The Quiet Cost Of Burnout
Leaving academic medicine was one of the biggest decisions I've ever made in my career. Back then, I was teaching med students and psychiatry residents, building curriculum, supervising, leading, seeing patients, and just trying to keep up with all the changes at work. I was also taking overnight calls, and for years I picked up a lot of weekend shifts too - mostly because I needed the extra money to help with school loans, rent, and the needs of my family. It still feels a little wild to say that out loud - people think being a doctor means you're set financially. That just wasn't true for me, not for a long time.
I want to be clear - I learned a ton from those years. That kind of busyness and responsibility sharpened my skills and shaped me as a psychiatrist, teacher, and leader. I'm genuinely grateful for that season. But it came at a cost. When I commit to something, I care about doing it well. I wanted to give good care, teach future doctors well, and show up in a way I could be proud of. I didn't stop loving the work. I just couldn't keep working that way.
At first, I couldn't name what was happening. I just knew I wasn't feeling healthy - physically tired, emotionally drained. The work that used to fill me up started to feel different. I still loved psychiatry. I still do. But something was getting thinner. Eventually, I realized my personal life was quietly paying the price.
That's the thing about burnout that a lot of high-functioning people miss. It doesn't always look obvious. Sometimes it just looks like functioning well enough for so long that depleted starts to feel normal. For me, it meant missing too many weekends because I'd signed up to be the doctor on call. It meant writing notes late into the night just to keep up. It meant getting work notifications at 4:45 in the morning - even when I wasn't on shift - and checking them anyway because that felt normal. It meant taking meetings while driving my kids to school because I didn't know where else to fit them in. It meant missing weddings, graduations, and family milestones because I thought I couldn't say no to work. Each of those moments, on its own, was easy to brush off. Together, they were telling a bigger story.
This is why I talk so much about checking in with yourself. When stress starts building, it helps to pause and ask: What is happening in my body? What is happening in my mind? What is happening in my environment and relationships that may be contributing to this?
Looking back with that lens, the signs were all there. My body was tired. My mind was carrying more pressure than fulfillment. My environment was full of demands - productivity pressure, teaching, leadership, money stress, and always trying to hold everything together.
And at home, my marriage was feeling it too. There were times my husband would say it felt like everything was about my work. Back then, I don't think I really got what he meant. I thought I was doing things in a healthy enough way. Looking back, I can admit I wasn't seeing his side either. I was so used to thinking I had to do things a certain way that I missed the quieter signs that my work was costing us something. That was a hard realization.
By then, I'd been working like that for over a decade. I had my second child. My oldest was growing up. My husband and I were getting older. I had to sit with myself and ask what kind of life I wanted to keep building. I knew work would always matter to me. I love being a psychiatrist. I love helping people. But I also wanted time with my kids, a marriage I was passionate and nurturing, and a career that supported the life I cared about - not one quietly competing with it.
That took a lot of soul-searching. Eventually, I had to be honest with myself - I didn't want to keep moving toward burnout while telling myself I was fine just because I was still functioning at a very high capacity. So I made a shift. I left my teaching career in academic medicine and decided to work fully for myself. It was scary. That path had felt like the goal for so long, and it was the main professional identity I'd known since training. Leaving it wasn't about rejecting everything that chapter gave me. It was just time for a new one.
And honestly, it's one of the best decisions I've made. I don't regret my years in academic medicine. I'm deeply grateful for them. I learned so much about myself, about psychiatry, and about how I want to practice. But one of the biggest lessons I took from that chapter is this: Pay attention to the signals. What your body is telling you. What you keep brushing off emotionally. What your environment keeps reflecting back before you hit a breaking point. Sometimes the real work isn't about blowing up your whole life. Sometimes it's just pausing long enough to ask if the path you're on still fits the life you actually want.