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ADHD is often associated with the superpower of hyper-focusing on favourite hobbies or tasks. My struggle was different. I was overwhelmed by all the possibilities, made my hobbies into chores and ended up filling that void with social media instead. I felt like a failure, not being able to pick up my paintbrushes, crochet hooks or books. So many creative outlets, so many expectations and I couldn't do any. I created deadlines just so I would produce something, but this took out all the heart and led me to crash out.

Reaching my diagnosis has helped me address the issue. I have support for my ADHD now. I pick up reading much more often and don't get overwhelmed with fabricated deadlines. I'm still working hard on myself every day.

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DSN Photography Competition - Patrycja Bialec_Patrycja Bialecka

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These images were taken within the same week in spring. A season I've come to think of as the University's most generous. Together, they represent a small act of gratitude: learning to slow down and look.

The first is a yellow hyacinth with a ladybird perched at its centre. I noticed it while doing my evening journaling near the plants outside Samuel Alexander Building. This tiny flash of red against gold, entirely at ease with the world. For me, it captures something about the environmental life that

quietly thrives across campus, easy to miss when you're moving too fast between buildings and deadlines.

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Laurent S Photo Comp 1_Laurent Swyngedauw

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The third is where I often come to write: a spot inside SALC, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a garden full of life. The teal sofa, the wooden chair, the green canopy outside, it's become a sort of anchor for me. A place to think, reflect, and remember why I'm here.

Taken together, these images are about presence. About choosing, even briefly, to notice what's growing around you.

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Laurent S Photo Comp 3_Laurent Swyngedauw

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The second was shot looking upward through a cherry blossom tree as the evening sun broke through the branches. That particular quality of late afternoon warm rays, a little hazy, filtering through something alive. Feels

like the visual equivalent of exhaling. It's the kind of moment that reminds you the day had beauty in it, even when it was difficult.

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Laurent S Photo Comp 2_Laurent Swyngedauw

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“Sorry I can’t hear you!” captures a deeply personal and often invisible aspect of my experience as a deaf person. At first glance, the image of Fred meowing may appear light-hearted, even humorous. However, for me it represents a moment of disconnection, a reminder that sound is not something I can access naturally without assistance. Fred is communicating in the only way he knows how, yet without my hearing aids, that communication simply does not reach me.

This image symbolises the everyday reality of navigating a world that is not designed with deafness in mind. Just as Fred’s meow goes unheard, so too can important signals, interactions, and moments of connection be missed. It highlights the reliance on assistive technology not as an optional convenience, but as a critical bridge to participation and awareness. Without it, there is a silence that others may not notice, but which shapes lived experience in subtle and constant ways.

At the same time, the image also speaks to adaptation and understanding. It invites reflection on how communication is not just about sound, but about connection, awareness, and inclusion. In this way, Fred’s silent meow becomes more than a missed cue, it becomes a powerful metaphor for the gap between expression and accessibility.

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This photographic series reflects my experience of hidden disability and neurodiversity through symbolic images connected to Manchester, engineering and invisible support systems.

I was recently diagnosed as neurodivergent and am now receiving support through DASS and the wider Disabled Staff Network. These images explore how many disabilities are not immediately visible, yet still shape how people experience communication, pressure and everyday environments.

The Rubik’s Cube represents structured thinking within a busy and overwhelming world. Although it appears chaotic, it follows logic and patterns once understood. The yellow and green arrangement references the sunflower symbol for hidden disabilities. Positioned outside the University archway, the image reflects both belonging and masking, with

the reflection beneath the cube symbolising hidden internal processing.

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The murmuration represents a neurodiverse brain: thousands of thoughts,

ideas and anxieties moving together at once. The birds form patterns that

appear both chaotic and controlled. The electricity pylons connect the image to my role as an electrical engineer while also symbolising electrical impulses within the brain and invisible systems working beneath the surface.

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The emergency reset photograph was taken inside a University electrical switch room. The trip button can be pressed instantly during a crisis, but restoring power safely requires unlocking the protected reset system with the correct key. For me, this symbolises how recovery and regulation often require time, understanding and support.

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Two years ago, when I had next to no mobility, the only way I could get round was in my wheelchair. This photo, taken at my local station, is absolutely typical of my commute to UoM.

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This image shows me using a mobility scooter on the University of Manchester campus. At the time, moving my body caused significant pain and instability. I live with hypermobility, which means my joints frequently sublux and my muscles fatigue quickly. Even short distances came with a high cost — a racing heart, fluctuating blood pressure, and rapid physical and emotional exhaustion. Most days, I would already be "in the red" by 11am, needing to rest just to continue.

Being autistic adds another layer. I’m highly sensitive to sensory stimuli, and despite how this might look, I hate being seen. I want to slip in and out, quietly do my job, and exist without my body becoming a focal point. This image represents the first step I took towards mobility support at work. What stands out to me now is the joy on my face. Not because things were suddenly easy, but because access made presence possible. Since then, I’ve moved on to using scooters and a wheelchair. It remains hard, but I hold onto that joy. Internalised ableism delayed me from accessing support. I worry about judgment, about fitting through doors or into lifts, about taking up space.

Support from DASS (especially Alison, Van, Katy, #Angels) alongside colleagues, friends, and my husband has made a profound difference.

This image reflects an ongoing truth I’m still learning: with care, support, and community, it is possible to build a sustainable, happy life. We all deserve that. It truly takes a village.

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Rachel in the Simon lift on a DASS mobility s_Rachel Heyes