At the risk of sounding dramatic, running has been my salvation. And in making this statement, I want to specify that my runs are not long, fast, or impressive in any way. In addition, I do not have the stereotypical willowy, long-legged runner’s physique. Despite this, running is one of the loves of my life. I am constantly thankful not just for being able to run, but also for the gift of enjoying it. While running, I have crafted stories and essays and thought up seemingly brilliant, exciting new ideas. Emotions and anger that I tried to suppress can surface during runs and then arc, fizzle, and dissolve. “Run until the rage stops” is one of my internal mottos. I adhere to the philosophy that there is no such thing as a bad run. The endorphins always show up, even if not until the very last strides.

So, imagine my dismay when my runs began to feel, quite frankly, broken. My joints ached; injuries and pains emerged. What distinguishes a run from a jog is not speed. It is the feeling you get while doing it. And my runs began to feel like jogs and then like hobbles. In searching for answers to how this shocking situation developed, I realized that I had become a victim of my own life hack. 

There comes a time as a parent when your kids still need you to drive them to practice, but you are not invited, or even allowed, to watch these practices. I saw the lemonade behind the lemons on this one from the beginning. I would drive to hockey or basketball practice, go on a run, then sit in my car and do Epic charts, and then drive my child home. It felt brilliant, like spinning extra time and pleasure out of thin air on an imaginary loom. But while doing this routine of drive, run, sit in my car, and drive again, I never once stretched my body (those charts were calling!). This, as it turns out, was ill-advised. 

Getting back to where running felt good became a journey. Among other things, it involved the dreaded ordeal of stretching. During this journey, I began, piecemeal, to feel instances of running joy that felt like times of old — magical, free, even willowy. Then, I would unceremoniously stumble back into hobbling mode. 

As I strung together more of the golden moments, I realized I most often felt this bliss while running on a slight downhill. A steep downhill can ruin an aging or recovering runner, but a gradual, subtle decline makes you feel triumphant. As the path flattened, however, or, worse, curved the tiniest bit upward, I would return to hobbling.

It seemed revelatory to realize that in the moments when I felt most on top of the world, when I was running and everything was just right, I was being aided by the unseen force of gravity. When I struggled, it was that same external force again, this time literally pushing me down and back. 

And this made me think of medicine. Being a doctor can sometimes feel like running downhill. These are the satisfying, good times that make it worth it. Other times, it feels like an uphill slog over muddy, rough, uneven terrain. Being a doctor means both these experiences. Nobody gets a downhill run both ways.

Like many in medicine, I am a perfectionist. Perfectionists think we should have the feeling of a downhill run all the time and if we don’t, it’s because we didn’t do something right, or we just aren’t good enough. In obstetrics, perfectionism means wanting our patients to have perfect outcomes, minimal pain, emotionally satisfying birth experiences, and if they do need a C section, a beautiful scar. 

Becoming a doctor ironically both compounded and tempered my perfectionism. The astronomically high stakes of medicine demand that we always strive for perfection. However, the vicissitudes of practicing medicine have taught me that while perfection is always sought it is never guaranteed. 

When our patients have good outcomes, we feel good about ourselves and our skills. When they have infections, post-op complications, don’t respond to treatment, or have traumatic experiences, we blame and berate ourselves. And yet both our successes and failures as physicians often come, at least in part, from forces that, like gravity, are beyond our control.  Acknowledging and accepting this can hopefully quiet that critical inner voice of ours enough so that we can both learn from our mistakes and find the strength to carry on. 

Knowing that we are not entirely in control of either our successes or failures does not mean we shouldn’t celebrate and savor the good times. Just as we replay cases we regret, we need to remember and treasure the times when we made all the right decisions, when everything went “perfectly”. We can and should accept a patient’s gratitude fully and admire our beautiful incisions. Appreciating and enjoying our success is also part of how we lift ourselves and carry on. It’s the gradual downhill of an awesome run. And we better enjoy it, because even if we can’t see it, the next uphill is right around the corner. That incline is going to feel hard and rough – probably a good idea to stretch afterwards, too. 

Jennifer Boyle MD is an ob/gyn and aspiring writer in Boston, MA.