Shadows in the Operating Room: A Reflection on Workplace Bullying, Harassment, and Psychological Injury: One trainee’s journey through discrimination, silence, and rediscovery of hope

There are wounds that do not show on the skin, yet ache all the more deeply. In the hallowed halls of a hospital, where compassion and healing ought to reign, I found myself swept into the dark undercurrents of bullying, harassment, and prejudice. My surgical trainee badge, so hard-earned, hung heavy—less a mark of belonging, more a silent target.

As a psychiatrist today, I carry both professional understanding and the lived scars of workplace injury. But it began years ago, when I first stepped into surgical training. My qualifications, painstakingly obtained from the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh, were met not with respect but with dismissive glances and thinly veiled skepticism. I was not trained in Australia, and for some, that single fact eclipsed all my dedication and skill.

It started subtly—a joke left hanging in the staffroom, a knowing look exchanged after I spoke, my name absent from the list of assistances. The message seeped in: I was not worthy. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken rules, and every day felt like walking an invisible tightrope, the threat of humiliation or exclusion ever-present. My world began to shrink. Conversations became whispers that quieted as I entered. I was surrounded by people, yet felt alone. My voice faltered. No one seemed to listen.

The relentless barrage wore at me. Once confident, I became hesitant, second-guessing even routine decisions. Nights were restless—haunted by replayed interactions, by doubts that gnawed. Anxiety crept in, insidious and unyielding. The joy I once felt in medicine dimmed, replaced by dread at each dawn. There were mornings when pulling myself from bed felt Herculean; evenings when I questioned if I should continue at all. I wondered if I was imagining it, if perhaps I truly did not belong.

Isolation is the quietest, cruelest companion. In the midst of bustling wards and busy theatres, I felt caged by silence. The world pressed in, constraining my hopes and dreams. Even when I reached out, my concerns were brushed aside—dismissed as the complaints of someone “not tough enough” for the job. That erasure stung more than words.

It was only through a handful of friends—people who saw me, who believed me—that I found the strength to keep going. Their support was a lifeline, proof that the problem was not my worth, but the culture itself. Still, the scars remained.

Years later, psychiatry called to me not just as a specialty, but as a sanctuary. Here, the value of listening—truly listening—became clear. I learned what a healthy workplace could be, what respect and dignity looked like when given freely. Most of all, I understood how deeply psychological injury can wound, how it is so often invisible, and how essential it is to acknowledge its reality.

Workplace psychological injury is real. It is the shadow after a cruel remark, the ache after another day of being unheard, the grinding down of self-worth by repeated acts of exclusion. It often goes unseen because it leaves no physical mark; it is minimized, denied, hidden out of shame or fear. But its effects are profound—robbing individuals of confidence, joy, and sometimes, the will to continue.

If my experience has taught me anything, it is the necessity of compassion—of noticing those who have fallen silent, of standing with those who feel alone. The work of healing is not just in treating bodies, but in tending to spirits. I am resolved to be an advocate for those who come after me, to listen with empathy, to challenge injustice where I see it, and to remind every trainee, every colleague, that they are seen and valued.

To anyone enduring workplace bullying or harassment: you are not alone. Your experience is real, your pain valid. There is hope beyond the walls of silence, and together, we can build workplaces where dignity and kindness become the universal language.