Maintaining a low profile and navigating through my intern year was all I had experienced. My days melted into nights, and my weeks into months. The gloomy winters of the Pacific Northwest only intensified this. In spite of a subtle craving for connection and community, I turned down most social invitations. My sense of duty did not cease at the hospital’s entrance. It trailed me home, where expectations and emotional obligations lingered. I frequently felt like an outsider among my peers, observing friendships flourish while I bore an unseen burden throughout my daily hospital life. While I dedicated 60-80 hours each week to the hospital, the demand to engage fully at home became suffocating.

However, something changed toward the conclusion of that arduous year. After an unyielding six-night shift, I intended to relocate my belongings to my own apartment in the city. I scoured Facebook Marketplace for secondhand furniture in an effort to equip my new studio apartment, all after having worked the previous night. Although seemingly minor and necessary at that moment, this action signified a monumental transformation. For the first time in many years, I regained my life. I not only reclaimed my time and space, but gradually, my identity. I rediscovered happiness (not just in life, but in medicine). I ceased striving to perform during my interactions and permitted myself the mercy to simply be.

By constructing a new life that was quieter, simpler, and rooted in psychological safety, I uncovered further clarity. I understood the importance of granting myself compassion and, in return, became more sensitive to the experiences of others. Consequently, I cultivated a richer sense of empathy not only for the patients I encountered but also for my colleagues and, ultimately, myself. In doing so, I recognized that I was not the only one grappling with conveying the complexities of residency to a partner outside of medicine.

This was the point when I realized I could not persist in living a fragmented life while attempting to be everything to everyone in every setting and situation. It was also the moment I grasped that deciding to end my marriage during my training should not be viewed as a failure, nor a reflection of my character. For many years, all I knew was performing for assessments and striving for the next benchmark. I was not opting for one thing over another, but rather opting for myself, my happiness, and my well-being. Choosing this path was an act of alignment and a brave decision to live authentically, even when it meant undertaking one of the most challenging tasks for any individual: letting go.

Going through a divorce during training is not a topic we discuss openly. In some respects, I am not entirely certain why that is. Yet for me, it became a pivotal moment: not merely of collapse, but of clarity across various areas of my life. It was the point when I recognized I had begun to live not just in survival mode, but as both a person and a physician.

Emma Fenske is an internal medicine physician.