By the end of my first year of residency, I knew I was in trouble.
I was overwhelmed by the 15-hour days, the unbearable sadness of the tragedies I witnessed, my feelings of impotence and my fears of making a mistake.
My life was my work and everything else seemed to be falling apart: my physical health, my relationships, my ability to sleep after months of night shifts.
Yet, I came to work every day. I completed every task. And then I'd go home each night and cry. An administrator pulled me aside one morning: “How's it going?” she asked.
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