Medical Professionals and caregivers tend to be horrible people

The second you read that, you probably thought, “Okay, that’s a bit much.” Maybe your brain even threw up a quick “Not all caregivers!” in defense.

Let me stop you right there.

I’m not some outsider trashing people who work in healthcare or care for family at home. I was you. I spent twenty years in scrubs. I’ve got the coins, commendations, yearly proficiencies, and shiny pins to prove I was one of the “good ones.” I was the dependable one. The strong one. The “we can always count on you” one.

And then, one day, I realized what the role had actually turned me into.

Here’s the twist most people miss: When I say Medical Professionals and caregivers tend to be horrible people, I’m not talking about being horrible to your patients, residents, or loved ones. I’m talking about being absolutely, consistently, relentlessly horrible to yourself.

And that’s the part that quietly poisons everything else.

What I actually mean when I say “horrible people”

You want to hear some dark humor? Talk to a caregiver who’s been doing this long enough. They’ll joke about not peeing for twelve hours. They’ll shrug off not sleeping for days, eating like trash, never sitting down, never stopping.

They’ll laugh… because if they didn’t, they’d break.

Most of them will never say this part out loud, because HR exists. Professional standards exist. Judgmental coworkers exist. The internet exists.

I don’t have to worry about any of that now. So I can say it for all of us:

Medical Professionals and caregivers tend to be horrible people because we treat ourselves like trash and call it “care.” We call it dedication. We call it love. But if you treated another human being the way you treat yourself, we would all agree it was abuse. So before you log off, clutch your pearls, or rage-comment, walk through this with me and see if any of it sounds uncomfortably familiar.

How you slowly become horrible to yourself (and why it spills onto everyone else)

You don’t take care of yourself. Ever. You act like that’s noble. Sleep becomes optional. Real food is a rumor. You inhale whatever you can grab over a sink, in a hallway, or in your car between stops.

You run on caffeine, resentment, adrenaline, and whatever spite is left in the tank. You drag your body sick, injured, grieving, exhausted, and you call it “showing up.” You’ve cried in the shower. You’ve cried in the car. You’ve wiped your face, fixed your mask, put on the filters, and walked in like nothing happened.

You keep watch over everyone else’s meds, appointments, vitals, moods. Meanwhile your own blood pressure, your own sleep, your own mental health are circling the drain. And here’s the brutal truth: That doesn’t make you noble.That makes you dangerous.

Because a person who is half-dead inside cannot show up at 100% for anyone. The exhaustion, the quiet rage, the numbness leak into everything. The eye-rolls. The sharp answers. The dark jokes. The way your empathy gets thin around the edges.

Someone who is horrible to themselves cannot consistently be gentle to others. You just don’t have the capacity.

You brag about things that, if we were being honest, sound more like self-harm than dedication.

You go ten hours without peeing. You stay awake for thirty-six. You eat standing up like a raccoon at a dumpster. You give your body away in tiny pieces and call that “Tuesday.” The rest of the world would call that slow suicide with witnesses. You call it caring.

You’re “the strong one,” “the dependable one,” “the one who never drops the ball.” And every time your body or mind whispers, “Please, help me,” you answer with, “Later. They need me more.”

That isn’t sacrifice anymore. That’s bleeding out in slow motion.

And people who are bleeding out don’t become sweeter. They become sharp. Controlling. Resentful as hell. You amputate the soft parts of yourself just to keep going.

Feelings take time. Time is the one thing you gave away years ago. So you cut feelings out instead.

Your laughter, your weirdness, your sex drive, your creativity, your ability to cry at normal things all get wrapped up and shoved into some attic in your head labeled “Later, when things calm down.”

Spoiler: they never calm down. So instead of feeling, you file. You chart. You lift. You drive. You clean. You manage meds. You check vitals. You pack appointments into days that already don’t fit.

You didn’t suddenly turn cruel. You turned efficient.

But efficiency with no softness feels like cruelty to the people on the receiving end. They feel managed, not loved. They feel handled, not held. You hide inside other people’s emergencies so you don’t have to face your own. It’s easier to focus on the person’s pain you're caring for, your parent’s decline, your partner’s diagnosis than it is to deal with your own crap. Your own trauma. Your own marriage falling apart. Your own body screaming at you. Your own depression creeping in.

So you decide everyone else’s needs are more urgent than your own. Forever. That isn’t sainthood. That’s avoidance with great PR. You train everyone around you to treat you like a 24/7 vending machine for care. Push a button, get what they need. You make yourself available at all times, for all things. And then, when they believe you, when they act like you’re always available, you resent them for it.

