What’s the least glamorous thing you’ve ever done as a physician on a holiday?

Let me start.

One year, I spent Christmas Day in the library.

Not sipping cocoa. Not gathered with family in matching pyjamas. Not basking in the warmth of laughter or the gentle hush of snowfall outside a glowing window.

I was alone. In a silent room. Under sterile fluorescent lighting.

And I wasn’t escaping into fiction—I was studying for board exams, pushing through fatigue and feeding myself a slow-drip IV of self-doubt. A cruel whisper echoed in my mind: If you don’t pass, your family might not let you back in the house.

It was irrational. But it felt real.

It wasn’t just about passing. It was about proving I belonged. Proving I was enough.

New Year’s Eve with discharge summaries

Another year, it was New Year’s Eve. The world outside was buzzing with sequins and champagne. But me?

I was buried in a dim hospital office, locked in a desperate dance with my charts—not because I thought finishing them would usher in a better year, but because I knew the unwritten rule: Stay in the “good books.” Keep your documentation tidy. Don’t give them a reason to come looking.

So there I was, furiously typing, chasing closure in the form of discharge summaries, attempting to spiritually cleanse my year with clinical documentation.

The emergency department: Christmas Eve edition

Then there was Christmas Eve in the emergency department.

I wore an oversized coat, more armour than warmth. I looked like a tired snowman with a stethoscope. I chased consults between hallway beds, answering pages and giving updates while the rest of the world wrapped gifts, hugged their children, and watched Home Alone for the hundredth time.

I tried not to notice the quiet ache that settled in my chest.

But I did.

Flying with a newborn and a heavy heart

But the memory that lingers the most?

Flying on Christmas Day—with my two-day-old newborn, my second child, and my mother-in-law. We weren’t travelling for leisure or a family visit. We were relocating because I had chosen to deliver my baby in a different province.

Why?

Because I didn’t feel safe delivering in the province where I lived. The same province where I had served as a physician. The same province I had poured myself into, showing up repeatedly.

But I had also seen too much and experienced too much.

I had been dismissed, traumatized, and systematically worn down.

So I left to give birth somewhere I could breathe and feel safe.

And when my daughter was born, I flew back. Back to work. Back to duty.

Depletion disguised as dedication

I returned and gave everything I had. I showed up when I had nothing left.

One day, I realized quietly and deeply that I was utterly depleted.

Not because I didn’t care.

But I had cared too much, for too long, without receiving enough care in return.

That wasn’t a holiday. That was survival.

The hidden cost of “professionalism”

We don’t talk enough about what we normalize in this profession, especially during the holidays.

The charting marathons that swallow hours. The missed birthdays, Easters and yes, Christmas mornings.

We mask grief with performance. We swallow tears with coffee. We keep going because that’s what we were taught to do.

We’ve wrapped sacrifice in prestige. We’ve mistaken overextension for honour. We’ve applauded absence from our own lives as proof of dedication.

And we’ve suffered silently for it.

The uncomfortable questions we need to ask

So here’s my question:

Why do we keep clapping for this?

Why do we build systems where “catching up on charts” is considered moral redemption?

Why are sacred holidays scheduled with mandatory meetings and admin backlogs?

Why do we create environments where rest is rationed and celebration is conditional?

Why do we fail, time and time again, to protect the joy of those who spend their lives protecting others?

This isn’t just about Christmas. It’s about whatever day matters to you. Whatever tradition fills your spirit. Whatever moment makes you feel human again.

Permission to reclaim joy

This is about recognizing that all of us, even doctors, need rest, presence, and peace.

Not when the work is done.

Not when the inbox is empty.

Now.

We need spaces where joy doesn’t have to be charted around.

So, to the physician staying late again—missing yet another holiday—while your family texts you photos of full tables, warm laughter, and soft lights:

I see you.

I was you.

And I hope next year looks different.

Not because you’ve changed.

But because the system finally does.

Your permission slip

Until then, let this be your permission slip:

• Laughter is medicine.
• So is rest.
• So is saying, “Not like this. Not again.”
• So is choosing yourself.

You deserve to celebrate—not just what you do, but who you are.

Tomi Mitchell is a board-certified family physician and certified health and wellness coach with extensive experience in clinical practice and holistic well-being. She is also an acclaimed international keynote speaker and a passionate advocate for mental health and physician well-being. She leverages over a decade of private practice experience to drive meaningful change.

Dr. Mitchell is the founder of Holistic Wellness Strategies, where she empowers individuals through comprehensive, evidence-based approaches to well-being. Her career is dedicated to transforming lives by addressing personal challenges and enhancing relationships with practical, holistic strategies.

Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn, and book a discovery call to explore how she can support your wellness journey. For those interested in purchasing her book, please click here for the payment link. Check out her YouTube channel for more insights and valuable content on mental health and well-being.