I held hearts. I fixed hearts. Then, in a single moment, I lost the career that defined me. This is the story I’ve never shared publicly — of silence, pain, and the cost of pretending you’re unbreakable. Maybe it’s time we speak from the heart.
I entered medicine to learn how to heal. What I found was an apprenticeship in human suffering. Machines may diagnose or operate, but they can’t hold space for grief or restore meaning. True healing begins with presence — seeing the person behind the pain.
Medicine can feel like a spell — pushing us past our limits until something breaks. Over 60% of clinicians live with chronic pain, but we push through, protecting identity over health. I know the cost. Is this resilience — or a warning? It’s time to name the culture and choose healing.
This a requiem for the soul of healing. Healing is an art. And like all great art — it begins in the soul. Healing isn’t a procedure. It’s a creative act. It has essence. A spirit. A presence. Science is essential — but it’s the instrument, not the music.