Learning to Slow Down in a Career That Never Stops

There’s a strange experience that comes with being both a doctor and someone who gets migraines often.

Today, I’m not the resident trying to diagnose, make a plan, or help a patient feel better.

I’ve lived with migraines for years. At this point, I know them pretty well. I know what they usually feel like, what medications to reach for, when I need darkness and quiet, and when I can probably push through. But this one feels different.

I’ve had the same migraine for two days now, and it will not budge. I’ve tried my usual migraine therapies. But nothing has touched it. The nausea has made it difficult to eat.

I went to bed last night hoping I would wake up and finally feel like myself again but I didn’t. And somewhere between trying another medication and realizing I still couldn’t function normally, I had to accept that I wasn’t going to work today.

I wish I could say my first thought was, I need to take care of myself.

Instead, I thought about the patients I was supposed to see. I thought about my team having to adjust because I wasn’t there. I wondered whether I should just get dressed, drive in, and try to push through it.

Because medicine teaches you how to push through a lot.

You work when you’re exhausted. You eat when you find five minutes. You study after long days because there is always something else you need to know. Residency, especially, can make perseverance feel like part of the job description.

There’s another layer to today that scares me because I know my migraines, so when one feels different, there’s a little voice in the back of my head asking, why?

Why isn’t the medication working?

Why is it still here?

Why is the nausea this bad?

At what point do I stop treating this like one of my usual migraines?

Being medically trained doesn’t necessarily make those thoughts easier. Sometimes knowing the differential diagnosis means your brain has even more possibilities to run through.

I know the red flags. I know when something needs reassessment. I know that a significant change from someone's usual headache pattern matters.

And yet, knowing medicine doesn't remove the uncertainty of experiencing it in your own body.

Right now, I’m balancing two versions of myself: the physician who understands what she would tell a patient and the person lying in a dark room desperately wanting the pain to stop.

Most days, I can manage them. I take my medications, attend my appointments, adjust where I can, and keep moving. But chronic illness isn't always predictable or convenient.

It doesn't care that you're scheduled for clinic.

It doesn't care that someone is counting on you.

It doesn't care that you already missed time before or that you really, really don't want to call in sick again.

Sometimes your body simply says no.

And one of the hardest things I am learning in residency is that listening to that “no” isn't weakness.

There is still a part of me that wishes I had made it to work today.

There is still a part of me wondering whether I could have pushed harder.

But I'm trying to challenge that voice.

If one of my patients told me they had been dealing with severe pain for two days, couldn't eat because of nausea, and their usual treatments weren't working, I wouldn't tell them to feel guilty about missing work.

I'd tell them to take care of themselves.

So today, I'm trying to take my own advice.

I'm resting.

I'm trying to stay hydrated.

I'm monitoring a migraine that isn't behaving like my usual migraines, and if it continues or changes, I'll seek further medical care.

Tomorrow, I hope I wake up and the pain is finally gone.

But tonight, residency will have to wait.

Because before I'm a resident, before I'm a doctor, I'm still a person living in a body that sometimes needs me to stop.

With love,

Chyna