So You Still Want to Be a Doctor?

A reflective blog on telling the truth about medicine without killing the dream

A few years ago, just after I'd made the jump from renal medicine to general practice — not by whim, but by slow-burning necessity — I was asked to give a talk to a group of 5th and 6th year students about going into medicine.

The presentation was called "So You Want to Be a Doctor?" I was meant to be inspiring.

The reality? I was just about keeping my own career stitched together. I was burnt out, emotionally raw, still chewing over everything that had led to my departure from hospital medicine, and barely convinced I was fit to be anyone's role model — let alone a group of teenagers preparing to commit the next fifteen years of their lives to it.

But I went. And I talked. And it was... awkward.

Selling a Career You're Actively Escaping

There's a very specific kind of cognitive dissonance in standing up to sell a profession that's just chewed you up. It's a bit like showing someone around the house you grew up in after you've moved out, after you've realised the walls were full of mould and the wiring was one bad week away from setting fire to your bed.

You remember the good bits. You want to show them the good bits. But you also know what's lurking behind the wallpaper.

I could tell them the standard stuff — job security, intellectual challenge, the privilege of being there at the worst (and sometimes best) moments of someone's life. But I also wanted to say:

You will bleed for this job. And no one will bandage you unless you learn to ask. And sometimes, even then, the help doesn't come.

But of course I didn't say that. Not in those words. Instead, I wrapped it in stories, in jokes, in cautionary anecdotes with a "just something to think about" nod at the end.

The Two Camps of Medical Advice

Every clinician I know sits somewhere on a scale when asked by a young person whether they should go into medicine.

One end says: "Of course. It's the best job in the world. You'll never regret it."

The other says: "Only if you absolutely can't imagine doing anything else. Otherwise — don't."

Back then, I wasn't sure where I stood. I was too close to the break point. The politics, the rotas, the opaque cruelty of being called a "difficult trainee" after crying quietly at the nurse's station for the third day in a row... it all felt too recent.

But I also knew that if you caught me on the right day, in the right moment — when a patient finally opens up, when a diagnosis clicks, when a family breathes easier — I'd still say it was worth it.

The problem is, those moments don't come as often as they should. And they're rarely enough to carry the weight of everything else.

What They Heard, and What I Meant

To be fair, the students were engaged. Curious. Polite. Maybe a little unsure why I was being so blunt. I talked about entry requirements, work-life balance (whatever that means), and the realities of job planning.

But underneath it, what I was really saying was:

• Don't come here expecting easy praise.

• Don't assume you'll be protected just because you're trying your best.

• Don't think medicine will love you back just because you love it.

What I wanted them to hear was this:

• You'll need a support system that exists outside of your job title.

• You'll need to get very good at saying no, even when everyone else is drowning.

• You'll need to protect your joy — because no one else will protect it for you.

The statistics are sobering: 29% of medical students report mental health diagnoses, while 39% of junior doctors experience high levels of burnout. Yet medicine remains one of the most rewarding careers for those who enter it with realistic expectations and robust support systems. The key is honest conversations about both the challenges and the profound meaning that medical practice can offer.

Would I Still Encourage Someone to Apply?

Yes. But not everyone.

I'd encourage the ones who already show signs of curiosity, compassion, grit, and self-awareness.

I'd encourage the ones who don't want it for the prestige or the income. I'd encourage the ones who already know what it feels like to show up tired, to fail quietly, to keep going anyway.

But I wouldn't sell them a dream. I'd offer them a trade.

Because that's what medicine is — a lifelong trade-off between service and self-preservation.

Between knowledge and uncertainty. Between being trusted and being undermined. Between witnessing suffering and trying not to carry it home with you.

What I'd Say Now

Looking back, I think what I was trying to do in that talk was make peace with the profession I was walking away from. Or at least, the version of it I could no longer survive in.

General practice gave me space again — space to breathe, to reflect, to parent, to write. But it didn't erase what came before. And it didn't erase the fact that there are still thousands of trainees walking into hospital wards every day, full of belief and hope, unaware that the system they've entered might not be equipped to protect them.

If we want the best of them to stay — the kind, clever, curious ones — we have to start being honest. With them, and with ourselves.

Not to scare them off.

But to let them walk in with their eyes open. Not just about the work, but about what it asks of you — and how to hold onto who you are while you're doing it.

Stay Sobering

--DW