

Dr. Maria Gialama is a clinical health psychologist, psychotherapist, and researcher with over fifteen years of experience providing psychological support and creating innovative interventions for people living with chronic conditions and other health and mental health challenges.
While she is a psychologist, researcher, and academic, she has also been a patient and her commitment to changing others’ lives started right there.
My introduction to psychology didn’t begin in a university. It started many years earlier in my grandparents’ living room, watching my grandmother and her friends grow older. Names were forgotten, stories repeated, changes were gradual. In my child’s mind, I knew there had to be some way to help them maintain their memory and dignity longer, I just didn’t know how.
That first encounter evolved into over a decade of working with some of society’s most vulnerable members: older adults facing cognitive impairment or dementia, among other populations such as people living with chronic conditions, the homeless, the impoverished and long-term unemployed trying to rebuild their lives, unaccompanied refugee minors and asylum seekers facing traumatic events while starting over in new countries, students with psychiatric diagnoses who need support to cope, caregivers and families facing challenges and professionals working in difficult and demanding environments. Each of them has taught me something important about hope, growth, and resilience.

Years later, after my graduation from the school of psychology, my body began to break down. Endless infections, relentless pain, very low energy and mood, depressive episodes… After countless tests and medical visits, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease and spent weeks in the hospital.
It was the darkest period of my life, but perhaps also the most enlightening. In that hospital, I saw how some patients with difficult diagnoses somehow managed to remain positive and optimistic, while others with less serious conditions seemed overwhelmed by despair. I understood how deeply mindset, lifestyle, personal background, and available support systems affect our ability to cope with illness. These are some of the factors that determine how we manage a new diagnosis as well as the uncertainty that often accompanies the absence of diagnosis. When I recovered, I made a conscious decision: to endeavour to understand deeply what happened to me and transform that knowledge into meaningful support for others. I don’t want anyone to feel as alone, desperate, or uninformed as I felt on my own journey toward diagnosis and treatment.


My experience as a patient led me to postgraduate studies in Health Psychology and work with Neurorehabilitation Services in Bath, England. The hospital became more than a workplace; it was a lesson in humanity and hope. I saw people relearn to speak and walk after serious brain injuries. I witnessed the incredible neuroplasticity of the brain as people developed new ways to compensate for what they’d lost. I became witness to the tremendous relief someone feels when they finally feel heard and understood. That’s how I learned that real healing often begins long before the treatment program starts. It has to do with how we welcome patients, how we listen to stories that may not always fit diagnostic criteria, and how we’re present in moments of fear, uncertainty, and pain.
My work focused on a simple but critical question: What makes people with brain injuries truly satisfied with their care? I soon realized that care quality doesn’t depend only on medical competence but on human connection. Feeling a little less alone and being treated with respect and dignity in moments of vulnerability. Patients constantly emphasized that while professional competence was essential, it was the human contact and sense of being cared for that made their hospitalization truly meaningful. One without the other isn’t enough.
Undoubtedly, my work in the hospital taught me that clinical skills are essential, but empathy, genuine interest, cultural sensitivity, and emotional presence are equally critical and vital. I saw firsthand the emotional cost of illness for individuals and their families, and how a kind word or gesture of understanding could change someone’s day and improve their mood (at least temporarily). This chapter taught me that authentic care begins with seeing people whole, with respect, empathy, and belief in their capacity to persevere.




Alongside my therapeutic work, I’m an experienced researcher with particular interest in health and mental health across all life stages, emphasizing vulnerable social groups who often face multiple barriers and difficulties in accessing health and mental health services as well as specialized supports.
During my PhD at Maynooth University in Ireland, I had the opportunity to create something I’d dreamed of for years: an implementable, non-pharmaceutical intervention that can truly help people living with dementia improve their mood and remain active after diagnosis. I developed a program combining mindfulness with psychotherapy through movement and dance, designed for both people with dementia and their caregivers. I collaborated with over 70 international participants, academics, clinicians, health professionals, artists/ arts therapists and most importantly, people living with dementia and their families. Through this process, I learned what’s truly important and useful for each person.

Psychologist, Psychotherapist & Researcher

What excited me most was seeing how the arts illuminate people. Dance enlivens and activates the brain, improves mood, slows cognitive decline, and encourages social participation. These aren’t simple interventions but a celebration of abilities and skills that remain, a reminder of what’s still possible. Think about it for a second: when we dance, we don’t focus on what we can’t do. We move, laugh, connect. When we practice mindfulness, we’re present in the moment without worrying about the past or being anxious about what the future holds. These are powerful wellbeing tools that create spaces where people can connect, have fun, breathe, and flourish while simultaneously changing the dominant narrative around what older adults with dementia “cannot” do. This work showed me that creative, person-centred approaches have the potential to revolutionize dementia care. Instead of emphasizing what’s been lost, we celebrate what’s been preserved and build on existing strengths. It’s a shift from asking “What’s wrong?” to asking “What’s possible?”
My postdoctoral research at the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland (RCSI) was a natural continuation of my work with people living with chronic conditions and the intervention I developed during my doctorate. There I collaborated with people living with Sjögren’s disease, a chronic autoimmune rheumatic condition often misunderstood and underdiagnosed, precisely because many of its symptoms are invisible.
To illuminate these unseen experiences, I used photovoice, a participatory and creative research method that invites people to use photography to show and illuminate aspects of their daily reality. When people with Sjögren’s were given cameras, they didn’t simply capture images, they shared visual stories of resilience, loss, adaptation, and hope.
The photographs revealed experiences that no medical examination can capture; plans that weren’t realized, activities that needed modification, moments of isolation but also small daily victories and acts of resilience that revealed aspects of life with Sjögren’s. This research wasn’t only about collecting data. It was about making people feel visible. Giving them space to be heard, connect, advocate. By making the invisible visible, we created something that has real meaning: understanding, empathy, and a more humane view of chronic illness and invisible disability. When healthcare providers, families, and society see these images, understanding deepens and empathy develops.
I feel truly fortunate to have met so many incredible women who shared their experience with Sjögren’s disease, often along with other rheumatic conditions. I’m certain their photographs will continue to educate, inspire, and build bridges of understanding between people who otherwise could never imagine how lonely life with a chronic condition can be.
This is the kind of research I want to continue doing: research that brings people together and meaningfully improves their lives. Sometimes the most meaningful insights don’t emerge from traditional methods but from giving people the tools and space to tell their own story and eventually challenge the narrative.
The successful completion of these research projects gave me a bigger picture, a deeper understanding of what people truly need, and strengthened my desire to truly connect with people with authenticity and respect. Because ultimately, psychology is about making a real difference in people’s lives. By making the invisible visible, we create something that has real meaning: understanding, empathy, and hope.