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I come from a medical family.

My father was a surgeon. My mother was a family practice physician. My uncle was an obstetrician/gynecologist, and my aunt was also a family practice physician.

Picture Marisa Tomei’s character’s “my father was a mechanic” speech in the movie “My Cousin Vinny,” only insert the word “doctor.” I chose to be one of those mechanics. But something in me wanted more.

My parents immigrated to the United States from the Philippines in the late 60s, and my aunt and uncle soon followed. It was an opportunity borne of the Vietnam War era, when the U.S. needed foreign medical graduates to meet the increased need for physicians. To practice in the States, they repeated their specialty training in order to practice medicine and worked hard to establish themselves.

My parents started their own practice after quickly discovering that being employed was not for them. They practiced on the west side of Chicago for 38 years, becoming part of the community there.

You could say that my choice to be an obstetrician/gynecologist split the difference between my parents’ specialties. There was no conscious push on my parents’ part to pursue a medical career. As the oldest child, the implication was felt by me.

Like my parents, I established my own practice with my husband. We were both obstetrician/gynecologists running a mom and pop practice. My husband was also a second generation physician whose parents immigrated from Thailand in the late 60s. Both of us were living our parents’ lives.

For 20 years, we poured ourselves into our practice. It became our identity. We were privileged to be present at the creation of many families over the years. Our patients touched our lives as much as we did theirs.

The call to serve patients often costs physicians their families, and ours was no exception. We busied ourselves with our practice, our different hobbies and interests. We grew apart.

The pandemic came and it put a magnifying glass on the shortcomings of our marriage as well as our healthcare system. I burned out on both. The pandemic also put my life choices under scrutiny. I had to come to terms with two important facts: my husband and I were on different paths, and I no longer wanted to be a physician.

So what now? It’s easy to follow someone else’s path as I did by following my parents’ example. No regrets there. I see the choices they made in the context of their generation and see that their choices don’t have to be mine. A profession isn’t an identity. It’s a safe way of living.

The path to me is open now. For a control freak like me, that’s daunting. But it’s also full of possibilities.

Choosing a path separate from my family means choosing a new identity, which is a daunting task. It means shedding labels and old stories of who I am and the role that others play in this journey. It’s both a process of grieving the loss of who I once was and celebrating the newfound freedom of who I can become.

Each day on this new path brings up many emotions. Fear and doubt are chief among them. Gratitude and a new sense of peace are at its root.

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