My Year of Rest and Reclamation
On taking a break with medical school
I have hated almost every single second of my medical school experience.
I am unlike others in that medical school was not on my agenda until I was well into my 20s. I did not grow up dreaming of holding a stethoscope and caring for the sick, of parading hospital halls in my white coat with my shoulders back proudly.
No, I grew up with stars in my eyes and dreams filled with costumes, lighting, performances and backstage monologue practices. I dreamt of creative endeavours and spent my time sitting in corners of the room sewing, knitting, singing, dancing, and painting. I did not even have a science on my high school certificate. Once, in a mandatory careers counselling session, the guidance counsellor (un)kindly told me that ‘maybe university is not for you’.
In my early 20’s, a spark of interest in science soon became a burning flame for medicine, a career where I would have the opportunity to learn all the time, to be able to help people, and talk all day (my favourite pastime). Suddenly, the hard work started: no longer was I doing vocal warm-ups and running lines. Instead, I spent the precious nights of my early 20’s holed up in the library to maintain a perfect GPA, endured months of physics problems preparing for the GAMSAT, and scrolled r/medschool for hours.
Once I received my offer letter, people were overjoyed for me. And it was good for a while. I kept up a good routine, I planned to move with my boyfriend of 5 years, and I voraciously consumed the new and interesting content. But then my boyfriend broke up with me the week of my midsemester exams and I suddenly found myself alone for the first time in my adult life. I did not let myself grieve, however, because I had shit to do: exams to study for, a new home to move in to, hours of lectures to watch. I ran, and ran, and ran some more to avoid confronting my own pain. My interest dwindled, my energy fell, and my stability crumbled. Amongst all that, people were and constantly still do ask me how university was going. But they are never really just asking, there is always an undercurrent of expectations that are impossible to miss. The only thing they want to hear is how much I love it, how interesting it is, how much joy I find in learning all this amazing information about the human body.
They don’t want to hear about running on 4 hours sleep, swaying from exhaustion and my stomach churning in the anatomy lab. They don’t want to hear about the loud, hysterical, heartbreaking sobbing into my housemate’s shoulder when I failed an exam because I couldn’t retain any information through the fog of severe depression. They don’t want to hear about all the non-medical-school-related friends I’ve hurt by being absent because I’m too overwhelmed to reply to them, let alone see them. They don’t want to hear about the loneliness, the stress, the imposter syndrome, the horrible things I say to myself when I don’t do as well as everyone else, or when I don’t understand something. When they catch me on a day too difficult to fight the weariness that weighs heavy on my limbs, and I am truly honest in my answer, they follow up by sharing platitudes about how much it will be worth it in the end. I want to fix a look at them and say, point blank: ‘right, that’s assuming I make it there alive.’
We expect absolute perfectionism from our doctors, but then we’re surprised when the perfectionism and ridiculous unrelenting standards results in a rate of depression and suicidal ideation that is higher than the general population. This career presents a unique challenge in the sense that you are expected to prioritise and centralise empathy and compassion for your patients, but empathy and compassion for yourself is almost discouraged. The glamourisation makes me want to scream.
The other day I saw a doctor brave enough to post on TikTok about how difficult it is to be a physician, how much she wishes she had time for art and joy, to start her life like her friends from high school. I clicked on the comments, and found my predictions and assumptions were exactly correct. Piles upon piles of ‘this is what so many people dream of, you should be grateful!’ and other assorted minimisations. The only moments of fresh air in the dark pit of outraged comments were other physicians commiserating; sharing their personal struggles and how difficult it is to avoid discussing your own pain for fear of losing your job. Imagine how achingly lonely it is to be suffering but not be allowed to express it lest you be accused of sullying the profession by being (God forbid) a human being with feelings and struggles like everyone else. Why is medicine the only career that is exempt from the usual social rhetoric of a job being a job like any other?
