I’m not bitter.
But I am tired.
Tired of rushing.
Tired of apologizing for late appointments and short visits when all I want is to sit, breathe, and see someone.
Tired of explaining why the medication they saw on TV isn’t actually right for them.
Tired of watching Big Pharma wine and dine younger doctors, offering perks I never dreamed of while pressuring them to push the latest drug.
And tired of pretending I’m okay with it all.
I miss the good old days.
Not because everything was better — but because we were closer.
To our patients. To each other. To the meaning behind this job.
There was dignity in it.
Now, even dignity feels… optional.
A few weeks ago, a medical assistant no older than my granddaughter looked at my stethoscope and laughed. “You still use that old thing?” she said. “Everything’s digital now.”
Maybe I’m just sentimental.
But I still trust what I hear with my own ears more than what a screen tells me.
Today, I saw Mrs. Hernandez.
She’s been with me for thirty years.
Through diabetes, heart surgery, the death of her husband, and two grandbabies.
She didn’t know it was my last day.
And I didn’t tell her.
I just held her hand a little longer.
I listened when she talked about her aching joints and her fear of AI taking over medicine. She laughed, “One day I’ll come in and a robot will ask about my stool sample.”
I smiled.
But deep down, I think she knew.
Something in her eyes said, “Thank you.”
Not for the diagnosis. Not for the pills.
But for being there.
So here I am.
White coat folded. Keys turned in.
No party. No plaque. Just silence.
And yet, my heart is full.
Because I remember every scar I stitched, every pulse I steadied, every person who walked out of my office a little less scared than they walked in.
No app can do that.
To anyone out there who’s still working hard in a world that barely says “thank you” anymore — I see you.
To the nurses staying late to clean up a spill no one noticed.
To the teachers buying crayons with their own money.
To the farmers who rise before the sun and fall asleep with tired hands.
You matter.
Even if no one claps for you.
Even if the system forgets you.
Even if your last day comes and goes without a single card.
You were there.
And that’s enough.
Maybe one day I’ll walk back into a clinic, sit in the waiting room, and see a younger doctor looking just as tired as I once was.
Maybe I’ll tell them what I wish someone had told me:
“You are not a machine. You are a healer. And healing is human.”
That’s the one thing they haven’t figured out how to replace.
Not yet, anyway.
[💬 Share if this reminded you of someone who gave their life to others, quietly and with love.]
