For most of us, it happened when we were, at long last, granted access to a veterinary admissions roster. Securing a coveted seat in a class of a mere hundred, more or less, equally qualified classmates meant we’d reached a milestone in the development of our identities. Unlike first-year physicians and attorneys-in-waiting—if not more so—veterinary students thus placed often feel we have reached the pinnacle of our education, and, in some small way, it is all downhill from here, even if it feels more like a relentless mudslide for some of us. No matter how we got there or how we eventually acquired our degrees, becoming veterinarian grants us entry to a lifelong membership to a club that defines us as bona fide animal aficionados superior even to those who may work more directly and/or impactfully with them (take zookeepers and field-working PhD animal behaviorists, for example). Ours is often reckoned a more altruistic path to animal advocacy, regardless of the day-to-day reality regarding some of our professional circumstances (consider radiology and pathology, among other examples of traditionally contactless vet care). Nevertheless, we are Veterinarians with a capital V, animal lovers second to none. And most of us swathe ourselves in the mantle as if life itself demanded nothing less of us from this point forward. The good Point underlined, we press on as such—usually unpretentiously—albeit warmed by the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) accolades received at work, conferences, dinner parties, and family gatherings. We swell at our social standing—even if subconsciously—comforted by the fact that we’ve earned our rank through literal blood, sweat, and tears. We congratulate ourselves when we still occasionally cry over euthanasia, dutifully pore over journals on Sunday mornings, and fret nervously over our ligated vessels and secure suture lines. We earn this every day. Why not revel in and reward ourselves with the satisfaction that comes with our professional standing? After all, there’s substantial stress to be suffered and little enough plunder to be gained. We deserve something for all that toil and trouble. The bad But there’s a downside, isn’t there? At least once a week—often multiple times in one day—I wonder whether I still belong … and what it would cost me to give it all up. Sure, after 30 years, I feel I’ve earned the right to take the role with me wherever I go—but does it serve me to do so? Or with 30 years left in me, does the dedication to my identity as a veterinarian detract from my life’s purpose and, ultimately, affect my mental health adversely? Right now, I can honestly say it’s hitting me hard—and not in a good way. A goodly bit of that comes down not to veterinarian-ism, per se, but to my role as a practice owner and workplace leader of professional souls. Now that I’ve downsized my hours and abdicated my practice leadership role, the culture is less personal, more corporate, and less forgiving of what I once chose to perceive as my “pleasantly eccentric, irreverent charm” and artistic license to behave as I saw fit—never mind others’ feelings, opinions, and sensibilities. Sure, it is not to everyone’s taste (as many of you will gleefully attest), but after working there since the tender age of 10, and investing mightily (financially and otherwise), it still feels like it should be mine. So much for that, as I’ve since learned (and continue to learn—harshly, I might add), but “progress” has its downside, as do exit strategies. I’m by no means blameless in the process, but still, it stings daily (office gossip and a more structured workplace do not marry well with my personality type or general presentation, even if my clients couldn’t care less.) The ugly I know I’m not alone, although not necessarily in the practice ownership thing. For most of us, it manifests differently, as it did for most of my career: impostor syndrome, for one. A license risk scare, to name another. And just a general sense that perhaps I took the wrong path and should have made my way in another profession altogether. None of it was helped by the fact that depression, anxiety, and addiction mixed a powerful cocktail for many years. Ugly stuff, to be sure. Along the way, my identity as a veterinarian propelled me forward. It was my life raft, but, if I’m honest, it also held me back and often added to my despair. What am I if I can’t define myself as a veterinarian? In that event, surely, I’m nothing and no one. GettyImages/LittleCityLifestylePhotography The risk At some point in everyone’s career, the river of accolades will dry up, and the applause will fade into a slow, derisive clap. It might happen when we contribute directly to an unexpected death or receive a blatantly honest but withering review. Maybe we’ll say something vile we regret and can never retract or do something horribly wrong we feel we’ll never forgive ourselves for. We’re only human. If we’re lucky to live long enough, sooner or later, these things will happen to us, too. That’s when we’ll wonder if we’re cut out to be that thing we’ve built ourselves up as, the person you looked up to once upon a time. Someone deserving of the almighty title, veterinarian. Here’s when we have to learn—the hard way—that who we are and what we do are not synonymous. It’s harder for us exactly because we’ve allowed our work to become so intimately associated with who we are. Which was a good thing once upon a time, when getting into vet school and becoming what we are required to do so much involved personal sacrifice. But at some point (who knows when?), this concept stopped helping and started working against us again. It made our mistakes more intensely personal, our feelings of failure more acute, and our successes less believable, less satisfying. For some, we become increasingly sensitized to the loss of positive identification with our profession. Gradually, it becomes less subtle, less inconsequential, and, perhaps, less survivable. The rewards Muddling through is a solution. Most, however, make it past the impostor-dom, self-loathing, and professional doubts by adopting an approach to life outside our limited role at work. Whether through religion, community outreach/involvement (such as volunteerism, book clubbing, craft circles, etc.), family support, and/or intensive creative interests or sports/meditative endeavors, we’ll learn to escape the confines of our small brains and learn to trust in ourselves as whole persons, not just veterinarians. The way forward may seem daunting …. and, without fail, there’ll be occasional aimlessness and relentless drudge-work. But, rest assured, your self-worth does not depend on your clinical outcomes and whether you’re properly appreciated and respected at work. The human connections you make in the workplace, and the animals you help, will always be pivotal, of course, but surely you’re more than your profession, which will become more apparent as you age and mature. It will happen when you believe you’re more than the role you cast for yourself long ago and can believe that what matters most is the human connections you develop in and out of work, the people and animals you serve, and the purpose in life you come to understand. It won’t happen overnight, but we didn’t become veterinarians overnight, either. Hard work doesn’t stop at the graduation podium or the hospital doors. You’re a beautiful work in progress. Never give up. Patty Khuly, VMD, MBA, runs a small animal practice in Miami, Fla., and is available at drpattykhuly.com. Columnist’s opinions do not necessarily reflect those of Veterinary Practice News.
