Beyond crazy socks: a doctor’s mental health journey

In medicine, we’re good at showing up to do the work no matter what. But we’re far less skilled at saying, “I’m not okay.”

This is me, smiling. Clean-shaven. Early 30s. The photo on my hospital ID badge — the one I clipped to my shirt every day. I looked like I had it all together.

What you can’t see is that during the year that photo was taken, I tried to kill myself.

I don’t say that lightly. And while I’ve spoken about it once or twice, it’s not something I talk about often.

That year, I wasn’t working in a high pressure trauma unit or a chaotic emergency department. I was working in aged care — a job marked by slowness and routine, where each day blended quietly into the next. I spent my time talking to residents, helping with medications and filling out paperwork. On paper, it should have been one of the quietest, kindest years of my career.

But inside, I was quietly, invisibly falling apart.

In medicine, we’re good at showing up. No matter what’s happening in our personal lives — relationship breakdowns, exam failures, exhaustion — we turn up, we do the work, we tick the boxes.

But we’re far less skilled at saying, “I’m not okay.”

Even in that near-nursing home environment, where the pace was slow and the days blurred into one another, the silence was the same. I felt ashamed of how I was feeling. Ashamed that I couldn’t just push through. Ashamed that my mind — the very thing I relied on to care for others — had turned against me.

No one at work knew. I didn’t tell them. Not because they wouldn’t have cared, but because I didn’t know how to let the words out.

There’s this unspoken code in medicine:

You can be weary, but not weak.

You can be sad, but still seen as strong.

But falling apart? That’s not part of the script.

I didn’t have a single breakthrough moment. There was no dramatic turning point, no overnight recovery. What helped was much harder — and much more honest — than that.

It started with a phone call from a friend. An admission to hospital. Followed by years of taking tablets.

Not easy things. Not things I wanted to do. But things that kept me here.

Some days, I just waited the feelings out. Some days, I let them wash over me. And some days, I surprised myself by laughing at something dumb on TV.

Eventually, I started to believe I could survive. Not thrive. Just survive. That was enough.

There were times when I kept going only because I couldn’t bear to disappoint the people who loved me. Sometimes that guilt tethered me to life. Sometimes it was just the rhythm of a day — meals, movement, moments — that carried me through.

Looking back, it wasn’t strength that saved me. It was structure. Medication. Connection. And the decision — made over and over — to stay.

These days, it’s easier to talk about it. I have the words. I have the distance. I’ve survived.

But back then, I didn’t want to be seen. Not like that.

It’s tempting to believe that openness is the answer — that if we all just shared our stories, the stigma would lift and things would get better. But when you’re at your lowest, asking for help feels impossible. You don’t want to be a burden. You don’t think you’re worth saving. You can barely get through the day, let alone put your pain into words.

I think about that a lot now, especially around days like #CrazySocks4Docs. It’s one thing to wear the socks. It’s another thing entirely to reach out when you’re the one who’s struggling.

We say, “Check on your strong friends.” But maybe we also need to make it easier for them to whisper before they break.

This isn’t a story with a neat ending. I didn’t conquer anything. I didn’t come out stronger. I’m just here — still doing the work, still sometimes struggling, still sometimes helping others do the same.

But I know now how much it matters to be able to say, “I need help.”

And I know how much it matters to hear, “I’ve been there too.”

If you’re the one barely holding it together, I hope this makes it feel a little less lonely. If you’ve never felt that low, I hope it makes you look around a little more carefully.

We don’t need more slogans. We need more softness. More small check-ins. More moments of truth.

And we need to remember: the colleague who seems calm and competent might be carrying more than you can see.

I was.

I still have that ID badge.

It sits in a box with other relics from that time — pay slips, old rosters, the kind of paperwork you keep without knowing why. I used to look at it and feel ashamed. Now, I see it differently. It’s proof that I made it through a year I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

Recently, it was CrazySocks4Docs — a day to raise awareness about the mental health of doctors. It’s easy to join in with a colourful pair of socks. It’s harder to say, this was me.

But maybe, just maybe, sharing that might help someone else get through their own impossible year.

A/Prof Andrew Tagg is a Paediatric Emergency Physician at Western Health in Melbourne. He is Deputy Chair of the ACEM Workforce Wellbeing Network and a strong advocate for mental health in medicine.

The statements or opinions expressed in this article reflect the views of the authors and do not necessarily represent the official policy of the AMA, the MJA or InSight+ unless so stated. 

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If you or anyone you know needs help:

• Suicide Call Back Service on 1300 659 467
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• MensLine Australia on 1300 789 978