May the work you do never steal the wonder of who you are
Mental health • Burnout • SA public sector
“We laugh, otherwise we’d cry.” If you’ve ever stood in a South African hospital tea-room at 03:00 you’ll know the soundtrack: dark humour, quick chirps, and laughter that’s half-celebration, half-survival instinct. It’s a shield we forge against a system that demands impossible hours, scarce resources and relentless emotional exposure.
Yet shields get heavy. Recent research shows burnout rates among South-African public-sector doctors sit between 58%–78% — the highest recorded here.
Trauma-bonded friendships — why your call-room crew feels like family
“Trauma-bonded friends” is the term many doctors use for the colleagues they clung to during and after those draining after hours calls - you know, the "12 - 24 hour calls" that actually turn into roughly 30 hours of non-stop work - an issue that is never addressed because "Post-Call is a privellege and not a right" (Does this ring any bells?). Shared adrenaline, shared grief, shared absurdity — it forges intimacy faster than any braai could. In another universe you might never have crossed paths, but here you’ve held retractors, secrets and tears for each other. These friendships are beautiful and a reminder of the weight you jointly carry.
The silent cost: Burnout & covert PTSD
Burnout is just the headline everyone can see — the autopilot mornings when you shower, drive and scrub in without really arriving. It’s the bone-deep exhaustion that no double-espresso fixes, the Sunday dread that starts on Saturday.
Behind that front page lives something quieter: the trauma no one clocks on ward round. It shows up as the startle when a monitor beeps, the flashback of a resus while you’re braaing with friends. Some units feel like war-zones in surgical gowns, and the heaviness follows you home long after the shift ends. This isn’t weakness; it’s an understandable scar from witnessing more suffering in one month than many people see in a lifetime.
How the trauma leaks into everyday life
- Morning dread before hand-over, heart racing at the thought of being singled out or belittled.
- Snapping awake at 02:00 replaying that moment you wished you’d spoken up.
- Hyper‑vigilance during ward rounds, then numb detachment during supper with family.
- Automatically laughing off tragedy because the alternative is to feel it — and feeling it might drown you.
Naming it = reclaiming it
You are not “weak” or “too sensitive”. You are a first‑responder who has witnessed more suffering in one month than many people do in a lifetime. The moment you name the trauma, you create distance between you and it. That distance is where recovery grows.
Micro‑practices that move the dial
| What | Takes | Why it helps |
|---|---|---|
| Three‑breath reset between patients | 15 sec | Activates vagus nerve, drops cortisol |
| Mini‑debrief with a trauma‑bonded friend before leaving the ward | 2 min | Externalises emotion so it doesn’t come home |
| Body scan while scrubbing or driving | 60 sec | Re‑connects mind‑body, spots tension early |
When laughter isn’t enough
Humour is healthy; suppression is not. If you notice recurring nightmares, emotional numbness stretching into days, or thoughts of self‑harm — please reach out immediately. Early therapy reduces PTSD chronicity in first‑responders.
Permission to be proud
Pause. Breathe in for four counts, hold, breathe out for six. Remember the patient who walked out because you caught a subtle sign. Recall the intern you coached through their first LP. Let pride sit beside the pain; they can coexist.
“May the work you do never steal the wonder of who you are.”
You do courageous work in a system that too often applauds stoicism over sanity. A stranger on the internet says: Thank you. You matter outside of your job description, and your mind deserves the same care you give your patients.