Facing the death of a patient is something we, as medical students, expect throughout our undergraduate medical education. Not everyone experiences it, but many of us do — often unexpectedly — especially if we happen to be rotating in critical care units.
The impact of experiencing a person’s death is something genuinely difficult to describe. It is a strange emotion and a serious experience, one that you have to come to terms with.
Even before I encountered the death of any of my patients during medical school, I faced the deaths of family members. It was not just one person, but many — first my grandfathers, then my grandmother, and lastly my closest aunt.
My medical school told students that we could always seek help and counseling after facing tragic events such as the death of a patient, but no formal discussion was had about facing family deaths. When the news of my loved ones’ passing arrived, one after another, I felt extremely vulnerable and did not know how to embrace a reality I had never imagined during the most academically challenging years of my life.
To be frank, I was not sure how I was supposed to feel. Planning to attend a family funeral was complicated because I either had to fly across the country or internationally, and if I did so, I did not know how many days I would need to be excused. The thought of falling behind in my studies during this period absolutely terrified me, yet at the same time, I did not know how I could bring my full self to my studies if I continued staying in school. My capacity to make important decisions progressively worsened, and during this period, I felt I too was becoming defunct.
When my academics eventually took a hit, I decided to take a leave of absence that ultimately lasted about nine months. It was a reasonable choice, but I also knew it was an unusual academic record for a medical student to have. From that point on, everyone potentially reviewing my file for future educational opportunities — including residency and fellowship — would likely ask me why I made such a choice. I was not going to be able to say it was for a research year or some unique educational opportunity I could not pass up. Perhaps I would have to defend myself about where and how I broke down. But the simple truth was I just needed the time for myself, once and for all, so I could heal and help my family recover as well.
I feared how this decision would be viewed in the eyes of anyone considering me for residency or fellowship placement. Should I have made the decision to stay in school and push through, as hardworking medical students are expected to? Was I supposed to not let my situation define me and overcome the issues at hand? I did not have a good answer. And I knew no one would be able to give me a perfect one. The only thing I knew was that I was not in the best position to bring my whole self to my studies and to the patients I would see.
When the first day of my leave of absence started, I realized it was up to me to decide how this period of pause would help me regain the focus I would need back in school. Since I hadn’t made any specific plans, I again felt vulnerable. I wondered if I should seek a research opportunity during this time, because maybe that would be the best way for me to stay connected to medicine. Maybe I should continue volunteering so I would be near patients and the clinical environment. Maybe, maybe — and just too many maybes.
Resting alone became an issue because I had always been preoccupied with things to do. Ever since my premedical student days in college, I relentlessly poured myself into something. Medical school was no different. The hours of studying, extracurricular activities, and research continued, part and parcel of being a competitive applicant for whatever came next. Thus, learning to appreciate a long pause with little to no planned engagements felt counterintuitive to me. I was so uneasy during the first few weeks of my leave of absence because I continuously wondered how I could let myself be so unproductive.
As time passed, I realized my focus on maximizing the utility of my time was not going to help me heal at all. I first needed to acknowledge that I was hurt, burned out, and in need of help. I gradually discovered that I was terrible at realizing when I needed help and asking for someone’s support. I used to consider myself an independent, rather self-sufficient individual who was not weak enough to ask for support.
But I was wrong. Like an injured athlete who needs thorough examination and appropriate treatment, I needed help and enough time to get better. I did not know how much time I would need or what had to be done to fix the aftermath of what I had gone through, but I needed to be realistic about my recovery — which meant it was not going to take just a few days or weeks, but likely months.
After coming to terms with this newly set reality, I started a new routine. I woke up at 6 a.m. to meditate and pray, asking God for all the help I could get to overcome my extenuating circumstances. I cooked, baked, and started to enjoy healthier foods. I ran and lifted weights more. I scheduled a weeklong volunteer trip at a mission center located in South Carolina. I talked more with my mentor and my family, who helped me see beyond my present troubles. I read more and journaled all the random ideas I had, pondering how I wanted my world to change and what I could do to help that process. For once, I was finally letting my deeply seated desires away from academics come out and trying to see the world at large.
Months passed quickly, and then I came back to school. All the things I once felt so familiar with became unfamiliar when I stepped back in the hospital. I couldn’t immediately remember how to interview my patients or certain components of the physical exam I had to perform. The confidence I had before disappeared, and I became overly self-conscious about how I would be evaluated.
However, I took a deep breath whenever I encountered challenges and soon relearned and remembered what I needed to do. Interestingly, I realized I finally became levelheaded because I felt back to where I was — Ted who genuinely looked forward to practicing medicine again. It was a result of properly taking the time to recognize my pain and address it.
So, then I wondered how many of us are afraid, like I was, stalled in hesitation due to how we may be perceived.
I fear that too many of us are overdue for checking how we really are and accepting how we need to be treated. I hope more of us can comfortably choose rest when we know we are not ready to perform at our best. I hope our work environment and culture in medicine can be supportive and conducive to creating healthier physicians who are not only competent but also mentally and physically ready for our patients.
There are so many things we could do to make medicine easier on students going through what I went through: mental health days/self-care days accepted with no reasons when needed; diversified learning modalities that account for the many ways people approach schooling; on-site counselors/psychologists for residents and med students, just to name a few. Needing to check in with ourselves during periods of struggle and grief is not weakness — it’s something we should all be doing in order to be the healthiest and most competent and empathetic clinicians we can be.
How do you balance taking care of yourself with the demands of a life in medicine? Share in the comments.
Ted Kim is a fourth-year medical student at the Renaissance School of Medicine at Stony Brook University looking forward to pursuing residency in occupational and environmental medicine. He is an ardent coffee enthusiast, community builder, and massive fan of systems and design thinking. Ted is a 2025–2026 Doximity Op-Med Fellow.
Illustration by Jennifer Bogartz
