It can begin in small, invisible ways.

A flutter in the chest before ward rounds. A tightness in the throat before speaking up in meetings, the waves of nausea preparing to speak to a concerned relative.

The quiet dread of not knowing, not being enough, not having the answer, not being able to hold it all.

For years, anxiety lived in my body like a quiet, constant alarm. I would feel it rise, an inner fluttering, a heat in my chest. I could feel the blush before it came. And I feared it. Not just the sensation, but what it would mean. What others would see. That they would notice and judge me.

And then comes the shame.

Because doctors, we tell ourselves, aren’t meant to feel this way. We’re trained to be steady, competent, unshakable. We learn to allay fear in others, but not in ourselves. And when anxiety shows up, it feels like a betrayal. A crack in the armour we’ve worked so hard to wear.