Every morning, I slip on my scrubs and mask, but it’s the invisible armor that weighs the most. Beneath the confident stride of a surgeon lies the quiet fear I carry—my disability, the one I’m told I shouldn’t have in this profession. My hands are steady, my skills sharp, but at times, my mind goes back to the shadows. My work is excellent, and my patient care exceptional, yet even so, it can compromise my place here.

The hospital halls echo with conversations where mental illness affects our patients. It would be better if they spoke in hushed tones or ridiculed in passing. But in the guise of patient care, they say the truths they might hide in regular conversation. “Jesus Christ, what a lunatic.” “God, I hate the crazies." "Not a-fucking-gain.” And at least these people are honest — I’ve heard my colleagues say worse behind polite professionalism. To be honest, I get the frustration. Working with people with severe mental illness is hard. I know because I do it, too. But I wonder if they would speak so dismissively if they knew that the person performing the surgery next to them sometimes fights battles unseen, battles they seem to think a surgeon couldn’t face.

The policies are clear: Weakness jeopardizes your standing. So I hide it. I bury it beneath my steady hands, flashy smiles and cheesy jokes, hoping no one ever sees through the cracks. I manage the weight on my own, knowing full well that if I ever said it out loud, I’d be labeled, dismissed, even if not outright, slowly nudged to the edges.

The shame doesn’t come from my illness—it comes from their ignorance. But in this field, silence is my survival. So, I continue, performing both my work and this quiet, exhausting act of hiding. In the end, I don’t know which takes more out of me.