Trials and Trimphs

1st July 2026

A Doctors’ Day Reflection

A few days ago, one of our senior colleagues shared a simple image in our department’s group.

It was a light-hearted illustration of different kinds of radiologists.

There was the “hawk”—constantly vigilant, scanning every image with unwavering attention, afraid of missing even the smallest abnormality. There was the “ veteran” – seasoned expert who, through years of experience, could identify a diagnosis within moments. There were others too: each representing a different style of practising medicine.

Everyone smiled. Some recognised themselves. Some recognised their colleagues. However , one thought stayed with me.

Who celebrates the hawks?

Not just in radiology, but across medicine. The doctors who come in each day, do their part with utmost sincerity, quietly stay back at times, after everyone has left because one scan needs another look.

The doctor who calls the referring clinician one more time because something doesn’t quite fit.

The doctor who rereads, reviews the history , correlates before signing out a report because they would never want to take the risk of someone’s missed diagnosis.
Doctor who is tired of long ED shifts but carefully looks after ever patient with same care.

The doctor who doesn’t have thousands of followers. Who isn’t speaking at international conferences every month.

Who isn’t constantly visible, in meetings, at events or even those, who may have not received an award.

Yet every single day, they carry an extraordinary sense of responsibility. These doctors form the silent majority of our profession.

Medicine today celebrates excellence in many wonderful ways.

We recognise innovation.

We applaud research.

We honour leadership.

We celebrate those who build institutions, publish extensively, teach globally, and inspire millions.

And we absolutely should.

But somewhere along the way, visibility has slowly begun to resemble value /worth if a person.

The same familiar faces are invited repeatedly. The same names circulate through conferences. The same voices dominate conversations. Recognition naturally gravitates towards those who are seen.

But what about those whose contribution cannot be measured by applause? How do we celebrate the doctor whose careful vigilance prevented an error that never happened?

How do we reward the consultant who quietly takes ownership rather than passing responsibility?

How do we measure integrity?

Or conscientiousness?

Or the internal standards that make someone choose excellence even when nobody is watching?

Medicine has always depended on people whose motivation comes from within.

Not from awards. Not from public appreciation.

Simply from knowing that another human being has entrusted them with something priceless.

There is something profoundly beautiful about this quiet professionalism. It asks for no spotlight.

Yet it holds entire healthcare systems together.

Every hospital has these people.
They are dependable.

Reliable.

Thoughtful.

They rarely seek attention.

Their names may never trend.

Their work may never become a keynote lecture.

But departments often lean on them more than anyone realises.

This raises uncomfortable questions.

Do our workplaces have systems that recognise these invisible contributions?

Do annual appraisals truly capture conscientiousness?

Does staying back to ensure a patient receives timely treatment matter as much as another publication? Some might say , it’s their job, not a big deal. But doing that job with an intent to help centred at the core, with the sincerity that no one expected , and holding yourself accountable for your work completely “ is not defined in many job scopes.

Can the virtues of vigilance, ownership, humility, and consistency ever find a place in formal recognition?

Or do we only reward what is easily visible? Perhaps these qualities are difficult to quantify. But does that make them any less valuable?

There is another concern. Young doctors watch us. They observe what earns appreciation. They notice who gets invited. Who gets recognised. Consciously or unconsciously, they begin to shape their own aspirations around those signals.

If our systems reward visibility far more than quiet excellence, what message are we sending to the next generation? Will they continue to find meaning in meticulous patient care?

Or will they slowly learn that being noticed matters more than doing unnoticed work well?

Culture is not just built by mission statements. It is built by what we repeatedly acknowledge.

This is not an argument against celebrating excellence. It is an invitation to broaden our definition of excellence.

Because medicine needs both.

It needs the innovators who move the profession forward. And it needs the silent guardians who make sure patients remain safe every single day.

One creates the future. The other protects the present. Neither can exist without the other.

This Doctors’ Day, perhaps we could pause for a moment and look beyond the loudest voices.

Think of the colleague who always double-checks before leaving. The one who quietly helps juniors without even expecting credit.

The one whose reports are consistently thoughtful. The one who takes ownership without being asked.

The one who believes that if even one patient benefits from those extra few minutes, they were worth giving.

They may never stand on a stage. But every day, they stand beside patients.

And perhaps that is the highest honour medicine can offer.

To every doctor whose work often goes unseen, whose dedication is rarely applauded, and whose integrity is guided not by recognition but by responsibility—

Thank you.
From the bottom of my heart

Today and every day, we celebrate you.

– Trishna Sumer