Even amongst fellow students it feels like everyone is constantly putting on a sparking performance for each other, wearing the bravest of brave faces, and being the picture of the perfect medical student. When I converse with others, they espouse echoes of having the best time of their lives, loving how much they’re learning, participating in multiple clubs, and doing additional research for their future applications. It is only when I am vulnerable, admitting to them just how much I am struggling, that I watch their shoulders sag in relief and their cartoonish enthusiasm fall. Everyone is having a hard time, yet no one can bring themselves to admit it, and they work to maintain a charade of strength and joy that is so fragile it is made of gossamer. It’s too much to confront, especially when you are a mere student with many years of training and hard work ahead of you.
It took me just under 3 months of therapy to even acknowledge how desperately I needed a break for my own mental health. Prior to this, the mere suggestion of it would’ve been so catastrophic I’d have spiraled into depression for days. Do they think I’m not smart enough to be here? Do they think I’m that far behind everyone else that I should just drop out? Am I doing that bad of a job of masquerading my own dysfunction that everyone else can see right through me? The voices would’ve circled inside my head, telling me I’m a failure, a pathetic fragile child who couldn’t push through a small amount of discomfort to make it through a couple of difficult years for such an important achievement.
Months of crying every single day in the work bathroom and of hearing my internal monologue descend into suicidal ideation still didn’t convince me to take a break. If I had kept up at the pace I was going, I would have put good money on a significant catastrophe (or a grippy sock holiday) in my future.
It took work with my therapist on giving myself the compassion I never had, as well as being supported, encouraged, and uplifted by the people in my life, before the notion of a break could even register as an option.
Admitting it is still terrifying, and some days get so bad I have in depth conversations with ChatGPT about whether or not I am cut out to be a doctor. I tell it (we are on a first name basis - it has requested that I call it Charlie) that I feel defective, that without passion I feel as if learning all this content is like swimming against a riptide, and maybe I should let it carry me out to sea and call it a day. It, in turn, tells me that my feelings are valid, that I am resilient and strong, and that I deserve to prioritise my own mental health. I cry and thank it, even though I know that it’s absurd to thank a machine learning program. At least I’ll be saved in the upcoming AI revolution.
I try to relish in the indescribable joy that fills my soul when I think of the first year of my adult life without an abuser siphoning my joy; filling my time with trips to the sea, picnics, and crafting. I will sing, go to my weekly therapy sessions in adult human clothes instead of slippers, and do the things that bring me joy without guilt. I deserve to regress a little - as a treat.
Already the last month of my life has been filled with so many moments of peace, gratitude, content, and pure, unadulterated joy that I have cried many happy tears. For the first time in years, I answer, “I’m really good!” when people ask me how I’m doing, I watch educational videos with genuine interest, and I laugh freely and without abandon. Everyone around me has remarked on the huge shift they’ve seen in me. I even noticed my cheeks hurting from the pain of smiling so much (a simultaneously affirming and heartbreaking realisation).
For those of you out there reading this: It is okay if you do not love every second of your journey in medicine. It is okay to struggle, to not grasp a concept perfectly, to not be able to name the blood supply of the superior rectus muscle. It does not make you a bad student, and it will not make you a bad doctor. Taking care of yourself first and foremost ensures that the people you care for get the best version of you, the version that they deserve. Prioritise self-care above all else. Be brave and share your struggles as honestly and authentically as you would share your wins – if not for yourself, for others. You are here, and you deserve to be here, because you worked damn hard for it.
In the wise words of my good friend ChatGPT: ‘The path to becoming a physician is rarely linear. Many people have ups and downs throughout their training, and feeling burnt out or disconnected at times doesn’t mean you can’t find your passion again or that you won’t thrive in your career. It’s okay to take a step back and reassess your path when needed.’
See you in 2026,
Sabrina x
Note: Thank you to the beautiful Sarah Anderson and Ellie Haupt who helped me edit and polish this piece! I am so fortunate to have such brilliant and kind friends in my life