Please enjoy this week’s article, a poem by one of our members.
You are no better or worse than anyone else / And you are not the first nor last to be here / In this prison of the mind."
Come to work on time.
Stay the whole day.
But first and before you get started…
Sit down in your chair, turn its back to the door,
Close your eyes for a minute,
And breathe… slowly.
Feel your chest rise and fall.
Embrace the pain, the shame that binds you.
Don’t try to escape.
There is no quick way out.
Nor can there be.
So relax. You aren’t going anywhere.
You are no better or worse than anyone else,
And you are not the first nor last to be here,
In this prison of the mind.
Look deep into the face of your jailer.
And recognize that it is you and you alone,
Who guards this prison,
Who taunts you with shameful, painful memory.
It is you that wear the horns and tail.
It is you that prods yourself with barbs so sharp,
You bleed!
Freedom from this hell begins / with breathing "
Freedom from this hell begins,
with breathing,
Slow and deep.
Open your eyes.
Relax your grip.
Think of something to be thankful for.
If someone has done you kindness, pick up the phone and offer thanks.
Then get up. Go out the door and start your day knowing there is nothing,
Absolutely nothing today you can’t handle.
You know you need a kind word,
So speak a kind word.
Make every interaction today compassionate,
Because you need compassion now.
Remember to be empathetic, and govern yourself with
Equanimity, forgiveness, gratitude and humility.
The more of this you give away,
The more you will get in return.
Remember to take time,
whenever possible,
Sit. Close your eyes,
And breathe again.
Go to lunch, even if you are not hungry.
Eat something.
Better yet find a good friend to share,
Your bread and struggle.
Because this prison of the mind is self-isolating.
It is unfair to expect even doctors,
To read your mind.
It will be an overwhelming act of strength,
To expose your vulnerability,
But you must do it… to break free.
Remember the kindness and compassion we lavish on our patients,
need not stop with them.
Don’t you dare deny your colleagues,
The opportunity of caring for you as well.
When the day is done, go home and rest.
Embrace the pain, because it won’t last.
Count all of the times that day your patients,
And your colleagues said,
“Thank you.”
That will begin to set you free.
“How to Be a Good Doctor on a Very Bad Day” is more than a poem—it is a lifeline. As a physician who has walked the long, exhausting dark night of the physician’s burned-out soul, I can say with certainty that this piece captures the unspoken struggles of our profession with remarkable accuracy and compassion.
David W. Johnson, MD, beautifully articulates the quiet suffering so many of us endure—the shame, the imposter syndrome of self-doubt, and the silent suffering and unnecessary isolation that comes with the weight of our responsibilities and our toxic medical system.
But what makes this poem truly extraordinary is its message of hope. It does not offer empty platitudes or unrealistic solutions. Instead, it provides a deeply human, practical guide to surviving the hardest days: breathe, acknowledge your pain, show yourself the same kindness you give to your patients, and lean on those around you.
The poem’s emphasis on connection—both with colleagues and with ourselves—resonates deeply. Too often, doctors feel they must carry their burdens alone, yet this piece reminds us that healing is found in shared humanity. The simple but profound act of gratitude, of recognizing the kindness in our day, becomes a powerful tool for resilience.
What I love most about this poem is its authenticity. It does not sugarcoat the reality of medicine, nor does it minimize the toll it takes. Instead, it offers a roadmap to surviving the dark days with grace and dignity. I wish I had read this during my lowest moments; it would have been a beacon in the fog.
For any physician struggling under the weight of their work, this poem is a gift. It is a reminder that we are not alone, that our pain does not define us, and that even on our worst days, we are still capable of compassion—both for others and for ourselves.
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