Some Taught Me, Some Tested Me: A Year of Personalities in the Clinic

So you might’ve noticed I haven’t really said much about the personalities of the seniors I worked with. That’s intentional.

I don’t usually talk about things that are out of my control — and the hierarchy in the hospital? Very much one of those things. Even though there’s clearly something broken about the system, there’s not much a house officer like me can do to change it. Everyone sees it, but no one says anything. Or they do — and it goes nowhere.

I never realized just how deeply hierarchy shapes the workplace until I got here. And the worst part? Even if you don’t notice it at first, they’ll make sure you do. As house officers, we were at the very bottom of the ladder. Honestly, if there’s a space below the ladder, that’s where we were. We did the jobs no one else wanted — or worse, the jobs someone else was supposed to do but decided they couldn’t be bothered. And sure, I get it — we’re there to learn, and that includes learning through work. But let’s be honest: most of it wasn’t about learning. It was about doing what you were told, no questions asked.

And hanging over all of us? The threat of extension. Just hearing the word was enough to trigger a full-body response. Extension meant staying longer in a unit — usually just a week or two, but during house job, that felt like a life sentence. Some rotations were chill, and you could glide through them without a whisper of extension. Others? It was a dark cloud, following you around every single day. And the reasons they’d threaten it? Sometimes so minor, so unfair, and definitely not our fault.

There were so many moments I felt like we were being taken advantage of. Treated unfairly. Spoken to with disrespect — but what could we do? Nothing, really. The power dynamics didn’t leave much room for standing your ground.

Which brings me to power — something I’ve been thinking a lot about. It genuinely baffles me how quickly some people lose all sense of compassion once they get a little authority. Especially in healthcare, where empathy should be a given. The excuse I heard most often? “Well, when I was a house officer, I had it even worse.”

And honestly? That’s the weakest excuse of them all.

If you didn’t like how you were treated, why perpetuate the same cycle? Why make someone else feel the way you once did — especially when they had nothing to do with your past? Hurt people hurting people is not a personality trait — it’s a lack of accountability. And that’s where I think a lot of the toxicity in the system comes from. A refusal to break the cycle. A refusal to lead with kindness.

The work environment can become so heavy and tense, it starts to affect how you function. You get scared to make mistakes — not because you’re afraid of being wrong, but because you’re afraid of how people will react. You get used to being berated. You learn to stay quiet. You learn to let things go in one ear and out the other. You learn to swallow every instinct to defend yourself — just to keep the peace.

And the thing is, if you let every comment, every tone, every power play get to you? You won’t survive it.

It’ll drain your confidence, your motivation, and eventually, your joy.

Let me just paint the picture a little clearer by introducing you to a few of the personalities I encountered. No names, of course:

Person 1: The one who couldn’t decide if they wanted to be an angel or a villain. One minute they were smiling at you, calling you “dear,” and the next they were throwing you under the bus in front of everyone like you personally offended their ancestors. Emotional whiplash in human form. You never knew which version you were going to get — the kind mentor or the chaos merchant.

Person 2: The subliminal speaker. Everything they say has a double meaning. Nothing is ever said directly, but you always leave the conversation feeling insulted and unsure if it actually happened. The “I’m just saying” type, who pretends to be your biggest supporter while silently hoping you fail. Honestly? The wolf in Little Red Riding Hood has nothing on them.

Person 3: The classic green snake in green grass. Smiling in your face, pretending to be on your side, but reporting your every move behind your back. If you ever got randomly called out for something you thought no one saw... it was probably them. A true silent assassin.

Person 4: Started off so nice, you’d think they were the one safe person in the whole unit. They’d smile, ask how your day was, even joke with you — until one day, out of nowhere, they flipped. You never saw it coming. One minute you’re laughing, the next you’re being lectured like you committed war crimes. A masterclass in emotional bait-and-switch.

