The Weight We Carry

I stand here, white coat stretched tight across my midsection, feeling the weight of more than just my body. My stethoscope hangs heavy around my neck, a constant reminder of the responsibility I bear. As I look at the chart in my hands, I see the familiar refrain:?

"Counsel patient on diet and exercise."

A wry smile tugs at my lips. How can I, with my own breath slightly labored from the short walk down the corridor, advise someone else on the virtues of an active lifestyle? The irony isn't lost on me as I unconsciously adjust my coat, trying to smooth out the telltale bulges.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. The exam room door feels like a barrier between two worlds - the professional facade I maintain and the personal struggles I hide. As I reach for the handle, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the small window. The bags under my eyes speak of late nights poring over patient files, of worries that extend far beyond the clinic walls.

Entering the room, I see my patient - eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. In that moment, I recognize a kindred spirit. The weight they carry isn't just physical; it's the accumulation of life's stresses, of grief held close to the heart, of anxieties that gnaw at the soul in the quiet hours of the night.

As I begin to speak, the rehearsed words about balanced diets and regular exercise feel hollow in my mouth. How can I preach what I struggle to practice? The discomfort rises like a tide, threatening to choke my well-intentioned advice.

But then, something shifts. In acknowledging my own battles - the late-night comfort eating, the exercise plans abandoned in favor of collapsing on the couch after a grueling shift - I find a bridge of understanding. My vulnerabilities, long hidden beneath a veneer of medical authority, become a gateway to genuine connection.

I pause, let out a soft sigh, and start again. This time, my words are not from a textbook but from the heart. "It's not easy, is it?" I say, meeting their eyes with a gaze that holds no judgment, only shared understanding.

And in that moment of naked honesty, I feel the walls between us crumble. We're no longer just doctor and patient, but two humans navigating the complex terrain of health and well-being, each with our own stumbling blocks and small victories.

As we talk - really talk - about the challenges of changing habits, of finding motivation when the world feels heavy, I realize that my struggles don't diminish my ability to help. Instead, they enhance it. My empathy is not theoretical but lived, breathed, felt in every fiber of my being.

When the consultation ends, I feel a sense of renewal. The path ahead is still challenging, for both of us. But now, it's a path we walk together, supporting each other in our shared humanity. My imperfections, once a source of shame, have become a wellspring of connection and understanding.

As I close the door behind me, I stand a little straighter. The weight I carry - both physical and emotional - remains. But now, it feels less like a burden and more like a tool, honed by experience, ready to bridge the gap between medical knowledge and human experience.

In embracing my own struggles, I've found a deeper capacity to heal - not just bodies, but the spirits within them. And in this realization, I find a resolve to continue, one step at a time, on my own journey towards health, all the while guiding others with a compassion born of shared experience.

— Dr Joel Brown, MD