The polished mahogany of my desk felt cold against my fingertips, a stark contrast to the simmering anxiety that coiled in my stomach. Outwardly, I was Dr. Jessi Gold, a rising star in the field of psychiatry, a respected researcher, a loving wife, a loyal friend. The picture was meticulously crafted, a carefully curated facade designed to project an image of effortless success. But beneath the surface, the carefully constructed image was crumbling, the mortar dissolving under the relentless pressure of a life lived at a breakneck pace.
My days were a blur of appointments, research papers, grant proposals, lectures, and the endless demands of a profession that seemed to bleed into every aspect of my existence. I thrived on the intellectual stimulation, the challenge of unraveling the complexities of the human mind, the satisfaction of helping my patients navigate their struggles. But the line between professional dedication and self-neglect had become dangerously blurred. I poured every ounce of energy into my work, into my patients, into my relationships, leaving nothing left for myself.
Write a comment ...