“I was excited to see you today because I thought you were going to answer all my questions,” a patient once told me. I smiled, masking the insecurity. “I wish I could.”

The truth is, I often cannot (at least not in a single visit). Medicine is rooted in curiosity and lifelong learning. Patients expect certainty, but doctors live with uncertainty. We know enough to know how much we do not know. The difference between those expectations and reality breeds disappointment and frustration on both sides.

In that fleeting moment between my patient’s innocent remark and my reply lingers a quiet intensity, like the soundless crash of waves too far to hear but too powerful to ignore, stretched endlessly between expectation and reality.

Beneath every white coat lies the weight of someone else’s imagined version of our life.

These expectations have tangible consequences. Within my community, I am always “Doctor,” at the barber shop, the grocery store, the dinner table on game night, even the family gatherings. The title is constant, relentlessly fusing my personal identity with my professional one.

It is flattering, but also isolating. Physicians are assumed to inhabit their role everywhere, all the time. Yet boundaries around identities do not diminish the value of any particular one. They simply give each its due respect.

For better or worse, unlike other professions, our personal and professional identities are not perceived as distinctly separate.

The white coat projects more than professionalism and authority. It also projects superhuman qualities: flawless intellect, boundless empathy, immunity to error, emotional resilience, and moral clarity. Society often sees capes where there are none. And too often, we internalize it. We stretch beyond capacity, smile through exhaustion, and apologize for not meeting lofty demands. We are celebrated for always saying “yes” and admonished when we dare to say “no.” Even by superhuman standards, who finds the “yes” for us?

The most painful part is not the workload itself, but the perception that we must bear it without faltering, that the struggle is inherently noble, that asking for help is weakness, and that healers must not need healing.

If we are to continue caring for others, we must begin by acknowledging our own needs. Not in the form of another wellness resource, but by reshaping both perception and practice.

• Respect boundaries. Allow physicians to be more than their role. Titles matter less than names.
• Protect time. Quiet hours, uninterrupted lunch breaks, and EMR support are not luxuries; they are prerequisites for good care.
• Listen more. Ask physicians what truly hinders their well-being, rather than prescribing generic fixes.
• Measure what matters. Shift emphasis from satisfaction scores to meaningful health outcomes.

Compassion and empathy are finite but renewable resources. They demand reciprocity for continued replenishment.

White coats are not capes. If physicians possess a superpower, it lies not in our white coats, but in what is underneath, our shared humanity.

Zaid Mahmood is a family physician.