As a physician with over 20 years of experience, I often find myself fielding a variety of questions at social gatherings. These range from queries about the best diet and exercise routine to ideal sleep patterns. Parents, in particular, frequently ask for advice on how their children can excel in competitive exams like NEET, the opportunities available for young doctors and the most promising specialties in medicine. They also seek recommendations on the best hospitals in the city.
Moreover, there’s a recurring theme where parents express their hopes for their children to pursue a career in medicine, often asking for my insights on how to nurture that ambition. A common question I encounter: “Doc, you have a daughter. Surely, you’re hoping she’ll become a doctor someday, right?”
Do I really want my daughter to become a doctor? It’s a question that has weighed on my mind for some time. Being a physician is a noble and fulfilling profession, but it comes with challenges that often go unspoken. A recent article in a medical journal highlights a startling statistic: approximately 75 per cent of doctors in India have encountered some form of physical or verbal violence at least once in their careers. Even more concerning, about 70 per cent of these professionals admit to feeling unsafe while treating patients.
These numbers are alarming. To put it in perspective, if you were to meet four doctors, three of them would likely have faced a violent incident during their practice. This is not just a minor inconvenience — it’s a pervasive issue that affects our ability to provide care and impacts our mental and emotional well-being. As a parent, the idea of my daughter entering a profession where she might face such risks is deeply troubling. Would I want her to experience the stress, the fear, and the uncertainty that come with this kind of environment?
I watch her as she plays with her LEGO set, meticulously building an ambulance and engaging in a game of doctor doctor. It’s a game so many kids love, complete with their toy stethoscopes, syringes, quirky headgear and tiny kidney trays. They giggle with glee when we feign fear at the sight of injections. They carefully wrap imaginary bandages around our wounds, eager to make everything better. In these moments, it’s clear that children have an innate desire to heal. They want to fix what is broken, to care for those who are hurt.
As we grow, that instinct to heal is often channelled into specific roles —doctors, nurses, therapists, and other healthcare professionals. But here is the truth that often gets lost in the shuffle: healing isn’t just the job of the medical profession. No, doctors and healthcare professionals primarily treat illness and manage patients. Healing, on the other hand, is a collective effort — a responsibility that extends beyond the hospital walls to encompass patients, their families, communities, and society at large.
It is in our nature to heal. Wounds heal, broken hearts mend, and the grief of losing a loved one gradually becomes more bearable. We heal physically, emotionally, and mentally. But this healing process is anything but easy. It’s often an excruciating journey, fraught with pain, frustration, and exhaustion. Caregivers, relatives, healthcare professionals and the broader healthcare system all find themselves enmeshed in a situation where the focus is on treating the patient, but in reality, everyone involved must go through their own healing process.
This intricate process can be overwhelming and can strain even the strongest bonds. When communication breaks down — which it often does under such stress — misunderstandings arise.
Disagreements and disappointments fester, leading to a sense of despair. And, in some tragic instances, this despair can manifest as violence —violence that is often directed toward the very people who are trying to help.
As a parent, knowing this makes me pause. Would I want my daughter, who now plays so innocently with her toy ambulance, to one day face the harsh realities of a world where healing is so complex and fraught with challenges? The idea of her encountering the emotional toll and the potential dangers of this profession is a sobering thought. It’s a reality that many of us in the medical field must confront, and it makes the question of whether I want her to follow in my footsteps all the more difficult to answer.
Perhaps better communication is the key. Maybe if I teach my daughter compassion, it will make a difference. I would teach her to approach each patient as if they were a beloved family member, deserving of the same care and respect. I would guide her to communicate with the patients’ relatives as though they were her closest friends, offering not just information but comfort and reassurance. I would encourage her to lead her healthcare team with the strength and wisdom of a ship’s captain, steering them through both calm waters and turbulent storms. I would teach her to navigate the complexities of the healthcare system with the tenacity of a champion, always advocating for what is right and just.
I would also instil in her the humility to recognise that some battles, no matter how hard we fight, will be lost. There are diseases that will overpower our best efforts, and in those moments, accepting the limits of modern medicine is essential. I would teach her empathy, the ability to truly understand and share in the suffering of another human being. This deep sense of connection can be a powerful tool in bridging the gap between healthcare providers and those they care for.
Maybe, just maybe, if we can foster these qualities in the next generation, we can begin to address the misunderstandings that so often surround disease and death. Modern medicine, as advanced as it is, is still in its infancy — only a few centuries old. We’re becoming more adept at identifying and treating diseases, but we are still far from curing them all. It will take time for society as a whole to fully grasp the limitations and possibilities of medicine.
In the meantime, I can prepare my daughter to be a guide during uncertain and testing times. I can equip her with the skills and mindset needed to navigate the challenges of this profession, not just with knowledge and expertise, but with compassion, empathy, and understanding. By doing so, I hope she can be a beacon of hope and a source of strength for those she will one day care for, leading by example and helping to reshape the way we all approach the complex relationship between health, illness, and healing.
I returned to my newspaper, trying to convince myself that if my daughter decides to become a doctor, I would be ready to support her. But then, my eyes caught a horrifying headline — a young doctor, still in training, was brutally raped and murdered inside the very hospital where she was studying.
As a patient, have you ever felt unsafe while visiting a hospital? It’s a place we associate with care, healing and safety. How, then, can a student — a young woman dedicating her life to learning and helping others — feel unsafe in the very institution meant to nurture her growth? How can I, as a parent, prepare my daughter for the possibility of such a horrific eventuality?
Should I tell her to avoid dark corners in the hospital, to never be alone on campus, to always stay in the company of friends? Should I enrol her in self-defence classes, hoping that if the unthinkable happens, she might stand a chance? The thought crosses my mind — should there be alarm buttons in classrooms, just like in Uber and Ola cars? Should I urge her to carry her stethoscope in one hand and pepper spray in the other?
These questions flood my mind, each more troubling than the last. I don’t know the answers, and that’s what scares me the most. How do I protect her from dangers I can’t fully anticipate or control?
As a society, we should be creating environments where our children — our future doctors, nurses, and healers — are safe to learn and grow. But the reality we face is far from that ideal.
I feel a deep sense of helplessness. I don’t know if I can change society enough to ensure her safety.
How can I, as one person, guarantee that she will be safe in a world where violence still lurks in the places we least expect? Yet, the thought of discouraging her from pursuing her dreams out of fear feels equally wrong. What kind of message would that send? That she should be afraid to follow her passions, to dedicate herself to a profession that, despite its challenges, is fundamentally about caring for others?
When people ask me “what do you want your daughter to be when she grows up?”, my answer is simple: “I want her to be safe”.
