There’s so much we don’t say out loud.

Not because it’s not true.
Not because it doesn’t matter.
But because somewhere along the way, we were taught that strength looks like silence—and that if we’re struggling, it must mean we’re doing something wrong. Or maybe we just forgot, in the brain fog of postpartum hormones and the blur of sleepless nights.

I’m a family physician. I’m also a mother to an amazingly bright and wildly entertaining 21-month-old. I’m a wife and daughter. There are so many more identities that I hold: Asian American, physician coach, entrepreneur, advocate, lifelong learner. I’m still piecing together what it means to carry all of these identities at once.

Some days, I feel proud—like I’m doing it all and doing it OK.
Other days, I feel like I’m barely keeping it together, failing at everything.

The fourth trimester was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through. Harder than our 30-hour calls in residency. Harder than the all-nighters I pulled in med school before an exam. Because it’s not just one sleepless night—it’s weeks and months of sleep in two-to-three-hour blocks.

For me, it was a full year of breastfeeding and pumping through the night, waking up in a haze and forcing myself to keep going because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. What I had to do.

Breastfeeding didn’t come naturally like I thought it would. When my baby’s weight dropped to the third percentile in the hospital, I blamed myself. Supplementing felt like failure.

For nearly three months, breastfeeding and latching were extremely painful, and my supply always felt low. Every feeding became a battle between what I imagined it should be and the reality I was living.

I tracked every session obsessively, convinced that if I just tried harder, it would get better. I equated my ability to nourish my baby with my worth as a mother.

The message from the medical societies I trusted most echoed constantly in my mind: breast is best. The unspoken implication? Anything less meant I was falling short.

And so I did whatever it took to continue exclusively breastfeeding my baby—because in my mind, anything less wasn’t good enough.

No one told me how hard it could be. No one told me how lonely this journey might feel.
And in those quiet, dark moments—pumping alone at 3 a.m.—I always questioned whether I was enough.

I thought after my baby’s birth, I’d bounce back quickly. I had done everything “right”: weekly yoga, a healthy diet, regular exercise. But the pain was unexpected. The physical recovery took far longer than I anticipated.

It wasn’t just a few weeks of healing—it was months before I could walk normally or move without pain. I eventually sought pelvic floor therapy, which helped immensely.

Even then, I was left wondering: Why didn’t anyone talk about this? Why, even as a physician, did I have no idea what to expect when it came to postpartum recovery?

And then there were the other physical changes—the ones no one prepares you for.
A simple laugh, cough, or sneeze could lead to an unexpected leak of sorts.

I remember standing in my driveway, surprised, embarrassed, and frustrated, realizing that my body was not what it used to be. It caught me off guard, because I truly believed I’d recover faster than I did.

Then the postpartum anxiety came out of nowhere and took over everything. I had no history of mental health struggles, so I didn’t see it coming.

I became hyperfocused on my baby’s weight, her feeding schedule, how much I was pumping. My mind spun through endless worst-case scenarios: how I’d feed her during a natural disaster, what I’d do if we were stuck in an earthquake, whether we had enough formula, batteries, or backup water.

I worried whether her bottles and nipples were clean enough. And there were a lot of bottles and nipples to worry about.

I was constantly spiraling through what-ifs.
I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t let go.

After I went back to work, the anxiety started to improve, but in its place stood guilt.

Guilt when I was at work, wondering if I was missing an important milestone at home.
Guilt when I was at home, thinking about all the charts I hadn’t finished or the inbox that I didn’t get to.

All I wanted was to go home and be with my daughter. But if I left early, I felt like I was letting my colleagues or patients down.

It often felt like no matter where I was, I wasn’t doing enough. I just wasn’t enough.

That constant tug-of-war between being a “good doctor” and a “good mom” was relentless and exhausting.

Because we’re supposed to be high-functioning. Capable. Selfless.

But physician mothers are not immune to struggle. In fact, the struggle is often amplified because we carry so many identities, so many expectations.

The societal pressure as women: to be assertive without appearing aggressive, to be competent and capable without ever appearing overwhelmed, to be confident without being seen as arrogant.

As women physicians, we navigate unspoken gender bias every day. We’re expected to be accommodating and helpful, successful but never threatening.

As moms, we’re expected to be endlessly patient, selfless, nurturing. All of it adds to the weight we carry.

In a medical culture that rewards self-sacrifice and martyrdom over self-care, the internal voice whispers that we should be able to do it all—so why can’t we do it perfectly?

And so, we keep going.
We keep trying to hold it all together.
We push through even when we’re barely holding on.

I’m still learning how to give myself grace.
How to ask for help.
How to redefine success—not by titles or checkboxes, but by how peace, joy, and presence show up in my everyday life.

I did eventually reach my goal of exclusive breastfeeding, but not without triple feeding around the clock for nearly a month. Sleep helped immensely.

I didn’t start feeling like myself again until I gave myself permission to wean and stop pumping at night.

I learned to give my body grace, recognizing that it took nearly a year to return to my pre-pregnancy weight. That this new version of me—leakage and all, with all its changes—wasn’t broken.

It was transformed.

This wasn’t a “bounce back” or return to my old self.
It was an evolution into someone new.
Someone stronger and wiser.

Someone who could finally let go of the pressure, ground herself in the present, and relax. Someone who could stop missing the very thing she had prayed so hard and deeply for so long: the growth and life of my beautiful baby girl.

So to every physician mother out there wondering if she’s the only one feeling this way—you’re not.
You’re not alone.
You’re not failing.

You are doing the most awe-inspiring work there is: healing others, creating life, raising tiny humans, and carrying the invisible weight of it all with a fierceness and strength that deserves to be seen.

And it’s OK to say: this is hard.
Because it is really, really hard.
And you don’t have to carry it alone.

We are all here for you.

Cynthia Chen-Joea is a family physician.