Imagine being completely consumed by the relentless pursuit of knowledge. Could you do this for a day? How about for a week? What if I asked you to do this all day, every day, for an entire month? Sounds exhausting, right? Medical students are asked to do this for four years. During that time, we navigated a world that was completely new to us in an unfamiliar environment alongside hundreds of other students we had just met. Quickly, we realize that every minute is essential, every decision is important, and every grade is permanent. There is no time to rest, recover, adjust, or pause as we settle into our new reality. Knowledge comes at us quickly, meeting our excitement with overwhelm, knowing it all leads up to our career – we are reminded we must be able to be a doctor at the end.
Congratulations, you have made it! Welcome to medical school.
Life quickly becomes dominated by anxiety. From the early mornings before stepping into the hospital to the moments spent at our desks before drifting off to sleep, every minute feels precious, and every activity is scrutinized for its potential to contribute to our studies. Rest becomes a luxury we can no longer afford. The pursuit of excellence is relentless, and the pressure to succeed is ever-present.
From the outside, the life of a medical student may appear glamorous—an exciting journey filled with the promise of saving lives and making a difference. But behind the facade of enthusiasm lies a reality marked by sacrifice, self-doubt, and a constant struggle to maintain balance. Friends and family may marvel at our dedication and determination, but they can’t fathom the weight of expectation that accompanies each step of the journey.
How do we explain to our non-medical family and friends that becoming a doctor is a lengthy journey fraught with challenges and sacrifices that may not guarantee success in the future? How do we convey the constant battle between regret for missed opportunities and anxiety over looming exams and evaluations? How can we digest, understand, and then relay that this is our new normal? We are always being compared, and the feeling of needing to do more never goes away, no matter the success we achieve. It’s a delicate balancing act that few truly understand.
This pressure to excel is omnipresent and often overshadows moments of respite and joy. While many maintain a facade of happiness and success, the reality is far more complex. In private, medical students grapple with their own fears and insecurities, struggling to find solace in a profession that demands so much and offers so little in return. We are made to feel superior, asked to give advice and share our knowledge, all the while struggling to feel anything but confused and alone—an oxymoron that epitomizes being in medical school.
Who can we turn to when the weight of our responsibilities becomes too much to bear? In a field where vulnerability is often equated with weakness, finding support can feel like an impossible task. In a study delivered to 107 third-year medical students at a U.S. medical school, 52 percent of students reported a heightened sense of purpose during their core clinical rotations but also cited decreased self-care habits and increased loneliness during this time. While sensical, these responses illuminate a looming crisis: a career in medicine simultaneously provides an individual with purpose and loneliness. The loneliness may push an individual to seek as much of this purpose as possible, which inevitably results in an increasing shift to focusing more on their career and less on themselves. This shift inevitably worsens self-care habits, which may include focusing on maintaining a healthy diet, routine exercise, meditation, therapy, and so on. Our society is left reliant upon the expertise of unhappy and unhealthy physicians required to maintain the health of the population.
Therefore, shouldn’t there be a shift in medical education? Medical students are taught the in-depth intricacies of caring for entire populations of people, but there is minimal education surrounding self-care. If it is not taught formally in school or prioritized during training, how are medical students expected to learn these skills? When and with what free time and energy can we be expected to do this?
It is time to act and create a movement that prioritizes the person who is becoming a doctor and not just the doctor they become. Educators, physicians, students, and individuals alike must begin to acknowledge the struggles that so many face behind closed doors. It is our responsibility to create a space for self-care in medicine. This requires that we work together to create a culture of support and compassion and to teach the next generation of physicians to care for themselves, not just others.
So, to all the doctors and medical students out there, know that you are not alone. Your struggles are valid, your sacrifices are appreciated, and your well-being matters. It’s okay to ask for help, to seek out support when you need it, and to prioritize your own happiness and fulfillment. After all, in a profession dedicated to healing others, it’s time we start healing ourselves.
Liza Rosenbloom is a medical student.
