What I’ve realised in the process of break down and re-build is that some of the best things about me exist in those ‘corners’. My creativity for one. My self awareness- that innate sense of who I am and what I need. My ability to connect with other humans in a really meaningful, two-sided kind of way. My unquenchable thirst for knowledge in the most obscure and broad ranging topics.

Specialty training programs. Hospital jobs we have to apply for each year. The way "things have always been done". 

It's easy to think that we need to be 'round' to fit in and succeed in medicine. To some extent we do. The medical world has a way of doing things and there is always going to be round holes that we cannot change. What we can change is how we talk about this and how we support people who like I did, find the endless round holes of the medical world to be exhausting at times.

Since burning out I found that there are a lot of people with advice on how to avoid burning out. Usually, it’s people who themselves have burnt out. I’m no different really. I’ve been through an immense amount of pain, I’ve been exceedingly fortunate to have been well supported during that time and I have come out of the other side passionate about preventing someone else from also going through this experience.
Except this isn’t that kind of advice. This isn’t about burn out. This is about self-awareness. 

My self awareness existed in one of those all important corners that I had shaved off on my path towards trying to “fit in”. I didn’t realise that I had lost it and therefore didn’t realise how much of myself I was compromising as I tried harder and harder to make myself happier or less stressed. I had jumped onto the "medical treadmill" (the seemingly unstoppable inertia that takes us through graduation from medical school, through internship, residency, specialty training and beyond) without ever giving myself permission to consider other paths until I was so burnt out I needed to step away for a while. The thing about losing your self awareness (or not having it to begin with) is that you don’t know why you feel awful. You can’t see what it is that is making you so unhappy and you begin to feel like you just have to "keep going" because you've lost sight of any other options.

So here I am telling other empathetic individuals it's not about simply "not caring as much" to avoid burning out (which I was told more than once in my career)  but rather about giving yourself the space and permission to really 'know' yourself, what is important to you and what you need. About having the courage to be introspective, even if it means you might find things about yourself that you wish were different (for me personally it was that medicine was perhaps never the "calling" that I thought it was for me) and holding strong and healthy boundaries based on that new found knowledge. 

This is a story from a square peg, about finding happiness in a world full of both round and square holes without compromising yourself or expecting others to change for you. It’s an encouragement to keep searching both within and outside of medicine until you find fulfilment in places you might not expect, without shaving off the best parts of you. The Creative Careers in Medicine website is an amazing place to check out if you end up finding yourself searching for other avenues within medicine. Or you could seek out mentors who might not be professionally where you aspire but personally they have a lot in common with you to seek their guidance in how they made their path work. But mostly, it's to let you know that you're not alone.

Because there really are enough stories from round pegs about how everyone just needs to be flexible and change to fit into round holes to avoid burning out. It’s not what I needed to hear. And it’s not my story.

By Anonymous

Having always been strong, fit and healthy and part of the ‘doing’ group, becoming a patient challenged my identity. I also had fears that others would no longer perceive me as strong, fit, and capable. Which ultimately I believe, is part of what led me to remain silent. 

I had assumed breast loss to be hard but had not fully thought through the impact this has on the whole self. It wasn’t that I was particularly proud of my breasts prior to surgery. I was small-busted and thanks to breastfeeding there was nothing I’d show off. But the tissue was my body, had served a practical function in feeding my babies, and was part of my sexual identity as well. Comments from well meaning nurses or therapists after the surgery (comments that I too had previously made) such as “the surgeon did a good job” or “your scar is so neat” were met by my own resistive thoughts like “there is nothing neat about this at all”. The truth for me is that, despite a “successful surgery”, my body will never be the same, and for that I feel grief and loss. What I longed for was for someone to acknowledge that loss, to recognise that none of this was wanted, and that change is difficult.

Having never previously had major surgery, I had no appreciation for the utter exhaustion that comes with recovering from surgery and anaesthesia. This exhaustion encompassed mind, body and my sense of self. I returned to work after four weeks, much to the bemusement of my surgeon. I remember his words clearly, "What makes you so different from anybody else that you would heal at a faster rate?"

For some reason as health professionals, we believe we are different, that somehow physical or mental health and healing would be different for us. But truthfully, it’s not. ​