I’m a first-year medical student in South Korea, and I feel the burden of stepping into a challenging system that offers scant empathy. Even before donning a white coat, the stress is evident. To become a doctor here requires six years of undergraduate medical education, followed by arduous years of internship and residency—at least eleven years, characterized by sleepless nights, extended hours, and burnout.

To the outside world, we appear fortunate and affluent, yet most of us are not. We are not the celebrity physicians on TV or private practitioners driving luxury vehicles. We are students and trainees with the expectation to save lives, often earning less than the minimum wage.

The contradiction is glaring: the more we sacrifice, the less we can ask for in return. When people claim doctors are affluent, they overlook our 36-hour shifts in emergency departments, residents collapsing in hallways, or the dread of mistakes made from fatigue.

We are not asking for accolades or honors—just to be seen as human. The narrative casts us as elite, self-centered, and resistant to change, even though many of us chose this journey to heal. Yet, we find ourselves silenced—not by law, but by prevailing discourse.

We can’t strike without being accused of holding patients hostage, speak without being labeled arrogant, or express our feelings without facing criticism for our vulnerability. I ventured into medicine to assist, but have come to understand that doctors are not just healers; we are also targets of political narratives.

I’ve witnessed fellow students weep over society’s inclination to misconstrue us, preferring the myth of affluent, indifferent doctors over the reality of overburdened trainees. This narrative wasn’t born out of spontaneity; it was engineered by those in positions of power, who found it simpler to blame us than to reform the system.

Is it wrong to aspire for a fair living after over a decade of sacrifice, or immoral to seek respect after relinquishing our youth, family ties, and wellbeing? Doctors earn between $80,000 and $160,000 annually after eleven years of training. In comparison, a lawyer, engineer, or tech professional earns more within four years, facing less risk and receiving more recognition.

Yet, when we voice our concerns, we are advised to feel thankful. However, gratitude cannot be coerced, and respect shouldn’t be optional. We do not anticipate immediate transformation but urge society to perceive us as we truly are—not villains or elites, just young individuals aspiring to heal without being shattered in the process.

Before attending to a patient, I want to convey the reality of becoming a doctor here. If we cannot express ourselves now, we may never have the chance to do so.

*The author is an anonymous medical student in South Korea.*