I was nine months pregnant and still in the operating room, trying to maneuver my body around the table, my swollen belly brushing against the drapes, the baby kicking as I held retractors and tried not to lose my breath.
But the hardest part wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.
In my first trimester, I started feeling queasy. First it was food—then even water made me gag. I couldn’t walk into the hospital cafeteria without retching. The smell of fried food, antiseptic, the faint scent of other people’s coffee—it all sent me running to the bathroom, hand over mouth, praying no one would see me.
I had done a home pregnancy test. I knew. But I hadn’t even seen an OB yet. And still, I stayed on call. I was a surgical resident, after all. There was no such thing as calling out.
I was so dehydrated, my skin felt like parchment. I was lightheaded during rounds, clenching my jaw to hold back bile, whispering apologies to patients when I had to step out of their rooms. There were only four of us on the service. No one else could take my place.
Finally, a nurse noticed. She took one look at me and said, “You need to call your OB—now.” I did. The on-call attending was shocked. “Get to the hospital,” he said. I told him I couldn’t. I was already in one.
He told me to start IV fluids immediately—two liters, that night. And every night after, until I could keep something down. So that became my routine. I’d finish my shift, find a nurse, and hang a bag of saline from a coat hanger at home, my husband looping it through the curtain rod as I lay on the couch, too tired to speak.
And still—I never took a day off. I was saving every hour for maternity leave. Every single one of them sacred.
By the time I was visibly pregnant, the whispers had started.
“How long is she going to be out?”
“Who’s covering for her?”
“Are we going to have to pick up her cases?”
Even though I hadn’t missed a single day. Even though I’d operated with an IV line bruising my arm. The message was clear: pregnancy was an inconvenience. And the cost of that inconvenience would be mine alone to bear.
I delivered by C-section and took five weeks off—exactly what I’d accrued. Not one day more. Then I returned to work with a breast pump in hand and a knot in my stomach the size of a fist.
Breast pumps aren’t discreet. They come in large bags with a cooling chamber for milk. I lugged mine around the hospital, trying to find places to hide it—under desks, behind chairs, under my coat in call rooms that didn’t lock.
I was supposed to pump every 3–4 hours. But in the OR, there’s no stepping out. No one can scrub in for you when you’re the resident. I bled into my pads and leaked through my gown, praying no one would notice the wet spots beneath my scrubs.
When I did manage to escape for a few minutes, I had to find an empty room. Sometimes it was a patient room. Sometimes a closet. One time, it was an equipment storage area. None had locks. More than once, a janitor or a colleague—usually male—walked in on me mid-pump, the machine clicking like a ticking clock between us. We were both mortified.
My supply dropped quickly. My body couldn’t make milk under that kind of stress. The shame that came with that—of failing at the one thing I had tried so hard to preserve—was crushing.
I felt like I was failing at everything. Not enough at work, because I had dared to have a baby. Not enough at home, because I was working. I cried in stairwells. I cried in my car. And then I dried my tears, walked back in, and did it all again.
This is what being a female surgical resident can still look like.
It’s not just about the policies (though those matter). It’s about the culture. A culture that expects silence. That tolerates suffering. That shrugs when women fall through the cracks.
And it’s not just me.
Female surgical residents are more likely to experience pregnancy complications and burnout than their male peers (source). Many report inadequate parental leave and hostile work environments around breastfeeding and childcare (source).
And yet, paradoxically, female surgeons often deliver better outcomes for patients (BMJ study).
We’re not asking for sympathy. We’re asking for sanity.
What needs to change?
- Designated lactation rooms—private, secure, and accessible.
- Protected time to pump or rest without risking judgment or missed opportunities.
- Standardized parental leave policies for residents.
- Mentorship from women who’ve been there and can guide others through.
- A shift in culture that sees vulnerability not as weakness, but as honesty.
Because no one should have to operate while starving and vomiting. No one should have to pump in a closet, afraid the door will swing open. No one should have to choose between being a good surgeon and a good mother.
We can—and must—make medicine more humane.
Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming 
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