The Shift That Never Ends

I remember one night in particular—48 hours with barely any sleep, scrubbing in and out of emergency surgeries, the hospital lights growing dim in my mind even as they stayed bright overhead. The shift was so long, I started to lose track of time. My body ached, my eyes burned, and I could feel my patience thinning, even though I tried to stay calm. It was one of those stretches that every surgeon eventually faces: the kind that tests not just your skill, but your stamina, your values, and your sense of self.

Burnout doesn’t always hit like a thunderclap. Sometimes, it creeps in quietly, masked by adrenaline and purpose. In surgical life, we often push through without recognizing what we’re really feeling. We wear our endurance like armor, even when it’s cracking.

The Unspoken Weight

People imagine surgeons as high-functioning heroes—calm under pressure, in control, precise. And yes, sometimes we are. But underneath the surface is a real human being. One who sometimes doubts. One who worries. One who’s running on empty.

There’s a cost to carrying that kind of responsibility for so long. The pager never truly sleeps. Even when you’re off-call, you’re not really off. You think about the patient you operated on hours ago, wonder if the bleeding has stopped, if the graft is holding. You wake up in the middle of the night replaying steps, questioning decisions. It’s not just physical exhaustion—it’s emotional and mental wear.

During the hardest years of my training, I often felt like I was living on a razor’s edge. A few wrong steps—forgotten meals, skipped sleep, isolation from friends and family—and the weight of it all would start to pull me under. But I kept going. We all did. Because the work mattered. Because the people mattered. And because walking away never really felt like an option.

When the Mission Keeps You Moving

Despite the long hours and endless demands, what saved me time and again was my connection to the why. Why I became a surgeon. Why I chose this life, knowing it would be hard.

For me, surgery has always been about service. About being useful in someone’s darkest hour. There is something incredibly grounding about helping someone survive the unthinkable—about stitching them back together, literally and figuratively. That purpose, that mission, gives the long nights and missed holidays some kind of meaning.

I once operated on a young man after a car accident, and when he returned to thank me six months later—walking, smiling, alive—I realized that those brutal shifts had given him a second chance. That helped me hang on. It still does.

Mentors Who Made the Difference

I wouldn’t have made it through those years without mentorship. Not the kind that just teaches you how to hold a scalpel, but the kind that reminds you how to hold onto yourself.

There was one senior surgeon I looked up to immensely. He had this quiet way of checking in, always knowing when I needed a break—even before I realized it myself. One night, after a particularly tough case, he found me sitting alone in the locker room. I was drained. He didn’t say much—just sat down beside me and handed me a cup of tea. After a few minutes, he said, “You did good work today. Get some sleep. I’ve got the next one.” That moment stuck with me.

The best mentors teach you not just how to survive in surgery, but how to endure it with your humanity intact. They lead by example—showing vulnerability, taking care of themselves, drawing boundaries. I’ve tried to pass that forward with younger colleagues. Even a small gesture—a shared story, a check-in, a quiet moment—can make a world of difference.

Learning to Refill the Tank

Burnout isn’t something you can outrun forever. Eventually, the cracks start to show. I’ve had to learn to recognize the signs in myself. Irritability, brain fog, lack of joy in the work—those are red flags. I’ve also learned, the hard way, that self-care isn’t selfish. It’s survival.

Now, I make space for recovery. I disconnect when I’m off duty. I spend time with my family. I go for long walks, I write, I cook. I’ve reconnected with the things that remind me who I am outside of surgery. And that’s not weakness—that’s wisdom.

It took me years to understand that being a good surgeon doesn’t mean being invincible. It means being resilient, honest, and humble enough to ask for help when you need it.

A Bravery Beyond the Knife

When people think of bravery in surgery, they picture life-or-death decisions in the OR. And yes, those moments exist. But some of the bravest acts I’ve witnessed are quieter: A resident admitting they’re overwhelmed. A colleague taking time off to recover. A nurse speaking up when something doesn’t feel right.

Bravery is staying in this profession and continuing to care, even after hard losses. It’s showing up again and again, even when you’re tired, because you believe in the mission. It’s finding meaning amid the chaos. That kind of courage deserves just as much recognition as any technical feat in the operating room.

Still Standing, Still Grateful

Today, I look back on those long shifts not just with fatigue, but with a kind of quiet pride. I made it through them, yes—but more importantly, I learned from them. I learned that rest is not a reward; it’s a requirement. I learned that connection and mentorship are lifelines. And I learned that bravery in this field comes in many forms.

Surgical life is intense, demanding, and often unforgiving. But it’s also beautiful. Because in the midst of all the struggle, we get to be part of something truly meaningful. And that, more than anything, is what keeps me going.