The article below reflects the personal opinions of the author(s) and does not reflect the views or opinions of the Perspectives editors or committee, or the National Society of Genetic Counselors (NSGC).
Do you remember playing with a plasma ball when you were a kid? Those balls of blue electricity that follow your fingers as you touch them? You might remember feeling like you were going to receive a shock, but really it just felt like a little tingle — a tiny current of electricity dissipating through your body. Having a hypomanic episode feels like that for me, except the sparks are buzzing through my whole body and I feel invincible. I can accomplish everything and anything.
I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder in 2022, just before my 30th birthday. Before that, I thought I was just a high achiever who dealt with extreme depression. The field of genetic counseling tends to attract high achievers, so I thought it would be perfect for me. The profession is full of individuals who like to be at the forefront of advances. It seems like so many of us are always going above and beyond to prove ourselves — even just to prove that we are valuable assets to our hospital systems, companies, and even to other genetics professionals. It’s easy to hide the bad parts of hypomania under the guise of productivity and always going above and beyond. Often, it feels like that is the expectation in our field: We always have to do more.
In 2023, I went through the despair of a depressive episode that I hadn’t felt since undergrad. When I’m having a depressive episode, the electric sparks under my skin are replaced by sludge. I feel like I’m hauling around a weighted blanket. I am a reproductive genetic counselor and so many of my days already feel so heavy. Don’t get me wrong — I love the work I do. But it can also be devastating, exhausting and frustrating.
I was feeling the stress of burnout at a job in which I felt undervalued and overworked. We were constantly understaffed due to high turnover. I spent every day putting all of my emotional energy into my patient care, becoming susceptible to the compassion fatigue for which genetic counselors are at a high risk. The work I loved was becoming something I dreaded. I started having “Sunday Scaries” in the form of panic attacks. I had to force myself to be there for my patients at the sacrifice of my own health. Some days, I could barely get out of bed, but I still showed up. I did not feel that I was in a position to ask for help; I was worried about possible retaliation or scrutiny if I shared my mental health struggle. Even if an institution has a policy against this type of discrimination, it’s still there — it’s pervasive in our society.
And still I felt like I had to do more: always signing up for the next project and always taking time to help my colleagues, staying late to call out results, and sacrificing boundaries. I just didn’t have the faux energy provided by hypomania to help me out.
By the end of 2023 and into early 2024, I had to either make a big change or burn out completely. I was lucky enough to be able to land a new job in the same specialty, in the same location, which I know is especially difficult in the genetic counseling job market today. I finally started getting out of my depression. I made some medication changes, gained some hope — and began the self-defeating cycle again of feeling high and excited and wanting to dive into every opportunity to prove myself.
Luckily, I feel far more supported. I can be open with my coworkers and my supervisor about things I’m going through in my life. But I’ll be honest: I still feel shy and anxious about sharing. Writing this article feels excruciatingly vulnerable and even in this environment, I worry about how I’ll be perceived. I still feel the push to constantly do more; that’s the expectation even if it isn’t in my job description.
I know this feeling isn’t unique to me; I know plenty of genetic counselors who start to get their self-worth from their job and the work that they do. There are so many of us who feel like part of our identity is “Genetic Counselor.” If you’re reading this, I’d like to remind you that as much as our work is important, we’re all so much more than our job. It’s okay to decline to do more. It’s okay to say “no, I can’t do this.” It’s okay to ask for help. If you feel comfortable, it’s okay to talk about your mental health, and it can make things so much easier.
Photo by Des Récits on Unsplash
Chloe Barnett, MS, LGC (she/her) is a queer, reproductive genetic counselor based in Minnesota. She graduated from the University of Cincinnati program in 2020 and has been involved in mutliple leadership positions, including working on the Perspectives Editorial Committee, and sitting as vice chair of the Minnesota Genetic Counselors Association.