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.
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