Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I remember my first week in the Urology clinic at the county hospital like a fever dream.
This was it—my long-awaited start as a third-year resident. I had finally arrived at the specialty I’d trained so hard to reach. I was supposed to feel proud. Ready. But all I felt was dread.

The walls of the county hospital were chipped and yellowing, lined with faded posters on kidney stones and bladder health, written in English that most of the patients couldn’t read. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly overhead. The clinic was cramped—two windowless exam rooms, one outdated computer, and a hallway so narrow that patients sat shoulder to shoulder on the floor, waiting their turn. Some had been there since dawn, having ridden buses for hours. A few found stray chairs. Most didn’t complain.

There was no orientation. No roadmap. I hadn’t rotated in urology as a student, so everything was new: TURPs, TRUSPs, UDS studies, voiding diaries. Even the acronyms sounded foreign. And yet, here I was—“running” the clinic.

There was supposed to be a chief resident supervising me. A sixth-year. He was never there. I’d catch glimpses of him between cases, sometimes sauntering in mid-morning, grabbing a snack, cracking a joke, and then vanishing again.

So I sat alone, wading through handwritten charts, deciphering vague notes left by whoever came before—who also, I suspected, had no idea what they were doing. I flipped through pages, praying there’d be a plan I could follow. Most often, there wasn’t.

And the patients kept coming.

They came in quietly, often clutching a bag of pills, speaking softly in Spanish, telling me about blood in the urine, pain with urination, a husband who hadn’t voided in days. I stumbled through interviews, grasping for words in my broken medical Spanish. I’d try to piece together a history, look up the condition in my pocket Urology guide, and then craft a plan on the fly. But it was slow. Too slow.

Soon, I stopped looking things up during clinic. There just wasn’t time.
I started copying the last resident’s plan—refilling a prescription, ordering a test, telling them to return in three months, when someone else would figure it out. It didn’t feel right. It felt like survival.

I tried to page my chief for help. Sometimes he answered, most times he didn’t. I tried to read in my spare time, but after 80-hour weeks and every-third-night call, I’d fall asleep with textbooks open across my chest, barely making it past the first paragraph.

And then one day, I broke.

The waiting room was overflowing. My brain was fried. I couldn’t remember which antibiotic to choose, which test to order, what even mattered anymore. My hands were shaking. My heart was pounding. I was terrified I was missing something, harming someone.

And then—like a vision—our female attending walked in.
She was the only woman on faculty. For a moment, I was filled with hope. Maybe she’d understand. Maybe she’d remember what this felt like—to be overwhelmed, insecure, alone. Maybe she’d sit down beside me, show me how to sort through it all.

Instead, she glanced at me, exasperated. “Oh, Laura,” she said flatly. “Just buck up.”

That was it. No eye contact. No questions. No help.

I blinked hard, holding back the tears, then looked down at my notes. I called in the next patient.

In that moment, I learned something I wasn’t supposed to name out loud:
Weakness was shameful. Vulnerability was dangerous. Uncertainty had no place here.

This was a culture built on pretending. On nodding even when you didn’t understand. On making decisions—even wrong ones—because appearing unsure was worse than making a mistake. This was surgery. This was urology. And even the women, I realized, had learned to wear a mask—to harden, to silence, to survive.

I buried my fear. I numbed my doubt.
And I just worked harder.
Harder and harder and harder.

Because deep down, I believed what this culture had taught me:
That I wasn’t good enough.
That if I just did more, I could prove myself.
That someday, I might finally belong.

But that day never really came.
Because this isn’t just a me problem.
This is a medicine problem.
And yes, it’s a gender problem too.

In fields dominated by men, where strength is confused with stoicism and confidence with bravado, there’s little room for honest learning. There’s little room for growth through failure. There’s no room at all for women who dare to be human.

Some things are better now—work hours capped, more supervision, some token gestures toward wellness. But the deeper culture hasn’t changed. The pressure to be perfect, to never ask for help, to push past your limits without complaint—it’s still there. And it still breaks people.

It almost broke me.

And yet, I stayed.
Because I love the work.
Because I care deeply.
Because I believe we can do better.

But first, we have to stop pretending.
And we have to start telling the truth.

The challenges faced by women in surgical fields are multifaceted and deeply ingrained in the culture of medicine. These challenges not only affect the well-being of female surgeons but also have implications for patient care and outcomes.

Higher Burnout Rates Among Female Surgeons

Studies have consistently shown that female physicians experience higher rates of burnout compared to their male counterparts. For instance, in 2021, 56% of women physicians reported burnout symptoms, compared to 41% of men . Factors contributing to this disparity include work-home conflicts, emotional exhaustion, and a lack of professional fulfillment .(PMC, Clayman Institute)

Superior Patient Outcomes with Female Surgeons

Interestingly, despite these challenges, patients treated by female surgeons often experience better outcomes. A study published in JAMA Surgery found that patients operated on by female surgeons had lower rates of adverse postoperative outcomes, including death at 90 days and one year after surgery, compared to those treated by male surgeons . Another study corroborated these findings, suggesting that female surgeons’ patients had fewer complications and shorter hospital stays .(New York Post, PubMed, The Guardian)

Systemic Barriers and Gender Bias

Beyond burnout, female surgeons often face systemic barriers, including discrimination, sexual harassment, and assumptions about their capabilities. These issues contribute to a culture where women feel the need to overcompensate to prove their worth . Moreover, challenges related to pregnancy and parenthood, such as inadequate parental leave policies and lack of mentorship on work-family integration, further exacerbate the difficulties faced by women in surgery .(AAMC, PubMed)

Addressing the Challenges

To mitigate these issues, several strategies have been proposed:(AAMC)

• Mentorship and Support Networks: Establishing mentorship programs can provide guidance and support for female surgeons navigating their careers.
• Policy Reforms: Implementing policies that promote work-life balance, such as flexible scheduling and comprehensive parental leave, can alleviate some of the pressures faced by women in surgery.
• Addressing Implicit Bias: Training programs aimed at recognizing and combating implicit biases can foster a more inclusive and equitable work environment.

For more information on these topics and resources to support female surgeons, consider exploring the following:

• American Medical Association: Gender Differences in Physician Burnout
• PubMed: Surgeon Sex and Long-Term Postoperative Outcomes
• Stanford Gender News: Women Surgeons and the Challenges of “Having It All”

By acknowledging and addressing these challenges, the medical community can work towards a more equitable and supportive environment for all surgeons, ultimately enhancing patient care and outcomes.