Neil Riel

Photo by Renay Weir

The author, Neal Justin Riel, is shown during a visit to Chefchaouen, Morocco, before he began pre-veterinary studies in Basseterre, St. Kitts.

I am a bit of a fish out of water. At 44 years old, I am starting my veterinary journey in the pre-veterinary program known as Vet Prep at Ross University School of Veterinary Medicine. I am twice the age of many of my classmates, having spent a couple of decades in the public sector, managing court records, serving as a judicial liaison between law enforcement and judges on search warrants and officiating weddings in Spanish.

On top of being a "mature" student, I recently received a diagnosis that reframed my entire life: I have attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and autism spectrum disorder. For years, I struggled with executive function and sensory overstimulation without knowing why. Learning I was neurodivergent was affirming, explaining a lifetime of feeling "differently wired."

Despite these differences, I was ready to feel at home here in Basseterre, St. Kitts, where Ross is located. I grew up on Lāna'i, Hawaii — a small island shaped by a deep it-takes-a-village mentality. I brought that mindset with me to Ross, believing that our cohort would be the village that would get us all through to the DVM program.

But several months into school, I've discovered a surprising barrier isolating me from that village: cluttered group chats.

I am learning that platforms like WhatsApp and Facebook have become essential lifelines in veterinary education, much like messaging tools have for remote workers. We use these chats for everything: lecture reminders, study group links, quick clarifications on tough concepts and everyday island life information.

For many of my classmates, memes, pet photos and banter shared in these threads help build community and break the high-stress tension of Vet Prep. But for me — and other neurodivergent students — it can be a nightmare.

My brain processes sensory input and attention differently from the neurotypical norm. When a chat is flooded with irrelevant media, it triggers what researchers call heightened cognitive load — a state that spikes my stress and makes decision-making nearly impossible. Research shows that ADHD brains process distracting digital environments significantly slower, and the effort results in brain fog and cognitive fatigue.

I am currently feeling this pressure more than ever. As I write this, we are in week 11 of the 14-week semester, and tomorrow, we have our weekly blocks — high-stakes exams that cover 75% of the previous week's new content and 25% cumulative material — for virology, reproductive cell biology and the anatomy of the gastrointestinal tract (structure and function). To manage the way my brain handles these high-stakes assessments, I recently secured official school accommodations for extra time on exams and labs. However, no amount of extra exam time can compensate for the time lost shoveling through digital clutter.

A few weeks ago, I needed to find a local taxi driver's number that was shared at the start of the semester. Messaging platforms have search functions, but the visual noise of months of banter makes the threads a gauntlet to navigate. Worse, WhatsApp allows no more than three pinned resources at a time; every time a classmate pins a new source, an essential long-term resource is bumped into the abyss of the chat history. By the time I scrolled through the clutter to find the contact, sensory overload had drained the energy I needed for my actual studies.

In the fast-paced, rigorous flow of Vet Prep, a chat message is often the first way we learn about a sudden schedule change or a room swap, as mass email notifications can take time to be transmitted from a server. When such critical information is buried, those who miss the information suffer very real consequences — being perceived as unreliable or missing a skill development.

I'm not saying we can't have fun or build community. We just need to organize our digital village. My suggestions are simple:


• Use threads: Keep off-topic banter or memes in their own threads so they don't bury core information.
• Selective pinning: Ensure important sign-ups and reminders are pinned at the top for easy access.
• Establish norms: Set group expectations early to separate academic "must-knows" from casual social sharing.

Our student community is already moving toward these solutions. At a recent school Student American Veterinary Medical Association general board meeting, an upper-semester student who faced similar digital hurdles suggested creating a professional conduct agreement for all new chat members. This proposal (which includes maintaining real-name identities and adhering to the Student Handbook) would ensure that our digital spaces remain focused on academic resources, island safety and professional development rather than viral distractions.

Many of us came to veterinary medicine because we believe in a profession rooted in empathy. Let's practice that empathy with each other in the digital spaces we inhabit every day. By maintaining digital decorum, we ensure that our "village" supports every member, no matter how their brain is wired.

Neal Justin Riel became a pre-veterinary student following a 20-year career in the Oregon Judicial Department. He also is a published author under the pen name Cornelius St. Clair, notably of an animal welfare-focused book, Loulou Finds His Bark. Neal's clinical background includes veterinary private practice and research in Panamá, as well as extensive volunteering at the Ayuda Cuatropatas sanctuary in Spain, where he cared for dogs with leishmaniasis and cats with feline immunodeficiency virus and helped rehabilitate abandoned horses. He also has been a habitat ambassador at the Oregon Zoo. Neal currently serves as class representative for the spring 2026 Vet Prep cohort and a research volunteer on the fertility rates of jennies. He is dedicated to fostering inclusive, professional digital environments within the veterinary field.