November 6, 2024. The moment I (Agorua) wake up, I know something has shifted. I want to stay home and cry, but that is not the reality of a second-year medical student. I peel myself from my bed, hide the evidence of sleep deprivation and worry, and head out the door to my shift at the food pantry.
I meet my friend there, who is just as devastated. We sit in silence and weep until she finally says, "I need to get my tubes tied." During our downtime, we search for options in rural Tennessee. She makes an appointment for a consult. It offers a flicker of hope, though the emptiness lingers.
After our shift at the pantry, we attend a mandatory lecture on physician burnout; scheduled, like everything else, without pause. Our world does not pause for grief, fear, or uncertainty. Exams. Board prep. Extracurriculars. Volunteering. Stay connected. Exercise. Don't fall behind. Don't fall apart.
In medicine, even moments of collective fear and grief are forced to compete with productivity. This moral whiplash, what medicine asks of you versus what it allows you to be, breeds disillusionment early in training. We spend the first couple of years in medical school building foundational knowledge in anatomy, physiology, and pathology, all in preparation for the clinical years. When we first enter hospitals and clinics, we are filled with excitement to care for patients and apprehension about our ability to do so. As we interact with patients from our communities, we realize that many social factors impede a person's ability to be well, often leaving us feeling powerless to help.
