Dr. Corrigan
A truth we don’t want to admit
I remember one of those 04:00 a.m. ICU sign-outs. The overhead lights were too harsh, the halls too quiet, and I was dragging — internally debating whether I’d go home, collapse into bed, and try to sleep before rounding again in four hours. Yet I kept typing notes, ordering labs, updating the chart. I kept going — because that’s what physicians do. That night, someone in administration sent a memo: “Consider attending our resilience workshop.”
I froze. Not because I wasn’t exhausted. I froze because I was furious. After countless nights of trauma, loss, and pressure — after years of pushed shifts, emotional toll, and unmet needs — I was being told I needed to be more “resilient.”
Here’s the truth: we, physicians, are already resilient. What’s not resilient is the system that expects us to carry on without real support.
The problem with the word “resilience” in medicine
Resilience is framed as a virtue. On paper, it sounds noble: adapt, endure, recover. But in modern medicine, the term has become weaponized. Used not to honor strength, but to shift responsibility.
When a hospital or institution says: “We need more resilient doctors,” what they’re really saying is: “We won’t fix what’s broken. You fix yourself.”
It subtly reframes the problem. Instead of asking: Why are our doctors drowning? it asks: Why aren’t our doctors swimming better? This rhetoric alone builds a quiet shame among those who struggle. It becomes yet another burden — one no one signed up for.
In my own recovery from burnout, I came to see that resilience was never the lacking ingredient. It was the hazardous environment, the impossible demands, the invisible wounds sustained day after day.
Physicians are already resilient — here’s the evidence
Think about it: what does a physician’s training and early career look like? Years of intense study. Long nights. Exams. Boards. First-day jitters. Endless patient care. Traumatic events. Death. Ethical dilemmas.
And yet, we keep caring. We keep showing up. We still care about doing the right thing. We stay until midnight to finish notes. We call families, hold hands, explain death. We stay for the next shift.
Research echoes this reality. Physicians, by the very nature of their work, display extraordinary endurance. And yet — when placed in a system versioned for assembly-line throughput, even the strongest among us begin to fray.
If we are to ask someone to be “more resilient,” what we are really asking is for them to absorb more pain, sacrifice more of themselves, and keep going.
What’s actually causing the harm: it’s not lack of grit
Burnout — and its cost — is not born out of weakness. It sprouts from conditions.
Administrative burden: In many U.S. practices, physicians spend far more time on paperwork, billing, coding, compliance, and electronic health record (EHR) duties than face-to-face with patients. For some, that ratio is 2 hours clerical work for every 1 hour of patient care.
Lack of autonomy and control: Many institutions rig metrics, productivity targets, and rigid documentation requirements. Physicians lose control over daily workflow, clinical decisions — even basic time management.
Moral injury and emotional burden: Many physicians find themselves forced to act in ways that conflict with ethical values — overtreatment, rushed decisions, limited time for meaningful conversations with patients — driven not by clinical need, but by productivity mandates. This repeated conflict breeds moral distress that erodes the soul.
Staff shortages and overload: Under-resourced teams, unsustainable on-call schedules, lack of backup coverage — all add to chronic exhaustion and emotional fatigue.
Lack of reward, recognition, and human support: When doctors are treated as cogs — not colleagues; when empathy and compassion go unrecognized; when meaningful work is buried beneath paperwork — the toll is heavy.
In short: it’s not grit we lack. It’s a system designed such that even the most committed, compassionate, and resilient healers eventually crumble under the weight.
The cost of blaming individuals instead of systems
When the diagnosis becomes “not resilient enough,” the solution becomes “resilience training,” “mindfulness seminars,” “yoga classes after 14-hour shifts.”
These may sound helpful — and some physicians may derive benefit. But they ignore the root causes. Worse: they reinforce a dangerous narrative: If you’re struggling, it’s your fault.
That narrative breeds shame. Self-blame. Isolation. Many physicians internalize failure rather than recognizing that the system failed them. Burnout becomes a mark of weakness, rather than a symptom of systemic abuse.
And the toll isn’t just mental. Exhaustion, emotional depletion, cynicism — these all erode quality of care. Physician turnover increases. Patient safety declines. Continuity suffers.
We cannot continue to treat healers like disposable cogs — and expect health care to heal.
Start fixing the system while protecting the healers
It’s time we changed the narrative. From “build more resilient doctors” to “build more humane systems.”
Here’s what needs to change — and what we should demand:
- Reduce administrative burden — simplify documentation, billing, coding, compliance. Let physicians spend time healing bodies and minds — not filling forms. Many studies show administrative overload is a top driver of burnout.
- Restore autonomy and control — involve physicians in scheduling, workflow design, clinical decision-making. Let them reclaim agency over their work.
- Provide meaningful support — peer-support groups, confidential spaces to debrief and process trauma, mentorship, psychological safety, real recognition. These are not “nice extras.” They are essentials.
- Staff appropriately — ensure adequate staffing so no physician is forced to cover unsupported patient loads, endless shifts, or unrealistic on-call requirements.
- Prioritize well-being at institutional level — invest in systems that reward compassion, humanity, and sustainable care — not just throughput, metrics, and productivity.
Some institutions are already beginning to change. For example, systems that systematically measure physician well-being and then act on those data — redesigning workflows, building wellness committees, restructuring teams — have shown early promise.
But we need more. Much more. And it won’t come from telling doctors to meditate harder, or to “bounce back.” It must come from leadership that recognizes: the system itself needs healing — and the healers deserve protection.
A reframe: Don’t preach resilience. Protect the healers.
We are already strong. We have carried the suffering of others. We have witnessed pain and death, and still we show up. We have sacrificed rest, relationships, our own mental health.
We don’t need to be more resilient. We need to be respected. We need to be supported. We need systems built for humanity, not profit margins.
Because telling a traumatized physician to “bounce back” with resilience is like asking someone drowning to just tread water faster. It isn’t fair. It isn’t humane. And sooner or later — they’ll sink.
A closing call to action
If you are a physician reading this — know this: your struggles are not a personal failure. They are a symptom of a broken system. You are not weak. You are human.
Join with others who feel the same. Reach out. Share your story. Demand better. Real support. Real change. Real respect.
And for administrators, leaders, policymakers — stop asking, “Why aren’t doctors more resilient?” Start asking — “How can we build a system that doesn’t require resilience in the first place?” Because healers deserve to be protected — not polished.
