No One Should Cry Alone (unless by choice)

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.” — Washington Irving

There’s an unspoken rule in medicine: hold it together. We learn early on how to steady our hands, steel our nerves, and keep a lid on our emotions—especially in front of patients and colleagues. But what happens when we, the healers, find ourselves overcome? When our emotions breach the surface and we cry—not from weakness, but from the weight of bearing witness to life’s fragility?

I remember the first time I cried after a patient died. It wasn’t until residency, after I led an unsuccessful “Code Blue” that from the start just seemed “wrong.”  You likely know what I’m referencing.  In this case, the patient was younger, their illness unforgiving, and the outcome inevitable.  When I finally “called” the code, the room was filled with a shocked, stunned silence.  Afterward, alone in my car, the lacrimal dam broke.  I had done everything "right," but the process seemed so dishonorable of this patient’s final moments, and even of their life – and of my professional calling. 

That day, I didn’t just “lose” a patient—I lost the illusion that my training, socialization and will could shield me from the emotional aspect of our work.  As I sat there, sobbing behind the steering wheel, it was unclear if I was mourning the patient, the moment, something unresolved from my own past, or simply the growing realization that this profession would keep breaking my heart—and I’d need to let it.  Sadly, studies reveal that many physicians suppress emotions for fear of being perceived as unprofessional or weak. The stigma around the showing of vulnerability contributes to burnout, isolation, and even the erosion of compassion that once drew us to this work.

Additionally, something powerful occurs when we allow ourselves to share in our sadness and grief.  I once sat with a colleague who had just lost a patient she’d fought tirelessly for. She started crying mid-sentence, then apologized as if her tears were a disruption instead of a testament to how much she cared. We sat quietly together for a few minutes, and in that space, she later shared she felt more connected and affirmed than she had experienced in months. It reminded me that part of caring deeply is hurting deeply—and that sharing those moments can actually make us stronger, not weaker.  Crying doesn’t make us less capable.  It confirms that we are still fully engaged, still moved by the privilege and pain of what we do – that what we do still truly matters to us on an emotional and relational level. 

It’s still not easy for me to cry, and I often find myself reflexively “holding back” tears.  I’d like to break that “habit.”  Perhaps we can together?  In the weeks and months ahead, if the tears come, why not let them!  Additionally, share with your PeerRx partner or another colleague your own experience of crying, and perhaps what you have internalized about it from your family and culture of origin – and from our profession.  And if you see a colleague struggling to hold it together, be present with them, even if only in tear-filled silence. Let’s give ourselves and each other permission to be more fully human, because healing doesn’t only flow from our heads and our hands, but also, and perhaps most importantly, from our hearts ... and our eyes.