Elizabeth Watson

I did not set out to become a public health researcher because my life was orderly or predictable. I became one because it wasn’t.

Six years into an emotionally, psychologically, and financially abusive marriage, I learned how difficult it can be to recognize harm when it does not leave visible bruises. Leaving that marriage eight years ago was not just an act of survival; it marked the beginning of a long process of reclaiming my voice, my confidence, and my sense of purpose. At the time, I could not have predicted that the skills I was forced to develop—pattern recognition, persistence, and the ability to navigate systems not built to protect me—would later define my career in public health and epidemiology.

Motherhood further shaped that path. My own pregnancy was medically complicated and ended in an emergency preterm cesarean delivery due to placental abruption. In the years since, I have lived with chronic women’s health conditions, including polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), endometriosis, and adenomyosis—conditions that are common, underdiagnosed, underfunded, and frequently minimized in both clinical care and research. Navigating these realities made something clear to me early on: women’s bodies are too often treated as medical mysteries rather than research priorities.

That realization stayed with me as I rebuilt my life. Since leaving my marriage, I have published a book, remarried to a spouse who supports my ambitions, completed both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees, entered the field of value-based care, and begun my PhD at Walden University. Today, my dissertation research examines the impact of extreme heat and temperature variability on birth outcomes in the U.S. South, with a specific focus on how those impacts are modified by racial, socioeconomic, and structural inequities.

This work sits at the intersection of climate change, maternal health, and reproductive justice—and it is deeply personal.

Before beginning my doctoral research, I studied the effects of pregnancy and postpartum long-term doula care on birth outcomes among Black mothers in Baltimore, Maryland. Using epidemiologic methods, population-level datasets, and rigorous comparative analyses, my work demonstrated what many communities already know: sustained, culturally responsive support during and after pregnancy can meaningfully improve outcomes in systems that have long failed Black women. This research will be presented at the World Congress on Public Health and Epidemiology this August—a milestone that represents not only academic achievement, but the power of centering lived experience in scientific inquiry.

At the same time, I am a mother navigating another set of systems—those governing pediatric care, education, and disability services. My daughter is nine years old. She was diagnosed with ADHD at age five, and after three years of advocating for further evaluations—often being dismissed by specialists managing her care—she was finally diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder, Level 1, at age eight. While her pediatrician consistently encouraged further evaluation, her psychiatrist did not. We traveled more than an hour away and spent long days completing comprehensive assessments because I knew, both intuitively and evidence-informed, that something more was happening.

That advocacy required learning new languages: clinical terminology, diagnostic criteria, policy thresholds, and documentation standards. It required persistence in the face of dismissal. And it required doing so while co-parenting a neurodivergent child with my former abuser—someone who did not believe or understand that her brain may be wired differently than his. That experience reinforced how often women are expected to quietly absorb systemic friction to keep their families afloat.

Today, I am teaching my daughter to advocate for herself and for others. I teach her to use precise, scientific language to describe her body, her brain, her diagnoses, and her needs. I teach her that there is nothing shameful or taboo about women speaking clearly and openly about their health. I teach her that understanding systems—and knowing how to speak within them—is a form of power.

This philosophy defines my work as a public health researcher and epidemiologist. I believe rigor and lived experience are not in opposition; they are complementary. My research uses epidemiologic modeling, climate exposure metrics, and large administrative datasets to quantify risk, but the questions I ask are shaped by the realities I have lived and witnessed. Extreme heat is not just an environmental issue; it is already a maternal health issue. Structural racism is not an abstract concept; it is a measurable modifier of risk. And women’s health conditions—whether obstetric complications or chronic gynecologic disorders—deserve far more scientific attention than they receive.

Leadership, for me, has never been confined to formal titles. I have volunteered in youth sports, served as a Girl Scout troop leader, and mentored young people by modeling what it looks like to persist, pivot, and take up space. Influence happens in classrooms, clinics, community centers, and kitchen tables. It happens wherever women translate complex systems into survivable realities for their families every day.

I share my story not because it is exceptional, but because it is familiar. If there is one message I hope others take from my journey, it is this: your lived experience is not a liability. It is data. It is training. And when paired with education, curiosity, and courage, it can become a force for systems change.

I did not wait for my life to be perfect before pursuing my work. I pursued my work because it mattered—then, now, and for the future I am helping to build.