Becoming Whole Again

I am an IMG and have lived and worked in Australia for more than twenty years. When I left my country, I was already practising as a specialist, but in Australia I had to begin again. I expected the journey to be difficult, but I never imagined that my career would bring me to a point where I felt so broken. Looking back, I can see that the fellowship pathway tested far more than my knowledge; it tested my identity, my resilience and my ability to keep going when everything around me felt uncertain.

I passed my fellowship exams, but reaching that point came at a great cost. By my fourth attempt at the final stage, I was physically exhausted, emotionally depleted and financially strained. The pressure of completing the exams within a strict three-year limit was made even heavier by the pandemic. While much of the world slowed down, I had to keep studying, working and caring for my children. As a co-owner of the practice, I could not simply step away; the doors still had to stay open.

During preparation for my first two exams, our dog died suddenly. He had been my best friend, and his loss affected me deeply. Soon after, my mother died back home. Because of travel restrictions and quarantine requirements, I could not go home to say goodbye. My father begged me to come, but I could not afford the trip, and the AKT and KFP exams were only a few months away.

People encouraged me to defer, and part of me wanted the time and space to grieve. Yet the deadline for my exam pathway made me feel trapped. I went ahead and sat the exams, carrying grief I had barely begun to process. I passed both, just enough, and I felt as though my mother had somehow been watching over me.

I began preparing for the final stage while still grieving my mother and trying to function through the pandemic. My first attempt went badly. I failed, while my study partner passed. The disappointment was painful, but I still could not stop working. The bills did not pause, and there was no one to cover me if I stepped away.

For my second attempt, I reduced my hours and took more days off, but the financial strain quickly followed. I struggled to pay the exam fees and the costs of preparation. When I failed again, while both of my study partners passed, my confidence collapsed further. Depression deepened, self-doubt followed me into work, and impostor syndrome became overwhelming. Still, I knew I had to try again.

By my third attempt, finding study partners had become difficult. I asked my husband, who was also a GP, for help, although he had not yet sat the exams himself. He encouraged me to rest, but I felt I did not have that option. I was running out of attempts, and the outcome of this exam would shape my future. He could not understand the urgency and importance of getting through the exams. This made it hard for him to understand what I was going through. It strained our relationship so bad, it changed our marriage completely. When that attempt also did not bring the result I hoped for, I felt devastated. I had to reach deeply within myself to find the strength to continue.

I applied to sit the exam a fourth time. Again, I struggled to find study partners, and I felt the quiet hesitation that came when people realised I had attempted the exam several times before. Eventually, I found a supportive group, and we bonded through a shared understanding of what this journey demanded.

Even then, life did not become easier. Work remained the greatest source of stress. I was still managing responsibilities at home and keeping the practice running, while my business partners pressured me to co-sign a loan so the practice could move to larger premises. All of this happened while I was preparing for what felt like my last chance. After the exam, the waiting was almost unbearable.

I dreaded the day results were to come out. The possibility of failing again felt unbearable, and I feared that time had finally run out. I tried to prepare for the worst by creating a Plan B. At the same time, my business partners continued pressing me to sign the contract. I told them I could not commit until I knew the exam outcome and where I would be working.

The pressure seemed to come from every direction: work, home and within myself. It felt strange that one exam could hold so much power over the direction of my life. My Plan B frightened me, yet it also brought a kind of calm, because it felt like an end to the struggle.

On the day the results came out, I had the day off, which gave me a few days away from work. My plan was to wait for the outcome and, if I failed, leave under the pretence of cooling off and regrouping. In truth, I had planned to end my life. I had thought it through and believed I could do it. I no longer cared; I only wanted everything to stop. If I failed, I thought it would prove that I was not good at what I did.

Thankfully, I passed. At first, I felt relief. Only a few days later, once the news had settled, did I begin to understand how broken I had been. Passing did not erase what had happened. Instead, it revealed how close I had come to losing myself under the weight of grief, pressure and fear. I had never told anyone how low I had been. I now understand, with a compassion I did not fully have before, how a person can reach the point of believing there is no way out.

This experience has changed the way I see success, struggle and survival. The fellowship results mattered, but it was not the whole story. The deeper lesson was that achievement can sometimes hide immense suffering, and that people who appear to be functioning may still be carrying unbearable pain. I share this reflection not because it is easy to revisit, but because silence can make suffering feel even lonelier. If this part of my story means anything, I hope it reminds others that needing help is not failure, and that no exam, career pathway or professional title is worth a life. There is always value in pausing, reaching out and allowing someone else to stand beside us until we can stand again.