I'm struggling to encourage more Black girls to go into healthcare. Here's why.

“I have come upon something that disturbs me deeply. I've come to believe we're integrating into a burning house." - Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

A few days ago, my mother let me know that the daughter of a long-time family friend got accepted into medical school. About five or six years ago, I vaguely remember my mother again volun-telling me to speak with her because she had expressed interest in becoming a physician.

It was exciting to see that the high school student I spoke to actually was on her way to becoming a physician.

I get asked often to talk to youth, especially Black girls, because of the fact that even in 2024 we are still a rare sight to see. Only 2% of physicians are Black women, so I am asked to share about my personal journey to becoming a doctor and my experiences being a doctor, with the implied request to encourage these young people to become doctors. (My mom is responsible for at least 50% of these requests, and if you know anything about having a Nigerian mom- it’s not a good idea to refuse.)

At the beginning of my career, I had no qualms about fulfilling this request, given the dearth of Black physicians in the US. In addition, there is finally research that highlights the benefits of increased life expectancy and reduced mortality in areas with more Black physicians. If my conversations could help in any way to increase the number of Black students who go into medicine, I was committed to it.

However, I am becoming less and less comfortable with honoring those requests. Twenty years after getting my medical degree, I have been facing a dilemma over the past few years.

I am reluctant about encouraging youth to go into medicine, especially Black girls. It’s certainly never about if they can, but always about if they should.

I know, what you’re thinking- “How could I even think this?” We need more of us. Black clinicians are more likely to provide care within Black communities that are health deserts and under-resourced. It is one of the key paths to achieving health equity.

If I’m truly honest, I worry about every Black person working in healthcare. This is why.

I have wanted to become a doctor since I was 5 years old and from then on, I stayed on that track without any breaks. I was the poster child for moving through medicine. I started a BS/MD program at 16, finished medical school at 22 and then completed my pediatric residency at 25.

During this time, the study sessions, the exams, the bedside rounds and the long nights of admitting patients, consumed my life. I had to fight for moments of just being a regular person. I had to go above and beyond to do the things I loved at that time - traveling abroad, practicing Capoeira, taking African dance classes and, of course, going out for late-night dancing (and waking up after only a few hours of sleep- I’m not proud of it but I was in my twenties).

It was ridiculous and chaotic, but I always had to fight to remember that underneath the white coat, I was someone outside of being a doctor.  

When my Black physician friends and I reflect, we often come to the realization that we had a unique journey compared to our non-Black counterparts. We all are able to share numerous racist comments, demeaning experiences and emotionally abusive moments from patients & colleagues alike that are core memories of our training.

We persevered by trying to reassure each other that this was indeed “a means to an end.” 

Just stay small, silent, and survive. We were Black physicians, essentially unicorns. Everyone was counting on us to make it through, no matter what.

This, my friends, is the exact type of behavior that healthcare loves from it’s workforce. I have lived most of my life being led by the overachiever, the silencer, the perfectionist, the saver, and of course, my day one, the critic.

As I’m learning in therapy, these parts developed to keep me safe and then literally, once I entered medicine, these parts went into overdrive as I worked to survive in medicine. To this day, I continue to fight to take back control of my life from healthcare and live on my own terms.

As I continued post-training, the responsibilities and pressure grew, and the goal was to get my salary (which I found out later was grossly underpaid, but I digress), feed my growing family, and try not to severely harm any child I was caring for in the process. 

There was a joy but also a lot of pain due to overwork, lack of autonomy in my own life and feelings of overwhelm. I would smile on the outside and share superficial pleasantries but found myself becoming more isolated because, as a doctor, I was privileged. I should be grateful & happy not complaining.

By 2018, 14 years after completing medical school, I had to tell my boss that I was indeed suffering- not because the pain was unbearable but because I was failing miserably at hiding it and was terrified it would affect my patients.

I couldn’t help but think, “Was this “the end” that my friends and I had worked so hard for?”

That should have been the turning point, but it wasn’t. I had to develop a chronic disease, lose the ability to walk, get rejected for a promotion, and be asked to risk my life and see patients during a pandemic, as an immunocompromised person. 

Only then did I leave my good-paying job.

I know I’m hard-headed but God literally had to use Jonah-esque techniques on me. I’m eternally grateful that I didn’t have to get swallowed by a fish. 

Now in my 40s, as an entrepreneur who has her good and bad days, I find myself fighting back and trying to master the things that I’ve seen secure people do, like creating boundaries, saying no, or being ok with good enough.  

So, when I get asked to speak and encourage others to go into medicine, especially Black youth, I am conflicted. I think about what I went through and wonder if I want to go through it again. 

I’ve realized that it isn’t an "either-or" but a "both-and"

• I can encourage and be honest about what they may- okay- they will face.

• I can tell them about the exciting day-to-day experiences and the general anxiety and overwhelm I experienced having patients’ lives in my hands.

• I can share that I loved clinical care and decided to no longer work directly with patients, so I could spend more time building better health systems and supporting clinicians. 

So, most of the time, I do speak and I share. But I share the truth. I share it with love, anxiety, boldness, fear and pride.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this tension and mixed emotions. Yet I hope we each figure out our own way to support the next generation of Black & brown clinicians, without endangering them.

My solution has been to share transparently, with the hope that all the young people I speak with are fully informed about the journey they are deciding to undertake.

For my fellow Black girls who do decide to move forward after I speak with them, I hope I motivate them to not just enter this “burning house” of healthcare but instead disrupt and dismantle it.

In doing so, I believe they can rebuild it to finally deliver the justice in healthcare that both our patients and our colleagues so desperately need.