By Taryn Doherty-Majewski, OD
As doctors, are we allowed to say we’re struggling? And if we are, are we willing to admit it?
Taking on the daily task of caring for others, listening to their concerns and critically thinking to solve their health issues is a big responsibility. It’s the responsibility that comes with the white coat, and as optometry students preparing to be doctors, we can’t wait to wear it! However, is there a long-term emotional cost to this high-energy caregiving?
Becoming doctors requires a certain mental toughness, and it starts with the relentless focus needed to get through school—up to three exams a week, a full class load and extreme pressure to excel. We all saw students break—fail classes, drop out, take leave—while the rest of us hardened our minds (and hearts) to stay intact.
Finally, we graduate, start practicing and, after gathering our bearings, that mental toughness is tested again. Your engagement is broken off, your child is sick or you start to experience hopelessness. Yet the moment we step into the office, we must become superheroes, putting up walls around our emotions. This ability to “turn off” is necessary to be fully present for our patients—showing empathy, solving problems and keeping the pace of 15+ appointments a day.
Even if you haven’t experienced these moments, we’ve all felt the pressure when waking up sick, knowing the schedule is full with no backup plan except canceling patients. We force ourselves out of bed to be a 10/10 doctor so our Google Reviews don’t suffer. If you own a practice, it’s a whole other level of emotional gymnastics—wearing the white coat of a caring doctor while suppressing the overwhelm of being short-staffed and handling payroll.
In health care, we must be two things at once—the top-notch (“perfect”) doctor and a normal human being. At times, it feels like having a personality disorder—turning this part “on” and that part “off” at will.
As doctors, we take an oath to prioritize our patients’ well-being, and it can feel natural—even expected—to sacrifice our own health in the process. But without self-awareness and tools to address mental health challenges, this leads to burnout, unhappiness and deep dissatisfaction.
I remember sitting alone in my car at lunch, completely exhausted, staring at the steering wheel as the weight of everything I had suppressed through morning patient care flooded over me. My heart felt like it was on an emotional roller coaster—smiling, listening and being attentive with patients, then crashing into sadness, fatigue and overwhelm afterward.
For years, I had shown up fully for my patients while ignoring my own struggles—until I could no longer outrun them. My personal life was unraveling, and I was at a crossroads—push forward for everyone else while silently crumbling inside, or get help.
One of the reasons many of us become doctors is because we have big, mushy hearts and want to help others. But sometimes, the cost of having a big heart is that we give so much to others that we leave nothing for ourselves.
After that moment in my car, I sought therapy, going once a week after work. It was incredibly helpful—an outlet of release that wasn’t my husband, my mom or alcohol. Slowly, I felt my cup filling up again. I started to regain balance.
At the time, part of my personal crisis was tied to my work—I was practicing in my dad’s private practice. Through therapy and self-reflection, I realized I wanted something different and that I wasn’t in a healthy situation. I moved on by finding a private practice that emphasized balance and support for its team.
For a while, I was happier. My personal life wasn’t in crisis mode, I was in therapy and I enjoyed my job. But three years later, the same feelings of depression and sadness crept in at the end of the workday. Despite being in a better environment, I found myself depleted again, with little energy for myself or my husband. I was falling into the same pattern, using unhealthy outlets to “manage” my mind.
I wondered, How could this be? I wasn’t in a complicated family dynamic, my commute was reasonable and I loved my office and patients. I refused to believe that switching jobs was the answer to finding happiness again.
So, I looked inward. I realized that for five years, I had given everything to others and never prioritized my own well-being. Therapy had helped, but I lacked the tools to overcome the overwhelming feelings of dissatisfaction, sadness and burnout.
My goal in sharing this today is to shed light on how being a doctor can create an environment that fosters mental health challenges—challenges that not only impact our performance but take a toll on our overall quality of life, putting our families and happiness at risk.
I believe creating a vulnerable and open dialogue about mental health in medicine is imperative to limiting burnout, fostering resilience and ensuring we continue to provide the best care for our patients without sacrificing ourselves in the process.
It’s time to break the stigma, support one another and advocate for real change in the culture of healthcare.
