational journey is especially remarkable given the structural and historical barriers shaped by colonial legacies in Jamaica, which limited and continue to limit access to fundamental human rights – including education.
As this new world of research unfolded during my undergraduate studies in Jamaica, I developed an insatiable curiosity for drug research. I found especially concerning the fact that many drugs are not tested in diverse populations, based on the fallacy that female hormones and ethnic differences introduce undesirable complexities. It is typically only after a drug hits the market that other side effects or adverse events are picked up through pharmacovigilance. For example, the anti-hypertensive medication captopril was discovered to be less effective or cause serious adverse events like angioedema in people of African ancestry – a population with one of the highest rates of hypertension in the world. I have even known a woman whose blood pressure dropped so low while taking this medication that she almost fainted while driving. The practice of exclusion is not just theoretical, it endangers lives.
With each new example I encountered, I realized the scientific rigour I once admired was deeply rooted in systemic exclusions. At the same time, I observed a paradox: communities need to trust that therapies are safe, but fear mistreatment should they participate in research, a fear that has emerged from a history of unethical experimentation. This tension was the genesis of my passion for equitable health research.
Alongside conventional medicine, I took a course in ethnopharmacology, the cultural use of plants or other natural products as medicine. Something bloomed when I learned that nature could heal us, if we listened. Natural products could also cause harm, so balancing safety and effectiveness became the underpinning of my master’s project. Using an in vivo asthma model, I investigated whether the crude extracts of Plectranthus amboinicus, a fragrant herb, could relax a precontracted guinea pig trachea. The hexane extract showed desirable bioactivity, while the ethyl acetate and methanol extracts did not, highlighting how solvent choice affects phytochemical composition and bioactivity. While I no longer work in ethnopharmacology, its principles remain in my mind, and the knowledge that there is value in both traditional and conventional medicine.
Moving to British Columbia was chaotic and exhilarating. I was brimming with zeal, as most of us are when we start out. We want to change the world, until we realize we only have 4 -6 years to do so (the typical length of a PhD). My supervisor brushed the stars from my eyes and helped me focus on a project that would get me those three coveted letters. Initially, my work focused on asthma mechanisms, partly inspired by my own experience with refractory asthma.
While I was busy studying airway inflammation and immune responses, life outside school kept moving. I carried the burdens of multiple family losses in rapid and seemingly unending succession, in a time when flying home (due to the COVID pandemic) was out of the question. As this grief shadowed me, adapting felt impossible. I was already grappling with the stark under-representation of researchers from the African diaspora in the department, adjusting to a research environment far more resourced than the one I came from — where ordering reagents could take up to two years — and consolidating my own cultural perspectives with the Canadian academic framework.
Amidst this, my initial research trajectory came to an end. While working in the asthma lab taught me much, I was struggling to connect with the research direction and thus made the difficult decision to switch topics. At the time, it tasted like utter failure, but in hindsight, it was clarity, a moment to recentre my wellbeing and values, and remind myself of my ‘why’. Resilience does not come from easy times. It is forged in moments when familiarity is out of reach. Through the grief, setbacks and redirection, I found my way back to my first passion, equity — now extended to equity, diversity and inclusion (EDI). I did not realize how much I valued equity, until I almost lost sight of it.
In my time here, I have felt the inexperienced hands of Canadian healthcare; dismissals rooted in cultural ignorance, the ache of invisibility in academic spaces and misdirected good intentions. Yet alongside these shadows, I have experienced many, if not more, illuminating moments of hope. I have been met with compassionate kindness from those who came before me, mutual support and guidance rooted in community, and they have sharpened my resolve.
With this renewed perspective, my project now focuses on health data equity. Canada has not been immune to the culture of exclusion, and many marginalized populations experience worsened health outcomes as a result. The intersection of health equity and big data presents both risks and opportunities; without careful attention, existing disparities may be exacerbated, but with conscious, ethical use of data analytics and artificial intelligence, we can meaningfully improve health equity. When I look at my work now, it is not just about data or disease. It is about people. May we all consider those we cannot see and think of ways to make health research more reflective, more human.
This journey has reminded me that research is not separate from self. Our work is shaped by who we are, the lives we have lived, and the depths of our imagination. As I move forward, I carry not only the knowledge that sparks my curiosity, but the people, communities and courage we share. It is my hope that this work becomes a part of a larger shift in our research culture, that equity, diversity and inclusion are not just check-boxes, but also our way of life.