Mental Health Awareness Day

 

In healthcare, we are expected—almost instinctively—to continue functioning despite exhaustion, grief, trauma, or the quiet collapse of our own foundations. We learn to compartmentalise. We learn to carry on. And sometimes, we learn to disappear behind the masks we wear.

I do not believe this day is only about doctors, nor do I believe it should be reduced to an annual ritual that arrives with a speech, posters, and flyers, only to be forgotten by the next morning.

This is about all of us.

Doctors, nurses, paramedics, allied health professionals, support staff—people who spend their lives caring for others while often neglecting themselves.

We learn to identify depression in a patient, yet may hesitate to acknowledge it in our own reflection.

I have seen clinicians continue working while emotionally depleted, anxious, burned out, or traumatised. I have seen some labelled as "unable to cope," as though suffering were a personal weakness rather than a human response to extraordinary circumstances.

Many of us live with the fear of judgement. We worry about becoming the subject of whispers in corridors where composure is mistaken for strength and vulnerability is often misunderstood.

When people think of doctors, they imagine comfortable salaries, luxury cars, large homes, and endless travel. They rarely see the human being beneath the title.

They do not see the countless encounters with death, the long companionship with uncertainty, the moments when violence leaves invisible scars, or the burden of decisions that have no perfect answer.

They do not see the moral wounds carried in silence, nor the weight of witnessing suffering—day after day, year after year—until grief settles quietly into the fabric of one's being.

They do not see the nights spent studying, the exams that loom like storms on the horizon, the relentless pressure to prove yourself worthy again and again.

And beyond the hospital walls, they do not see the personal battles, the losses, the heartbreaks, the exhaustion, or the simple human struggles at home.

They do not see the sleepless hours after a shift, when the mind refuses to rest.

They do not see the nightmares.

The self-doubt.

The lingering sense of failure when an outcome could not be changed.

Or the simple ache of carrying a patient's suffering long after leaving the hospital.

Yes, the distance between glorifying self-sacrifice and self-destruction is far smaller than we would like to admit.

Dear institution, directors and managers, compassion should never stop at the patient's bedside. It must also reach the people wearing the scrubs, carrying the MET pager, and all the staff walking silently through hospital corridors while trying to hold themselves together.

Protecting the mental health of healthcare workers is not separate from patient care—it is an essential part of it.

A doctor or nurse who seeks help is not less competent. They are human enough to recognise their limits and responsible enough to seek support.

Yet too often, wellbeing initiatives end with a list of phone numbers, emails, flyers, and helplines.

Their intention is genuine. But also the concern is real.

Yet, concern alone is not enough.

I still do not see the sustained, practical support that many of us have been asking for.

- No meaningful ongoing assessment of staff wellbeing.

- Huddles growing shorter, focused less on connection and more on surviving the next wave of pressure.

- Teams so overwhelmed that relief becomes the only objective.

- The level of disconnection between colleagues feels deeper than ever before.

In a place like ours—where we have witnessed the devastating impact of mental illness firsthand, where we lost a cherished colleague not so long ago—we must ask ourselves:

How many more do we need to lose before we truly listen?

Before we truly act?

Perhaps the answer begins with something simple.

Let us take a moment for ourselves.

Let us do what we have always done best: care.

Check on the people around you.

Then check again. Even if they insist they are fine. Even if they become annoyed by your persistence.

Look into your colleagues’ eyes, not only at wall mounted monitor screens.

Ask how they are coping.

Ask whether they need help.

Sometimes a conversation changes the course of a life.

Sometimes a smile reaches a place that medicine cannot.

Always remember, a healthy profession is not one in which nobody struggles. It is one in which nobody is forced to struggle alone.

And certainly not in silence.

Flower Under The Rock

Once upon a time, on the rugged slopes of life's mountains, there stood an ancient rock, one of the largest among its kin.

Each morning, it awoke with the sun resting upon its shoulders. The dry winds would strike its weathered face, while distant songs drifted upward from valleys far below. The mountaintop was a restless place, forever swept by wandering gusts, yet the rock remained unmoved—silent, steadfast, and deeply rooted in the earth that gave it strength.

Seasons came and went, and solitude became its only companion.

Then one day, a tiny seed, carried carelessly by the wind, found refuge beneath the rock's sheltering shadow.

It was so small that the rock never saw it arrive.

Yet somehow, he sensed a quiet pulse of life stirring beneath him—a secret unfolding in the darkness.

Slowly, the seed became a flower.

Delicate and bright, she grew under his protection, drinking sunlight by day and leaning against his ancient body by night. Whenever her slender stem brushed his rough skin, or her petals danced against his surface, the old rock felt something he had never known before.

He felt alive.

The sun seemed warmer. The winds sang sweeter songs. The endless years no longer tasted of loneliness.

And so they shared the seasons together.

But flowers measure time differently than rocks.

One day, beneath his watchful gaze, her petals faded. Her colors dimmed. Her stem bowed to the earth, and she returned to the soil from which she had come.

That night, the rock wept.

He wept until his sorrow rose into the heavens, and the clouds themselves could no longer hold their tears. Rain fell across the mountainsides as though the sky had joined him in mourning.

When dawn arrived, he refused to open his eyes.

Days passed.

His only comfort was the fragile hope that somewhere, somehow, he might see her again.

Then one morning, while he kept his eyes tightly shut, he sensed something familiar.

A fragrance.

Soft at first, then impossibly strong.

The scent of wildflowers.

His heart trembled.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

And there she was.

Not as one flower, but as thousands.

The entire mountainside had become a sea of blossoms, stretching farther than sight could reach. Every breeze carried her perfume. Every color echoed her memory.