Person 5: The predator. Quiet. Observant. Always watching. Never says much — until you make a mistake. Then suddenly, they’re everywhere: dissecting your error, calling you out, and making sure everyone hears it. Like a lion in the grass, patiently waiting... and the moment you slip? It’s over. Game on.

Person 6: Too slow to be an actual villain but still found a way to create confusion. They didn’t know how to wield their authority properly, so every instruction came with five layers of miscommunication. Like someone with a weapon they don’t know how to use — constantly misfiring, but somehow, you're the one who ends up hurt.

Person 7: The devil's PR manager. No exaggeration. The type who makes you question whether they were placed in your life as a lesson or a punishment. Power-hungry, emotionally unavailable, and operates like empathy was surgically removed at birth. If you mess up even slightly, they’ll not only drag you — they’ll do it publicly, with flair. Think passive aggression with a PhD.

You see what you’re working with.

These are the kinds of people that make you triple-check everything you do — not just to avoid mistakes, but to avoid them. The kind that make the air in the room feel heavy. The ones who turn a learning environment into a minefield.

In an environment like this, every day felt like a gamble. You never knew what version of your seniors you were going to get — the civil, functioning adult or their evil twin. Walking into the clinic came with a baseline level of anxiety, because you’d find yourself rehearsing things like, “How should I greet this person today?” “Should I smile or is that doing too much?” “Is this the acceptable angle to stand at or will that be considered disrespectful?”

Yes — even standing “wrong” could land you in hot water. Welcome to the clinic, where body language is apparently part of your evaluation.

And honestly, on the days I made it out of there without being scolded, snapped at, or side-eyed? It felt like a personal win. Like I deserved a medal... or at least a long nap. It’s a strange thing when not being humiliated feels like a highlight — but that was the reality sometimes. Every calm day felt like a small miracle. And the bad days? Let’s just say, you learned to emotionally clock out while physically clocking in.

But thankfully... not everyone was like this. I’d say these difficult personalities made up about 20% of the population — but unfortunately, that 20% was loud enough to make a big impact.

Still, the ones who were kind. The ones who actually showed up with empathy and patience. They made all the difference.

There were doctors who went out of their way to help, without expecting anything in return. The ones who could tell you were clueless and didn’t use it against you — instead, they walked you through every step of the procedure, calmly and kindly. The ones who understood when you needed a break and respected your mental health without question. The ones who saw you were overwhelmed and took it easy on you — offering support instead of pressure.

There were those who genuinely came to teach and teach is what they did. No funny business, no power play, no egos involved. Just a pure desire to pass on knowledge and leave you better than they met you. And if you made a mistake? They stepped in without making it a big deal. No show, no shaming — just support.

Some even took on tasks meant for you, not because they had to, but because they knew you were still figuring it out — and they remembered what that felt like.

Those are the ones I’ll always remember. They’re the ones who reminded me that kindness isn’t weakness — it’s leadership. That you can correct without crushing someone. That you can hold someone accountable and still hold space for their learning curve.

They made the environment better. And when the environment is better, you get better. You leave work with actual lessons in your pocket, not just stress. You want to come back the next day and do more, try harder, be better — not because you’re afraid, but because you feel supported.

Looking back, I’ve realized that house job wasn’t just about learning how to treat patients — it was about learning how to navigate people. The kind ones, the harsh ones, the unpredictable ones. I saw how much power people have to either build you up or break you down, and how something as simple as kindness or patience can completely change someone’s experience.

I’ve worked under pressure, made mistakes, been corrected, been ignored, been supported, been thrown under the bus — and I’ve survived it all. And through it, I learned the kind of doctor I don’t want to be… and more importantly, the kind I do.

I want to be someone who teaches without ego, who corrects without cruelty, and who leads with empathy — because I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of both. This year taught me that being skilled is important, but being human is essential.

Whether through support or struggle, the people I met helped define my path. Each person along the way added something to the version of me that walks forward from here — a version that’s still learning, but now walks with more confidence, more clarity, and a whole lot more grit.