The journey through a demanding health sciences programme like pharmacy is often portrayed as a linear path to a prestigious career. However, the reality for students involves navigating a complex landscape of intense academic pressure, personal expectations, and mental health challenges. In a candid interview, Miss Tiamiyu Omotayo, a pharmacy undergraduate at Lead City University, Ibadan, sheds light on this often-unspoken experience, offering a vital perspective for prospective students, educators, and policymakers alike.
Omotayo’s narrative reveals that the pressure is multifaceted. Beyond the sheer volume of complex material—from pharmacology to pharmacokinetics—lies a profound emotional weight tied to academic validation. “The most challenging part was not getting the academic validation I always wanted,” she shares. This highlights a critical issue: when self-worth becomes entangled with grades, even objectively good performance (like moving from a fourth-class to a second-class standing) can feel like a personal failure. This “hidden curriculum” of perfectionism is a significant driver of anxiety and burnout in competitive fields.
Her experience underscores a crucial gap in many professional programmes: the transition from theory to practice. Omotayo identifies internships as a lifeline, not just for skill development, but for mental resilience. “It helps one to appreciate what you have learned in class,” she explains. This hands-on exposure—seeing drugs dispensed, communicating with patients, understanding real-world healthcare dynamics—provides context and meaning. It transforms abstract knowledge into tangible purpose, which can be a powerful antidote to the disillusionment that can set in during years of purely theoretical study.
To manage the relentless stress, Omotayo employs intentional strategies: taking breaks, self-care, and focusing on long-term goals. This simple formula is deceptively powerful. In an environment that often glorifies non-stop work, consciously stepping away is an act of resistance. It’s a recognition that sustainable success requires preserving one’s mental and emotional resources, not just consuming them.
Looking beyond graduation, Omotayo’s vision reflects the evolving pharmacy profession. She considers traditional routes like community or hospital pharmacy alongside emerging fields like bioinformatics. This forward-thinking approach is essential. The modern pharmacist is not confined to the dispensary; they are data analysts, medication safety experts, and integral members of clinical research teams. Her advice to prospective students is therefore foundational: “You cannot come into pharmacy because of money… You have to like what you are doing.” Passion is the necessary fuel for the long, demanding journey.
The essential skills she lists—communication, comprehension, memory retention, and resilience—paint a picture of the modern healthcare professional. It’s no longer enough to memorize drug properties; one must communicate complex information with empathy, comprehend nuanced patient histories, and possess the resilience to adapt to constant change and high-stakes environments.
Ultimately, Omotayo’s account is a microcosm of a systemic issue. It underscores the urgent need for stronger, more proactive support systems within Nigerian universities and globally. This goes beyond generic counselling to include programme-specific academic mentoring, peer support networks, wellness workshops integrated into the curriculum, and faculty training to recognize signs of student distress. The goal must be to cultivate competent professionals who are also psychologically whole.
Her story is not just a personal testimony; it is a call to action. It asks institutions to re-evaluate how they support students in high-pressure programmes and encourages a broader conversation about redefining success in academia—one that values wellbeing and practical competence as highly as academic grades.
