From Student to Stethoscope.

Exploring identity loss in medicine.

This blog explores a common experience among medical students and newly qualified doctors: identity loss. Over the past few weeks, I've been struck by how many people have shared similar feelings, and I think it's important that we understand what this experience is, how it can affect our mental health, and what we can do to navigate it.

I graduated from medical school last July, and at that point my identity felt solid. I was someone who loved sport, enjoyed socialising, and was known as one of the ‘organised friends’. Most importantly, I saw myself as someone people could rely on—someone others came to for support.

Fast forward ten months, and things feel very different. I no longer have the energy for the sport I love. Outside of work I feel chaotic. I forget birthdays, struggle to keep in touch with friends, and although I still want to be someone my friends can rely on, I don't feel I have the emotional capacity to offer the level of support I'd like to.

In less than a year, my sense of who I am has taken what feels like a complete 180-degree turn.

For a long time I found myself asking, Why me? Why do other people seem unaffected by becoming a doctor? Why does work consume so much of my emotional, physical and mental energy, while everyone else appears to carry on as normal?

Logically, we know the answer. Every Foundation Year 1 doctor works in different hospitals, rotates through different specialties, has different shift patterns, varying levels of support, and different responsibilities. No two experiences are the same.

And yet...

Over the last month I've spoken to countless medical students and doctors who have described feeling almost exactly the same way.

So what is happening?

Significant life transitions often reshape the routines, roles and relationships that make up our identity. Starting work as a doctor is one of those transitions. Many of the external factors that previously gave us structure and meaning—our hobbies, friendships, routines, time, and sense of balance—can suddenly change, often in ways that are outside our control.

It's not necessarily that our values disappear. Rather, we may find ourselves with less time, energy or emotional capacity to live in line with them. When that happens, it can feel as though we've lost parts of ourselves.

Without recognising this shift, it's easy to compare the person we were "then" with the person we are "now". That comparison can fuel self-criticism, self-blame and a drop in self-esteem.

In many ways, there is a form of grief in letting go of the version of yourself that once felt familiar. Acknowledging that grief is important, because identity loss is not simply about feeling different—it can have a profound impact on our mental health.

So why does this happen in medicine?

Medicine asks a huge amount of us. The training involves long hours, an overwhelming volume of knowledge to learn, and once clinical placements begin there is an entirely new emotional burden that comes with caring for patients. By the time you qualify, medicine has often shaped your routines, your friendships, your priorities and the way you see yourself.

After dedicating so much time and energy to becoming a doctor, it becomes incredibly difficult not to think of yourself as "the medical student" or "the doctor". I certainly did. Even now, I take a great deal of pride in medicine being a significant part of who I am. After nine years of working towards this career, that feels completely understandable. I care deeply about doing the best I can for my patients, and I always will.

The challenge isn't that medicine becomes part of your identity—it's when it becomes your entire identity.

There's an important difference between being "Hannah the doctor" and "Hannah, who is a doctor." One suggests that your profession defines you. The other recognises that medicine is something you do, not the sum of who you are.

When work begins to consume all of our emotional, physical and mental energy, it becomes harder to make space for the other parts of ourselves: the friend, the partner, the teammate, the musician, the runner, the sibling, the person who laughs, rests and enjoys life outside of the hospital.

Those parts of us don't disappear overnight, but without time and energy to nurture them they can begin to feel distant. That's often where identity loss begins—not because we've stopped being those people, but because we've stopped having the capacity to be them.

What can we do about it?

Recognising what is happening is often the first step. When identity feels like it is shifting, it can be easy to interpret that as personal failure or as evidence that we are not coping well enough. In reality, these changes are often a response to periods of significant transition and pressure, rather than a reflection of our worth or capability.

It can also help to anticipate when these periods of change might happen. Starting a new placement, moving to a different hospital, entering exam periods, or beginning foundation training are all times when routines, relationships and energy levels are likely to shift. None of these transitions are easy, but being aware of them can allow you to prepare for them in small, practical ways.

Sometimes that preparation looks like adjusting expectations rather than trying to maintain everything at once. If you previously played sport several times a week, it may not be realistic to maintain that in the same way during a busy rotation—but finding a smaller, more flexible version of that activity can help preserve the sense of identity it gave you. Similarly, staying connected to hobbies or interests in a reduced form—reading a few pages before bed, exercising once a week, volunteering less frequently, seeing your friend in one big group rather than having to find time for multiple individual plans—can still act as a reminder that those parts of you still exist, even if they look slightly different for a while.

 Do not compare yourself. It is sooo easy to compare ourselves to colleagues who appear to be coping better, or to an earlier version of ourselves. But those comparisons are unhelpful. No two medical careers are ever truly the same. Our capacity changes depending on workload, responsibility, sleep, and emotional demand.  

It is worth remembering that medical students and doctors make up less than 0.5% of the UK population(1). Within such a small and highly selected group, it is easy for comparison to feel constant and intense, but this can add unnecessary pressure. Equally, comparing yourself to the wider 99.5% of the population can also feel unhelpful, as the demands, routines and expectations of medical training are simply different. Put simply, what is “normal” for others is not always a fair measure of what is realistic within medicine.

Above all, self-compassion matters. If you notice these feelings arising, it can help to ask how you would respond to a friend in the same position. Most of us would respond with understanding rather than criticism. Extending that same kindness to ourselves can make these experiences feel less isolating.

You are absolutely not alone in how you feel! If you feel able to begin  discussions with your colleagues and your peers around the topics discussed in this blog you will realise just how many people sharing a similar experience(2). 

Finally, if these feelings begin to affect your wellbeing or feel difficult to manage, it is important to seek support early. This might be through friends, family, peers, supervisors, your GP, or university and workplace wellbeing services. Support does not need to be reserved for crisis points—it can be useful at any stage when things feel overwhelming.

By Dr Hannah Thompson

1. UK House of Commons Library, NHS workforce: size, characteristics and staffing levels (2026), NHS England workforce statistics (2025).

2. Monrouxe LV, Bullock A, Tseng HM, Wells SE. Association of professional identity,     gender, team understanding, anxiety and workplace learning alignment with burnout in junior doctors: a longitudinal cohort study. BMJ Open. 2017;7(12):e017942. doi:10.1136/bmjopen-2017-017942.