The Last Role I’ll Ever Play

The Essential Self - week 4 June book club

I’ve been a lot of things: daughter of immigrants, dutiful student, grief survivor, sarcastic clinician, reluctant caregiver, professional chart-finisher, and unofficial emotional support human for both teens and geriatrics.

But roles are costumes. And some of mine don’t fit anymore.

You start out thinking they’ll help—keep you safe, give you purpose, maybe even earn you love. So you wear them. Long white coat. Stoic daughter. Competent colleague. You perform. You provide. You disappear beneath the doing.

And then one day, you look up and think: I don’t recognize the person signing these prescriptions.

So you start to peel things back.

Not all at once. One boundary here. One refusal there. You stop answering emails after 8 p.m. You let your mother fold the laundry wrong. You skip the meeting that could’ve been a spreadsheet. You stop performing competence and start telling the truth.

Here’s what remains:

I’m someone who still misses her father like it just happened.

I’m someone who loves her mother fiercely but sometimes resents the weight of that love.

I’m someone who plays harp like a banjo and banjo like a harp because normal has never interested me.

I’m someone who gets overwhelmed in crowded rooms but can sit quietly with a dying patient for hours.

I’m not a brand. I’m not a role. I’m not a “strong woman”™.

I’m Gwen. Still a doctor. Still angry. Still tired. Still here.

When you let go of the roles, what you’re left with is something raw. Something tender. But it’s real. It breathes differently. It doesn’t need applause.

Just space.

And maybe a good cup of coffee. Cold, of course.

- Doctor Gwen