The day I watched hope drown
Sixteen years ago, I was a fresh psychology graduate, still convinced that the system, despite its flaws, could be improved from the inside. I believed that by dedicating myself fully, working diligently, and offering all I had, I could mend the aspects of healthcare that were never meant to accommodate such efforts.
One memorable Wednesday afternoon, she entered quietly. A woman with wide eyes, she seemed almost apologetic, as if her very presence was a burden, fearing she was a nuisance simply by existing. She resembled a small bird with broken wings, glancing around nervously; her slim frame was enveloped in oversized clothes, yet faint traces of her former beauty lingered behind shadows of pain and fear. Though the bruises weren’t visible, I felt their pulses beneath her skin, concealed in her posture. The scars were felt in every pause between her words.
She sat across from me at the family services center, where I had recently begun working. She spoke little, but her whole demeanor conveyed her intense fear. It was clear she was overwhelmed by fear, and I only had 7 minutes with her.
I had seven minutes to earn her trust, encourage her to open up, evaluate the severity of her situation, determine if her life was at risk, provide psychological first aid, offer guidance and information, and develop a plan for her future. Seven minutes. Just seven minutes to stabilize a life that had endured years-possibly decades-of damage.
I They did everything they trained me to do. I checked the boxes, followed the protocol, asked questions, and offered phone numbers—those I knew nobody ever answered. Throughout, I sensed a faint flicker of hope in her, so delicate I could hardly face it directly. She wanted to be seen and heard, but I couldn’t meet that need. I would have been able, but there simply wasn’t enough time.
I I felt devastated; something in me broke that day. When she left, I sat frozen. My boss praised me, saying, “Nice work, well done,” but I saw the truth: I had become complicit in her invisibility, no matter how kind or careful I was. I realized that this system was fundamentally flawed, and healing was never the real goal.
The aim was to minimize harm with just enough intervention to show we attempted, due to constraints like limited time, funds, doctors, and resources. The woman received only enough support to possibly end her life—not tonight, but just enough to find a place to sleep. However, she might return to her abuser, possibly with worse injuries, darker eyes, and less of herself. A year later, she might not return at all—that is, if she returns at all. And we call that CARE.
I realized that remaining in that system would mean continuing to let people down when they need support most. It was frightening to see that the system isn’t actually broken; it works precisely as intended—serving the interests of control and compliance since modern medicine began. From the start, our system wasn’t built for genuine healing. Instead, it was designed to enforce obedience on both clinicians and patients, wearing them down physically and emotionally so they become too drained or vulnerable to question authority.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling as my thoughts drifted everywhere. It felt like a fever dream—almost a vision—of a future that once seemed unreachable. In my vision, medical students didn’t end their lives in silence; instead, they were happy and eager, preparing for their careers. Doctors had the freedom to prioritize their mental health, no longer burnt out or broken by the very system they served. Instead of being overwhelmed by paperwork and bureaucracy, they finally had the time and space to do what they truly wanted: compassionate healing. Years into their practice, these physicians still greeted patients with smiles and genuine curiosity, and patients entered consultations without fear or trembling, after waiting months just to be seen. In this future, seeking care was no longer traumatic or unaffordable.
Since that night, I have been committed to building a future where doctors and patients alike feel heard, valued, and treated as deeply human. That vision has guided me throughout my career. However, the system wore me down. I eventually left public healthcare because I could no longer endure the futile seven-minute battles. I then started a private practice, where appointments stretched to fifty minutes and months turned into weeks. Despite these changes, I was haunted by guilt, knowing my expertise was now available only to a privileged few.
Then the private system also overwhelmed me, as we were responsible for cleaning up and repairing the damage caused by the seven-minute model. Then came the flood—patients, emails, requests, and endless tasks—more than anyone could handle. I wanted to help, to make things right, and to fight for my patients and their rights. But I ran out of strength, and when there was nothing more to give, I gave my own flesh and blood. I lost friends, relationships, and everything to the relentless demand of just one more hour, one more patient, one more email—on Sundays, at Christmas, on anniversaries, and late at night.
I drowned in it, just like everyone else—whether as patients or healers—both consuming by the same machine.
I changed careers, but my passion remained; I couldn’t suppress the clinician within me. As hope waned, the vision blurred and nearly disappeared into darkness.
You’d I probably anticipated a turning point here, maybe a moment of clarity or a breakthrough, but in reality, there wasn’t one. I simply chose to continue because, even when my vision faded and the cost seemed overwhelming, something within me insisted on not surrendering to the system’s narrative. I had witnessed too much, felt too intensely, and couldn’t unsee or unfeel it.
At some point, the pain of staying silent outweighed the risk of speaking up. Despite exhaustion and disillusionment, I still held onto the hope that things could get better. This unwavering faith was the initial step toward a future worth fighting for.
I continued showing up, believing that surviving the system’s weight without losing my integrity would enable me to help others do the same. I aim to give them more than mere endurance; I want them to recall why they began. After nearly twenty years of challenge and search, I finally discovered something that provides both a solution and a reason for persistent hope.
Today, I guide them on thriving within a flawed system and planting seeds for a better future. Now, with my knowledgeable healthcare professionals and empowered patients, we work together to create environments where trauma and pain are not just managed or minimized but genuinely addressed.
My unwavering fight for a future worth living forms the core of everything I do.
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