I don't feel comfortable in my skin

I don't feel comfortable in my skin, even when I'm resting from my exhaustion. I feel very uncomfortable, as a doctor living and surviving the unsurvivable, having to be a beacon of hope for literally everyone, and the heavy weight of that burden.

Yesterday, I found a small moment of comfort. A young man, a cousin to a sick boy, whose brother had been martyred just two days earlier, came to me.

The sick boy was nauseous and distressed, and his cousin was mad at me because I couldn't see his cousin right away; I was drowning in patients. At first, I thought he was simply attacking me to cause trouble. But when I finally gave attention to the boy, who was nauseous, and deeply depressed by what happened to his brother. I treated his symptoms, and spoke with his father, everything shifted. His father was deeply respectful and grateful, and his angry cousin turned to me and said gently: "Thank you doctor, Mashallah, you're a good doctor."

Adding to that comfort, I felt even lighter when my colleague asked me to help with a case; and I actually had the energy for it. It was a young woman who had been struggling with psychological symptoms, after seeing many doctors without finding answers. I stood with her and her family, listened closely, and spoke with clarity and compassion for about ten minutes. I was honest but gentle, and in the end they accepted the idea of taking her to a psychiatrist.

We walked forward together; me, the doctor, and the nurse. The doctor looked at me and said, "That was really good. You helped a lot". He asked, "I was lost for words, and it wasn't easy to reassure them or find a way through."

All the pain I could not ease. All the illnesses I could not cure. All the lives I did not know how save.

All the sorrow, the oppression, the anger,the helplessness, the disappointment , the confusion , the hopelessness I felt in people's hearts. All the prayers in which you could not cry . All the moments when you thought you were alone . All the screams , and all the moments of silence.

All the times when survival was just a matter of luck, a minute, or a day, a meter, or a street away.

All the worry, sorrow, and fear that filled my mother 's heart, and the heart of every mother here.

All the impossible struggles for survival, the exhaustion, and the stolen innocence and joy that children here have endured; etched into their faces , in their breakdowns, and in the moments when their childhood and even their lives were taken from them. All the helplessness I carried, standing powerless in front of even the simplest things.

All the days when I could not even help myself. All those who were once here, and became mere numbers.

All the thoughts left unfinished. All the dreams that died within the hearts that stopped beating.

Wasn't it enough?