There are days in medicine that drain you so thoroughly you begin to fantasize about lives that aren’t yours. Not big, glamorous dreams, but something simpler. Lives that look soft around the edges, cushioned by free time and oat milk lattes. My fantasy was becoming a "Pilates mom."
It arrived on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday that begins before the sun rises and ends long after it sets, packed with complications, delays, emergencies, and a collection of human needs that felt endless. I had counseled, charted, reassured, diagnosed, stabilized, taught, listened, mediated, apologized, and advocated so relentlessly that by the time I drove home I wasn’t even tired, I was completely empty. Hollowed out.
I walked through my door, my work bag still on my shoulders, and said to my husband,
“I’m done. I want to quit. I want to be a Pilates mom.”
In my mind, the "Pilates mom" was a woman who glided through serene mornings in designer workout sets, hair in a perfect bun that never frizzed, sipping Starbucks while browsing Target, her biggest stress of the day being whether or not to buy a candle she didn’t need. She radiated calm, intention, self-care, and the kind of glow physicians only experience on their third day of vacation.
It was an absurd fantasy, but it felt delicious. It also felt like an indictment.
Because behind the envy was a truth I couldn’t deny: I was burnt out. It wasn't the kind of passing exhaustion a weekend off could fix. This was the slow-burning, identity-blurring kind. The kind that makes you question everything you worked so hard for. The kind that tempts you with escape.
For a few days, I let myself daydream. I pictured the matching sets, the mid-morning classes, the smoothies, the leisurely pace. I imagined a life with room to breathe.
But eventually, reality returned. I am a physician. I worked for decades to get to where I am today. And despite the exhaustion, I cared fiercely about what I did. The problem wasn’t my career, not really. The problem was that my life had become a singular focus: work. Everything else — rest, joy, wellness, movement, boundaries — had crumbled around it.
And that "Pilates mom" image? She wasn’t frivolous. She represented something I desperately lacked: intentional time for myself. Once I admitted that, everything began to shift into focus. It was abundantly clear that I needed to make a change.
I sat down with my calendar, overloaded and inflexible as always, and stared at it with brutal honesty. Where could I carve out some time? Just a sliver that belonged to no one but me.
Later that day, at the end of my shift, I changed out of my work clothes and into leggings that weren’t even remotely designer. I drove to the Pilates studio, and I walked in feeling like an imposter; someone playing pretend in a world not meant for her.
The class began. Controlled movements, breath work, tiny adjustments that somehow ignited every dormant muscle in my body. I shook. I sweated. I wondered how something that looked so gentle on Instagram could feel so brutal in real life.
But my mind — my overworked, overextended, chronically buzzing mind — finally quieted. For nearly an hour, the only thing I had to focus on was being in my body. My breath. The grounding pull of movement. The instructor’s encouragement. The presence of other people who were also seeking something — strength, peace, confidence, or simply a moment to themselves.
By the end, I wasn’t transformed. My life wasn’t suddenly tidy and balanced. But something inside me had unclenched. The fog lifted just enough for clarity to peek through.
I didn’t need to quit medicine or reinvent my life, and I certainly didn’t need to become a fictionalized "Pilates mom" living in my head. What I needed was what so many physicians need: permission to claim even a small part of my day as my own.
Burnout thrives where boundaries die. Somewhere along the way, many of us forget that thriving in this profession requires more than competence and stamina. It requires time to ourselves for restoration.
After that first class, I scheduled another. Then another. The habit took root slowly, not because my schedule magically opened up, but because I finally prioritized myself with the same seriousness I reserved for my patients.
And the strangest thing happened: I became better at my job. More patient, more clear-minded, more grounded, more present. I was no longer running on depletion. I had something to give, both professionally and personally.
The Pilates mom fantasy was never about quitting medicine, not really. It was about longing for a life where I wasn’t last on my own list. A life where self-care wasn’t an indulgence but a necessity.
Now, when I imagine a "Pilates mom," I still smile. But I realize I misunderstood her from the start.
It wasn't her matching sets or her leisurely mornings that I coveted, but rather something far more radical: the space she made for herself.
And now — slowly, imperfectly, stubbornly — I make space for myself, too.
What small ways have you found to make time for yourself as a busy physician? Share in the comments!
Diya Sandhu is a physician trained in physical medicine and rehabilitation and interventional pain management. Her clinical and academic focus centers on evidence-based pain management with nice interests in cancer pain and sports medicine. She is also the mom of two young boys.
Image: GoodStudio / shutterstock