You don’t ask for help until it’s so late it feels like begging. You don’t say “I’m drowning” when you first feel the water rise. You wait until it’s over your head. You fantasize about a car accident bad enough to hospitalize you, but not kill you. You sit in the parking lot hoping the building catches fire. You stare at the door and your stomach flips like you’re about to walk into a firing squad.

The thing you once felt called to do now tastes like poison in your mouth. By that point, depression isn’t just a bad day—it has claws. Anxiety isn’t just butterflies—it’s a full-time job. Thoughts about not waking up tomorrow slide into your brain like they belong there. And you still show up, smile, clock in, and act like it’s all fine.

If the ones you care for told you these thoughts, you’d be on the phone getting them help. When it’s you, you say, “I’m just tired,” and keep walking. You wear the mask so long you forget what your real face looks like.

You’ve said “I’m fine” so often that it might as well be your legal name. At home, at work, at church, at school events, with friends you put on whatever version of you people expect: The grateful one. The strong one. The selfless one. The one who doesn’t need anything. You swallow anger, choke down grief, ignore fear. You fold up your own needs so small they start to look imaginary.

The parts of you that you actually like—your sense of humor, your curiosity, your softness get shoved into storage so the “caregiver persona” can run the show.

And after a while, people don’t feel loved by you. They feel managed. They don’t get you, they get “the role.” That’s when you start to feel like a horrible person on the inside, even if no one has said it out loud yet. You burn out and keep going like burnout is just part of the role. Most people hit burnout and stop.

You hit burnout and pick up an extra shift.

You normalize crying in the shower, snapping at your kids, zoning out when someone tells you they’re in pain, dreaming about not waking up—and then clocking in like nothing happened.

You sit with someone else’s parent while your own kid blows out birthday candles without you. You help someone else’s spouse to the bathroom while your own partner eats dinner alone with the TV. You hold a stranger’s hand through the night while your people fall asleep wondering if you even remember what your home looks like in daylight.

You call it duty. You call it responsibility. You call it “someone has to.”

But if we stripped away the explanations, what it looks like is this: you sacrifice your own life piece by piece and hope someone pins a nice word to your chest for it. A saint to strangers. A ghost to your own family. That’s not just sad. That’s horrible. And the fallout hits everyone around you.

And the wild thing? Society claps for it. They call it heroism. They call it “heart.” They post “thank you, healthcare heroes” while the people behind the badges and stethoscopes and home pill organizers are quietly falling apart.

This isn’t just a feeling—the numbers are brutal

If you think this is just me being dramatic, you don’t have to take my word for it.

Studies show 40%–70% of family caregivers report significant symptoms of depression, and many meet full criteria for major depression. Caregiver+1

Caregivers are more likely than non-caregivers to report poor health across multiple indicators, from sleep and stress to chronic conditions. CDC+1

On the professional side, some reports show around three-quarters of healthcare workers struggling with burnout, and increased suicide risk among nurses and support staff compared with non–healthcare workers. Dr. Lorna Breen Heroes Foundation+2Mailman School of Public Health+2

If you want a rabbit hole that’ll wreck your mood in five minutes, go look up “caregiver burnout statistics” or “healthcare worker suicide rates.” It’s not a vibe. It’s a crisis.

Here’s one solid, straight-talking resource if you’re curious: Cleveland Clinic: Caregiver Burnout Cleveland Clinic

This isn’t “in your head.” This is how the job, the expectations, and the culture chew people up.

So what now, you self-diagnosed horrible person?

Let’s circle back.Am I saying you’re horrible to the people you take care of, your parents, your partner, your kid?

No. In fact, many of you are probably showing up better than most people ever could. You’re doing things other people flat-out refuse to do. You are holding hands, emptying bedpans, turning bodies, advocating, staying up, catching things that would otherwise be missed. You’re doing something bigger than yourself.

What I am saying is this:

You’re horrible to yourself. You treat yourself like a machine and then feel shocked when you start malfunctioning. And when you do that long enough, it changes how you show up for everyone else, whether you mean for it to or not.

So now what?

No, I’m not telling you to do what I did, drop the scrubs, grind your badge into dust, and say done. That was my story. That doesn’t have to be yours.

What I am telling you is this:

You are the most important person you will ever be responsible for.

Not your patient. Not your parent. Not your partner. Not your kid.

You.

Because if you fall apart, everything you’re holding up comes down with you.

Self-care for you is not bath bombs and inspirational quote wallpaper. It might look like:

• Saying “no” and not giving a ten-paragraph apology.

• Taking the damn day off when you’re sick instead of “powering through.”

• Letting someone else cover a shift or appointment instead of assuming you’re the only competent human alive.

