People who know me well, know that I have conflicted feelings about my profession. As a black woman and a doctor, I am both aware of how important my work is and how powerful it is for patients to see someone like me in this position. However, as a sensitive person, it is hard to know that I am part of a broken national healthcare system and feel powerless to change things. Taken all together, it makes me wonder what keeps me here doing this work? It’s not the prestige of the profession nor is it the compensation (part time community pediatricians like me do not make the big bucks!). But rather, it’s the fact that I have a front row seat to the best and worst that the human experience has to offer. This gives me, for better or worse, a connection with that mysterious thread that connects all things, or what I call the Divine. These moments in which time slows down, and I feel deeply connected to the person in front of me, are what I now refer to as “thin places in medicine.” “Thin places,” a term I did not come up with, are what some would define as moments “where heaven touches earth.” For me, these “thin places” represent times when I feel at one with the source of all meaning. This reality sustains and uplifts me when things get hard and helps make my work meaningful.
One example of a “thin place” is in the story of Ms. G. Ms G is an experienced black mother in her 40s who I saw recently for her infant son’s physical exam. Over the course of our visit, she revealed that had lost her beloved uncle to COVID19.
Ms G held herself together as she described getting a call from other family members who had been unable to reach her uncle. She described the panic she felt as she got ready to go to his apartment. She smiled when telling me how her teenage son insisted on going with her and how thankful she was for his support. She recounted how time stopped when she found her uncle, alone in his apartment, in his bed, already dead. He was in his 50s. He had tested negative for COVID19 a week or two prior, but tested positive on autopsy. He had been struggling with poorly controlled diabetes.
Ms G was shaking as she told me this but did not shed a tear. I recognized in her what I see in so many black women - the determination to stay strong against all odds. I was worried about her own mental health and also in absolute awe of her. I watched her play with her baby and when I left the room, I needed extra time to fully absorb the story I was now holding and carrying home.
“I have been meditating a lot on “thin places” in Medicine...”
I have been meditating a lot on “thin places” during this pandemic. COVID19 has exposed the dangerous flaws in our healthcare system. As the compassion fatigue around me has grown, many people have become much more honest in a way I have never before experienced. And for the first time in my career, the compartmentalization of “black,” “woman” and “doctor” has felt impossible to sustain. My longing for human connection in the midst of so much suffering has been mirrored by almost all around me. I see it in the faces of my patients as well as my colleagues.
Trying to be an empathic, safe container every day for these often painful stories can and has taken a toll. To lessen the effects of these stressors I have become more intentional about my self care. I have prioritized finding opportunities for authentic connection to help restore my reserves. One example of this was by first participating in, then helping lead a Circle of Care through the Braxton Institute.
As someone who lives at the intersection of several marginalized identities, true community remains essential for my mental health. The Circles of Care were offered at a time when I needed a safe container to process some difficult feelings. We were all watching the world struggle with the dual pandemics of COVID19 and the realities of systemic racism. And during the summer of 2020, I felt emotionally drained as I relived years of suppressed micro- and macro- aggressions. Going to work was hard. Being home was hard. It all felt hard. I was searching for healing and wondering if my current self care tool kit would be enough to get me through this. In the Circles, I found a sanctuary, a space where I didn’t feel like a token and could be my authentic self. I could also offer support to others like me, and feel held and supported in return. One wonderful surprise was finding myself in the company of other black pediatricians, something I never take for granted. Being in community with kindred souls made me feel grounded at a time when I felt quite lost.
“Being in community with kindred souls made me feel grounded at a time when I felt quite lost.”
There is a quote from Emily and Amelia Nagoski, sisters and co-authors of a book called Burnout: The Secret to Unlocking the Stress Cycle that I keep on my vision board. It goes - “ the cure for burnout isn’t and can’t be self care. It has to be all of us caring for each other.” Participating in the Circles, and being able to help lead and craft a signature meditation helped me both feel cared for and provide care to others. The affirmation I received gave me the courage to go part time and focus more on the wellness work that I find especially nourishing. This sense of grounded connection also gave me greater ability to be present for those “thin places in medicine,” which had become harder to appreciate the more burned out I felt.
I am thankful for the Braxton Institute and the many ways it cultivates community. As someone with a commitment to growth and healing, the opportunity to see and be seen is one I hold near and dear. For me, it has always been the foundation of any sustainable healing to come. I am excited about participating in more Circles, and experiences like it, in the future.