The overflowing inbox was the final straw. Emails, each a desperate plea for help, a cry for intervention, a cascade of urgent requests, piled up, a digital Everest of unanswered needs. I stared at the screen, the harsh fluorescent light reflecting off the glassy surface, the glow highlighting the dark circles under my eyes. I hadn't slept properly in weeks. Each night, the to-do list replayed in my mind, a relentless loop of anxieties and responsibilities.
It wasn't just the emails. It was the relentless pressure of the clinic, the endless stream of patients, each with their own unique burdens, their own stories of suffering. I'd become adept at compartmentalizing, at putting on the professional mask, at projecting an image of calm competence, even as my inner world was teetering on the brink. But the mask, once a shield, had become a prison. It suffocated me, constricting my breath, squeezing the life out of me.
Write a comment ...