• Going to therapy and telling the truth instead of joking your trauma away.

• Leaving a job, a role, or a setup that is actively destroying your body and mind.

I didn’t leave the profession because I was lazy or selfish. I left because the profession finished what it started. I went from burnt out to broken. I’d pull into the parking lot on time, sit there in my car, and still walk in late because my legs didn’t want to move. I started snapping at coworkers. I watched them quietly pick up my slack. I became the shell I’m describing to you.

Now I’m just some dude writing stories and songs about it, and for the first time in a long time, my body doesn’t ache the same way. My thoughts aren’t so dark. This year, I had Thanksgiving with my family instead of eating out of a Styrofoam box with my coworkers. Santa Claus is showing up on Christmas Day this year—on time—not a few days early with some made-up story so I could be there before another shift. I make it to school events. I’m more the dad my kids need, and the dad I always wanted to be. And I get to be around the house and annoy my wife properly. (I truly believe that’s my reason for being put on this earth.)

So yeah, Medical Professionals and caregivers tend to be horrible people, and I genuinely thank you for being stronger at it than I was. Because yeah, someone has to do it, and I’m honestly grateful for the ones who keep showing up. But learn from my mistake: you can’t keep choosing everyone and everything else over your own humanity without paying for it. If you do, all that’s left to give is whatever’s bitter, numb, or sharp.

If that hits you in the gut, good. It should. It means the part of you that still cares about you is still alive. The only way out of being “horrible” is admitting what this role has turned you into, and then deciding, on purpose, to stop treating yourself like trash.

FAQs for Medical Professionals and caregivers who see themselves in this

1. Am I really “horrible” if I’m just trying my best?
   You’re not evil. You’re not broken beyond repair. “Horrible” here means you’re treating yourself in ways you’d never allow for someone you care about. It’s a wake-up call, not a life sentence.

2. Is it normal to fantasize about getting hurt just to get a break?
   More common than anyone wants to admit. It’s a huge red flag for burnout and depression, not a sign you’re weak or dramatic. It means your body and mind are begging for rest.

3. How do I start taking care of myself without feeling guilty?
   You won’t start without guilt. You do it anyway. Remember: rested you gives better care than destroyed you. You’re not stealing from anyone by taking care of yourself—you’re investing in everyone who depends on you.

4. I can’t quit. I can’t step back. What can I realistically do?
   Maybe you can’t leave right now. But you can make micro-adjustments: say “no” to extra, take the break you’re entitled to, ask for coverage, tell your doctor the truth, schedule one thing a week that’s just for you. Tiny acts are still acts.

5. What if my family doesn’t understand?
   Honestly, they might not. But they already feel the fallout of your burnout—your absence, your exhaustion, your short fuse. Setting boundaries might upset them short-term, but it protects the relationship long-term.

6. How do I know if it’s time to walk away completely?
   When the idea of going in makes you nauseous, when you feel nothing where you used to feel care, when intrusive thoughts about death feel casual, when your body is screaming and you keep ignoring it—that’s past red flag territory. That’s “this role might kill me if I don’t change something” territory.

Closing thoughts you probably won’t find on a hospital poster

I wish I could wrap this up with a neat, hopeful bow and say, “Help is coming. The system is changing. Just hang on.” But you and I both know that’s not the world we’re living in today. The nursing shortage is real. The system is overloaded. Family caregivers are drowning. No one is rolling in with a cape to fix it all.

But here’s what I do believe:

The only way the person you care for gets better care is if you stop being horrible to yourself.

Better communication, stronger boundaries, honest conversations about capacity, support, respite, real mental health help—that’s the boring, unsexy stuff that actually changes quality of life for everyone involved.

Family caregivers and Medical Professionals get sainted in public. But behind closed doors? There’s resentment. Guilt. Rage. Numbness. Collapse.

“Horrible people” in this context are often just good people running on empty in a world that rewards self-destruction and calls it love.

Intent doesn’t erase impact. And impact starts with how you treat yourself.

If you’re the one with the badge, the stethoscope, the pillbox, the keys, the body in your hands—I’m not telling you to do what I did and nuke your whole career.

I’m telling you this: If you don’t start caring for yourself on purpose, this role will finish what it started.You deserve better than that. And the people you care for do too.

 I hope you, your family, and your person are happy, healthy, loved, and safe. And remember — if a clown like me can do it, you’ll be fine (if not better).

Disclaimer: I am not writing this from the perspective of a medical professional. The information in this article is for general caregiver support and educational purposes only. It should not be taken as medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult a qualified healthcare provider with questions about your loved one’s health or recovery.

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