Closing the chapter on my career as a physician has been one of the most profound decisions of my life. Canceling my medical license wasn't just about leaving behind a job — it was about stepping away from a calling I once held close, a world I inhabited for years, and a purpose that defined me. I knew this decision would be more than a professional pivot; it would fundamentally change how I viewed myself and how others saw me.
For years, medicine was a consuming force. It began with long nights of studying, learning the mysteries of the human body, memorizing complex biochemical pathways, and envisioning myself as a part of a respected profession. This journey was grueling but fulfilling. The sense of accomplishment was immense when I took that oath and felt the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. I remember my first days in practice — filled with anticipation and fear. Each patient encounter was a lesson, each diagnosis a small victory, and each treatment plan a testament to the power of knowledge and compassion. There's a unique privilege in being trusted with someone's health, and it filled me with a sense of purpose.
But over time, the reality of the job brought unexpected challenges. Medicine is not just science; it's an intricate dance of emotional intelligence, resilience, and adaptability. I encountered suffering daily, and my role demanded that I confront this suffering with poise and an unwavering hand. There were days when the burden felt heavier than I could carry and moments when I questioned my ability to provide the care my patients needed. I began to feel the weight of the expectations placed upon me — by patients, colleagues, and society.
The most challenging aspect was witnessing the limitations of modern medicine. I became acutely aware of how finite our treatments are and how elusive answers can be for specific conditions. I remember the helplessness I felt when patients and their families looked at me with hope and trust, even in cases where all I could offer was empathy. Being a physician meant accepting this human limitation, but the emotional toll of navigating these boundaries grew over time. Medicine is more than physical healing; it's also about offering guidance through grief, resilience through pain, and support through uncertainty. Yet, no one prepared me for the toll this could take on my mental well-being.
Then, there were the external pressures — administrative burdens, bureaucratic red tape, and the growing sense that factors outside my control often influenced clinical decisions. I spent hours completing paperwork, adhering to regulations, and managing insurance issues. These tasks gradually chipped away at the time I had with patients. It was frustrating, and what drew me to medicine was slipping through my fingers. Instead of focusing on patient care, I was navigating a system that sometimes felt disconnected from the very purpose of health care.
When I retired after almost 50 years of practice, I decided to keep my license and my DEA permit current so that if I needed to get a prescription for myself or a family member, I could do it. Even though I have an internist who cares for me and my family, it seemed like a good idea: I could save money on doctor visits and help my family do the same.
In the first year, I had already paid all my dues, so I did not think much about the cost of keeping it; unfortunately, when the second year came, I found that to keep my license, I had to pay the state practice fee, the license renewal fee, and the DEA charges. It all added up to more than $1,000! It was then that I realized it was time to give it up.
The decision to cancel my license wasn't abrupt; it was a gradual realization. The idea lingered in my mind for months before I even entertained it as a possibility. Each day, I looked at the little paper that was my license, and I wrestled with the decision. I inched closer to understanding that my path in medicine had ended. It was a decision that felt like both a failure and a liberation. I'd invested years of my life, countless hours, and immense emotional energy in my career, and it wasn't easy to reconcile walking away from it.
Once I decided to cancel my license, there was a strange mix of emotions — relief, grief, and an unsettling emptiness. It's hard to describe the loss of walking away from something that once defined your identity. In society, being a physician is a badge of honor, a title that commands respect. For many, it becomes an inseparable part of who they are. Stepping away felt like I was shedding a piece of myself, and with that came a lingering question: Who am I without my medical license?
However, amid the uncertainty, I also felt a renewed sense of possibility. Medicine taught me resilience, empathy, and the value of human connection. It prepared me to face challenges, not only in my career but also in my life. I may no longer hold a license, but the essence of what I learned as a physician will stay with me. I am taking these experiences forward, using them as a foundation upon which I'll build the next phase of my life.
Dr. Rojas is a retired neonatologist. He attended medical school in Mexico and completed a pediatrics residency at the University of Texas in San Antonio. He studied neonatology at Vanderbilt University and practiced for 38 years before retiring.
Illustration by Jennifer Bogartz