What he had believed was an ending had become a beginning.

And for the first time, the old rock understood:

Life never truly disappears into the earth.

Sometimes, it simply returns as a whole valley in bloom.

Even Plants Feel

 

I have always been fascinated by the quiet wisdom of plants—how they know precisely when to unfurl their leaves, when to bloom, and when to offer their fruits to the world.

As winter settles in, this Narcissus amaryllis stirs beneath the earth, gently parting the soil with its emerald fingers. Yet it guards its blossoms with patience, refusing to release them until spring lingers at the doorstep.

What appears to us as instinct is in fact a remarkable symphony: photoreceptors sensing the changing light, temperature whispering its secrets, hormones such as auxin and florigen carrying their messages, all guided by an exquisitely precise circadian clock.

A silent intelligence, written not in thought, but in the language of life itself.

Happy first of June.

In Patients' Socks

 As doctors, we are entrusted with the sacred privilege of caring for other people's bodies.

We learn the science. We master the procedures. We carry responsibility in our hands and decisions in our minds.

We care deeply, or at least as deeply as our understanding allows.

Yet there is a distance between witnessing suffering and inhabiting it.

We prescribe medicines whose bitterness we have never tasted.

We order injections without feeling the needle pierce our own flesh.

We do not know the struggle of swallowing tablets that linger painfully in the throat.

We observe pain, measure it, and document it, but we do not always understand how it can twist the stomach, steal one's dignity, and make every breath a battle.

We speak of dependence as a clinical reality,

yet we rarely comprehend the helplessness of needing another person for the simplest of tasks.

We acknowledge the connection between body and mind,

but we do not truly grasp how a failing body can cast shadows over the soul.

Not until life gently—or sometimes mercilessly—turns the tables.

Not until the healer becomes the patient.

Only then do the charts gain faces.

Only then do the symptoms acquire weight.

Only then do the numbers and diagnoses become human.

And it is there, in that vulnerable space between suffering and healing,

that medicine ceases to be merely a profession.

It becomes compassion.

It becomes understanding.

It becomes a calling practiced not only with knowledge, but with a passion born from experience.

The Lucky Last

Tonight, after a long and weary shift, I walked slowly through the hospital car park toward my car.

I was the last to leave, and for once, I welcomed the solitude. I welcomed the silence.

Only moments earlier, I had been surrounded by noise, voices, alarms, footsteps, endless movement — and then suddenly, I found myself alone on a path swallowed by thick fog, where the world seemed softer, quieter, almost unreal.

On the drive home, I lowered the car windows despite the cold breeze. Soft piano melodies filled the air while tiny droplets of mist settled gently upon my face like healing balms. The dance of lights and shadows along the empty roads held my weary soul captive, as though the night itself was trying to comfort me.

It was a beautiful way to unravel the heaviness of the day.

And now, as I sit before the fireplace, staring into its endless glow while writing these words down, I feel a quiet sense of peace — knowing that somewhere amidst the exhaustion, I was able to ease the suffering of a few souls tonight.

Love Tree

 I will not say,

“I thought of you that day,”

for you are the quiet flame

that never leaves my mind —

not in the hush of night,

nor beneath the wandering light of day.

And if this is not love,

then why does every path I walk

lead only toward your image?

Why does the world grow distant

whenever your shadow enters my heart?

I cannot breathe in a life

where you are absent.

I cannot imagine a dawn

untouched by the warmth of our love.

And oh, how my soul longs for the moment

when we are no longer two separate beings,

but one living body,

one ancient tree of love —

its roots deep within eternity,

its branches reaching across the world,

offering the sweetest fruits

to every wandering heart.

Perseverance

 

For those who may not know, electricity in Lebanon has long stood as one of the deepest wounds of corruption. Billions vanished, yet people were left with barely four hours of power in an entire day. Beyond that, families had no choice but to surrender to costly private generators — a luxury far beyond the reach of struggling students like us.

This is one of the very few photographs I still have from my years in Medical School.

My housemate took it on his old Nokia phone, teasing me as I sat studying by candlelight.

I kept the photo, not out of embarrassment, but because it became a quiet monument to perseverance.

I would light one candle at a time, carefully making each one last a little longer, stretching every flicker of light against the limits of a painfully small budget.

Today, when I look back at this image, I truly do not know how I endured those years.

But perhaps that is the nature of purpose.

When your eyes are fixed on a mission greater than comfort, hardship stops being a wall before you. It becomes the fire that tempers you, the darkness that teaches you how to carry your own light.

Reality!

 

(From news.com.au) Hannah's parents lost everything when their healthy nine-year-old suddenly died after complaining of aches and pains.

Life’s pathways are plagued with hidden land mines; we walk them never knowing which step may awaken sorrow beneath our feet.

And perhaps the cruel paradox of love is this: Every attachment becomes a quiet deposit into the unseen treasury of grief and longing, where joy and suffering forever grow side by side.

Be Like a Child

 

She lay on an uncomfortable emergency department bed, striving to remain composed despite her condition. Cradled in her right arm was her six-month-old baby, while a chest tube inserted in her left side, left her in significant pain and unable to move.

In the months following her delivery, she had endured a persistent cough, which ultimately led to the diagnosis of a lung tumour requiring a major surgical intervention.

Between her voice interrupted by shortness of breath, her husband’s struggle to hide his tears, and a doctor who knows what is coming next, her baby was sleeping on her chest, enjoying the warmth of a fading woman.

This child was living the moment, not knowing that the world around him is collapsing…

How many times I want to be like this child… just live the moments of life, not knowing what is happening next.