“I aim to be the most mediocre doctor possible.”
I still remember my classmate saying that out loud as we sat in the workroom finishing notes during our pediatric intensive care rotation. I was shocked. How could anyone in medical school, after all the work it takes to get here, aspire to mediocrity? I thought, I don’t belong in this medical school. I would never want you taking care of my loved ones.
I identified as a maximizer — the kind of person who gave 110% to everything, no matter how small. That drive became my identity. By middle school, I had already convinced myself that the only way to succeed was to outperform everyone, every time. In high school, that meant no hobbies, no prom or homecoming, and no sleepovers or birthday parties — just activities carefully curated to strengthen my college application. Weekends were reserved for productivity, and summers were devoted to extracurricular programs or online courses that let me finish requirements early and stack my schedule with AP classes. I didn’t prioritize my own happiness, but I didn’t resent the discipline either. I lived by sayings like “No pain, no gain” and “The pain of regret is worse than the pain of discipline.” What kept me going was the satisfaction of knowing I was squeezing as much as possible out of every opportunity.
College began the same way. I said yes to everything — clubs, research projects, even side jobs for extra cash. I quickly found myself overextended, unable to balance it all. For the first time, I let go of a few commitments, though not without difficulty. I experimented with channeling my drive into things that brought me joy, like finding a church community where I built genuine friendships. But the maximizer in me was never far away. Each new semester during the registration period, I debated whether to overload on credits — after all, 22 cost the same as 18.
When I didn’t get into the medical school I had hoped for, I quickly recalibrated. If I couldn’t control my starting point, I would take charge of the finish line. By day one of my first year of medical school, I had already drafted a “domination plan.” Even though the preclinical curriculum was pass/fail, I still aimed for near perfect grades to maximize scholarship chances and awards at graduation. Every holiday break became a time for drafting applications and essays. I joined research projects I had little interest in simply to build my publication count and began daily Step 1 practice questions within months of starting medical school, laying groundwork for the Step 2 score I thought would open doors to a top residency.
These same tendencies showed up in other parts of my life outside of school. Shopping meant never paying full price if a coupon or sale existed. Vacations weren’t for rest but for efficiency. Traveling meant meticulously planned itineraries with each hour accounted for and every must-see attraction and top-rated restaurant checked off, which often left me feeling drained by the end of “vacation.”
Psychologist Barry Schwartz calls this tendency maximizing — the constant drive to hunt for the absolute best choice, exhaustively exploring every option, even after a decision is made. In contrast, satisficing (satisfactory sufficing) is about settling for “good enough.” Satisficers seek a solution that meets criteria for adequacy rather than perfection. In doing so, they conserve time and energy while often experiencing greater satisfaction. Schwartz’s research shows that maximizing is linked to lower levels of happiness, optimism, and self-esteem, and higher levels of perfectionism, regret, and even depression. Over time, with age and experience, many people naturally shift toward satisficing — and often become happier in the process.
But in reality, making that shift isn’t easy. Society tends to reward maximizers, and nowhere is that more true than in medicine. Now that I’m in residency, I see just how much the culture glorifies maximizing behavior. Detailed and lengthy notes, thorough workups, and “going the extra mile” are not just expected but celebrated. My program even makes this explicit in peer evaluations, which are used as part of the chief resident nomination process. On the evaluation form, residents are asked to rate how much a colleague contributes to the team. The middle, 5 out of 10 rating for teamwork is “does their fair share.” Higher marks are reserved for “offers to help, does more than their fair share of work,” and the highest rating is “always goes above and beyond, a role model.” The wording reinforces the idea that meeting expectations is only middle-of-the-road performance, which makes doing exactly what’s required feel insufficient.
Living in this environment, the pressure to excel in every task, big or small, is constant. I struggled to balance these maximizing expectations with my own well-being, and within the first few months of residency, I hit burnout. I found myself growing apathetic. Toward patients, I would silently wish they would stop rambling and feel frustrated when they couldn’t recall their medications or describe their symptoms clearly. During morning reports and afternoon lectures, staying educationally engaged felt impossible. I was so tired, physically and mentally, that I could barely absorb any information. I spent more energy trying to keep my eyes open and my head from nodding off than actually listening.
I had maximized so relentlessly that I could no longer recognize when “good enough” was not only acceptable, but necessary for survival. At my institution, the motto is “putting the needs of the patient first.” And of course, our patients deserve the best. But the pursuit of maximizing every task has a cost.
I’m not suggesting we stop striving. There are circumstances, such as patient safety and critical life or death decisions where maximizing is non-negotiable. But what I’ve learned is that it’s unsustainable to maximize everything. So these days, I’m practicing what I call “strategic satisficing,” especially in my personal life. For example, my apartment doesn’t have to be spotless, it just has to be livable. Workouts at the gym don’t need to happen every day, but I do need to move my body regularly. My wedding in March next year won’t be flawless, but it will be good enough and meaningful.
I’m applying this same principle in my professional life too, learning to say no to opportunities that would maximize my chances for fellowship. I’ve passed on leadership positions within residency councils and advisory boards. Even an amazing research project — one with IRB approval, the potential for first authorship, and the opportunity to work with senior mentors from my program’s highly regarded hematology/oncology fellowship — was something I chose not to pursue.
I often think back to that classmate who once said they aimed to be the most mediocre doctor possible. At the time, I dismissed him outright. Now, I realize he wasn’t advocating for mediocrity at all. He was underscoring the importance of balance and knowing when excellence is essential and where “good enough” is exactly what allows us to keep going.
Are you a maximizer or a satisficer? Share in the comments.
Dr. Lauren Fang is an internal medicine resident in Rochester, MN. She enjoys coffee shops, board games, and spending time outdoors. Dr. Fang is a 2025–2026 Doximity Op-Med Fellow.
Image by GoodStudio / Shutterstock
