When I was deciding where to study, I did not have a grand vision or a ten-year plan. I just knew that I was deeply curious about how chemistry could explain things, how one molecule could impact the entire human body. I found the idea of drug design fascinating. The possibility of creating something that could help someone feel better felt incredibly purposeful. That curiosity led me to a degree in Pharmaceutical Chemistry.

And when I looked into IMU, something about it felt right. Not just because of its healthcare focus or research facilities, but because it seemed like a place where science was taken seriously, not in a distant or intimidating way, but in a way that connected back to people. Real people, real problems, and the possibility of real solutions. I just wanted to be somewhere that aligned with the kind of scientist I hoped to become: thoughtful, hands-on, and rooted in purpose. And IMU offered exactly that.

Over time, through detours, quiet reflection, and lived experience, I began to understand something quite simple: I feel most like myself in the lab.

It is about the quiet that settles over me when I am working with my hands, when I am fully focused on the task at hand. The outside noise fades. I am not performing and competing for attention. I am just… there. Focused. Steady. Peaceful. I found peace in pipettes, glassware, and long afternoons spent troubleshooting experiments. I wanted to build something that mattered, molecule by molecule, with care, with focus, with intention. That moment of clarity felt like a quiet kind of self-acceptance. And for me, it matters.

Before life paused in 2024, my time at IMU was filled with meaningful contributions, many of which happened behind the scenes.

As Public Relations Lead for PC Week 2023, I designed promotional posters and coordinated the event flow. Watching students attend events I had helped shape gave me a quiet, fulfilling sense of purpose.

As Treasurer of the Board Games Club, I managed budgets, sponsorships, and expenses. At first, I was not sure if I was ready to manage finances for a club. Handling event budgets, tracking expenses, and submitting reports felt like more than I could take on. But gradually, I learned how to be responsible for real money, not just numbers on paper. Preparing annual budgets and closing financial reports for events taught me how to be more meticulous, more transparent, and more accountable.

As part of the Community Service Club, I designed visual contents, drafted communications, and designed certificates.  These small, often unnoticed acts or tasks gave me a way to stay connected. It was not always visible, but it mattered to me to still be part of something, even when I was struggling in silence.

At IMU Chariofare 2021, I served as Communications Officer, helping coordinate webinars on mental health, childhood cancer, and women’s empowerment. These conversations planted seeds I did not know I would later need.

Through the OLOHOD project, I tutored special needs youths via Zoom using Kahoot and interactive slides. That experience reminded me how important patience, empathy, and creativity are,  even in science. Each of these roles, whether creative or administrative, taught me the value of quiet leadership. Not for recognition, but as a commitment to care, consistency, and community.

In 2024, everything changed. Somewhere along my journey at IMU, life threw me a curveball. After months of silent struggle with my mental health, I reached a breaking point. I was hospitalised and underwent electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). It was terrifying. I forgot conversations. I missed deadlines. I felt like I was losing everything I had worked for.  The memory lapses, the confusion, and the overwhelming sense of loss were disorienting. I no longer recognised the person I was becoming. I did not know how to explain it to others, how to say, “I am trying, but my brain is not cooperating.” And yet, at IMU, I was met with kindness.

My Programme Director and lecturers never asked me to justify my pain. They offered compassion, space, and patience. Their trust gave me permission to slow down and begin again. Healing, I have learnt, is not linear. Growth does not follow a neat timeline. Sometimes it means letting go of the pace you once held yourself to. Sometimes it means starting over. And that is okay.

I am still on the journey. Some days are clear. Some are uncertain, but I am learning to move through both with more patience than before.

I am learning to rebuild with stronger roots, deeper self-awareness, and a quiet strength that came not from thriving, but from surviving.

I carry more compassion now, especially for those who are still in the thick of their own struggles.

What I bring forward is not just academic knowledge, but something harder to name: lived experience, shaped by loss, healing, and the choice to stay.

That experience guides me as I explore what comes next, something meaningful, something that allows me to honour both the scientist to be and the person I fought to become.

When I first chose Pharmaceutical Chemistry, I wanted to understand how drugs were designed. I wanted to help people. But living through mental health treatment changed that curiosity into something more personal. I have waited for my medication to work. I have hoped it would help. I have wondered why it helped some and not others. That is why I am drawn to Research & Development (R&D), because it is the silent engine of healing. R&D is where science meets uncertainty. Where trials meet compassion. Where small decisions can change lives.

What draws me to R&D is not just the science, it is the space it holds for uncertainty. I have been on the other side of treatment. That experience makes the research feel personal, where I can contribute to solutions, not from a distance, but with the empathy of someone who knows what it feels like to hope for answers that are not always immediate. It is not flashy work. It is quiet. Intentional. But deeply meaningful. And if one day, something I help develop brings hope to someone else? That is enough for me.

Sometimes, the hardest part of university is not the exams or labs. Some of the hardest moments might come outside the timetable that no one prepares you for.

Personal losses that knock the air out of you.
The relationships that fracture.
The grief that arrives without warning.
Anxiety that sits in your chest all day.
Mornings where you wake up and already feel tired.
A heavy mind that no one can see.
And yet, life keeps asking you to show up.

Yes, Pharmaceutical Chemistry is demanding. Yes, it will challenge you. But do not let that pressure silence your humanity. If You Are in a Place of Uncertainty, Please Know This: If your path has been interrupted by illness, by grief, by life, you still belong.
There were moments when I felt like everyone else was moving forward while I was stuck.

But please remember:
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are becoming, in your own time.
You do not need to break yourself to prove you are doing your best.
This degree will wait.
You, however, cannot be replaced.
You matter. Please rest like you do.
And that quiet strength you are building?
It might just be the most important kind this profession needs.

With all my heart,
A senior who understands

Thank you for seeing me. For supporting me.
For your patience when I was at my lowest.
For giving me not only knowledge, but also space.
Space to fall apart.
Space to begin again.
Space to become.

For that, I will always be grateful.

 Written by Canny Heng Jia Ni, Bachelor of Science (Hons) in Pharmaceutical Chemistry, IMU