I sat in the waiting room, feeling completely out of place. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the receptionist’s quiet typing and the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. My mind raced—running through a checklist of symptoms I’d carefully cataloged over the past few months. I was prepared. I’d already diagnosed myself: depression, maybe some anxiety. I even had a few ideas for medications, which I had scribbled in my notebook. I’d prefer an SNRI, as I felt that was getting at the likely mechanism of my particular pathology. If that didn’t work, maybe bupropion. I could almost hear my own voice making the suggestions, like I had with countless patients.

But I wasn’t sitting in my office. I wasn’t the one in control.

Suddenly I felt altogether too aware of how I looked. I had come straight from clinic, and in my rush and overthinking, I realized I had forgotten to take off my white coat. I slid it off my shoulders — the ruffling noise seeming unbearably loud in this silent, little room.

The coat was still on most of my arms when a door opened, and the psychiatrist stepped out, smiling gently. “Doctor?”

My heart sank. It felt wrong, as if I had crossed some invisible line by sitting here. I stood up slowly, hoping she couldn’t see my exhaustion that I carried with every movement. My limbs felt heavy — was this psychomotor retardation? My mind was too clouded and the consequences too heavy for me to analyze myself. I followed her into the office, trying not to think about how many times I had told patients that seeking help was a sign of strength.

I sat down and glanced around. The room was simple. A couch, a few chairs, a small table with tissues. I didn’t need tissues. I wasn’t going to cry.

“So,” she began, her voice gentle but direct, “what brings you in today?”

I paused. Where did I even start? I tried to sound clinical, tried to stick to the facts. “I haven’t been sleeping. I’m exhausted all the time, and it’s affecting my work.” I stopped short. “Nothing bad. Nothing has affected patients. I’m just… slow. In the work, not mentally. Nothing is affecting patient care.”

She smiled slightly — all too aware of the fear underlying my words. This job is my everything, I might as well have cried. I can’t lose this one thing I have.

“I’ve lost interest in things.” I continued. “I don’t feel… anything, really.”

She nodded, encouraging. There was a long pause as I sat, unable to think what to say next, but grasping at words. I felt like I was forgetting something, and I couldn’t stop myself from reaching into my bag and pulling out my notes—the list of symptoms, possible diagnoses, the medication ideas. I handed them over. I am embarrassed to say, I felt a surge of pride, thinking about how prepared I was.

She took the papers, thanking me, and skimming them briefly before setting them down. “It sounds like you’ve been dealing with this for a while,” she said.

I nodded, but the weight of it all suddenly felt unbearable. “It’s been months. I’ve tried to push through it, but nothing’s working.”

I didn’t tell her about the long hours at the hospital, or the constant pressure to be everything to everyone. I didn’t mention the colleague we lost last year—another doctor, who took his own life. He had seemed fine. No warning signs, nothing that stood out. And now, all I could think about was how I hadn’t seen it. If I could miss the signs in him, what was I missing in myself?

“I lost someone at work last year,” I finally said, my voice quieter than I intended. “A colleague. A… friend. Suicide. And I didn’t see it coming. Now I wonder if…” I trailed off, the words too much to finish.

She didn’t rush me. She just waited, her expression patient and calm. She had heard this story before, I thought. Maybe doctors were more prone to this than we liked to admit. I’d seen it in others, but I never thought I’d be sitting here, wondering if I was next.

“I’ve been trying to figure it out myself,” I said, clearing my throat. “I even came up with some medications that might help.”

She smiled at that, a little sad, a little understanding. “You know,” she said, “you don’t have to solve this on your own.”

Her words hit me harder than I expected. I was a doctor. Solving problems was what I did. But this? This felt different. This felt like failure.

I stared at the floor, my chest tight. “I just don’t understand why I’m like this,” I said. “I’m supposed to be the one helping others, not... this.”

“Burnout and depression aren’t weaknesses,” she said. “They’re part of being human.”

Human. The word hung in the air between us. How long had it been since I let myself feel human? I spent so much time being a doctor, being competent and composed, that I forgot what it felt like to need help. I had seen what happens when doctors don’t ask for it—when they keep pushing until there’s nothing left.

I thought about my colleague again. His smile, his jokes in the breakroom, his sudden absence. I didn’t want to follow that same path.

The psychiatrist spoke again, breaking the silence. “You’re here now. That’s a start.”

I nodded, feeling something shift inside me. Maybe this was the start of something different, something better.

Before I left, she handed me back my notes. “I appreciate the thought you’ve put into your treatment,” she said with a smile, “but let’s work on this together. You don’t have to do it alone.”

I stepped out of the office, the afternoon air hitting me like a wave, cool and sharp. I had expected to feel lighter after talking to someone, after admitting that I couldn’t handle it on my own. But all I felt was tired. The kind of deep, bone-heavy fatigue that no nap or weekend off could fix.

I stood there for a moment, not ready to go back to my life, not ready to pretend everything was fine. Maybe that was the point—I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I had spent so long hiding behind my role as a doctor, convincing myself that I could push through anything, that needing help was somehow a personal failing.

But today, sitting across from someone who didn’t flinch at my brokenness, something cracked. Not in a dramatic way, but in a slow, subtle shift—like a door that had been jammed for years finally giving way. I realized it wasn’t about being a better doctor, or even being better at all. It was about being honest with myself for once, about not running from the parts of me that weren’t invincible.

I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t have a plan this time, no quick fixes or bullet-point lists. But as I took a breath of fresh air, I thought maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe I wasn’t trying to solve anything. At least, this time, I wasn’t going to be doing it alone.