Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I walked into the room, introduced myself clearly: “Hi, I’m Dr. [Last Name],” and proceeded to take a thorough history and perform a physical exam. I explained the differential diagnosis, reviewed the plan, and outlined next steps. The patient nodded along, asked a few questions, and then, after all that, looked up and asked me:

“When will I see the doctor?”

This wasn’t an isolated incident. It happened again and again throughout my training. No matter how confidently I introduced myself, no matter how many hours I spent on the wards or how many notes I wrote, it seemed my presence never quite measured up. Not because I wasn’t capable — but because I didn’t look like what many people imagined a doctor to be.

Male trainees were rarely, if ever, mistaken for the nurse. It wasn’t just confidence. It was assumption. They walked into the room, and the white coat fit — not just their shoulders, but their identity. For many women, becoming a physician is not just about acquiring knowledge and skills. It’s about pushing past the constant erasure of that identity — especially during the vulnerable years of training, when you’re still figuring out who you are.

When I first went into practice, appointment letters sent to new patients included my full name. Many patients — often men — would call the office and ask to reschedule with a male doctor. They hadn’t even met me. They just saw a woman’s name and decided I couldn’t possibly be the right person to care for them.

Eventually, I changed the letter to include only my first initial. That small adjustment gave me a chance — to be seen, to be heard, to be evaluated based on my clinical care rather than my gender.

Still, even after a full visit — one in which I examined the patient, explained the diagnosis, reviewed the risks and benefits of surgery — I’d often hear, “So when will I be meeting the surgeon?”

The disbelief never really goes away.

Even now, with years of experience and a track record behind me, I still face it. One male patient, nervous before a routine exam, said, “I’ve never had a female doctor before.” I responded honestly: “I understand. I’ve never had a female doctor either. All of mine have been men.”

We are still swimming upstream in a profession where gender inequities are deeply embedded. Data shows that female physicians are more likely to be interrupted, less likely to be introduced with their professional title, and often paid less despite equal or greater workload. In surgery — and particularly in subspecialties like urology — these disparities are magnified.

A 2021 study in JAMA Surgery found that female surgeons are less likely to be referred high-risk or complex patients — not because of competence, but because of perception.

Patients don’t always realize the impact of their assumptions. But for us, especially in those early years, the microaggressions pile up. They chip away at confidence. They delay belonging. They whisper, “You don’t fit here.”

But we do. We’ve always belonged here.

And every time I speak up, every time I respond with both grace and authority, every time I say, “I am the doctor. I am your surgeon,” I reinforce that truth — not just for myself, but for the next generation of women standing where I once stood, white coat on, heart wide open, waiting to be seen.