Those of us who are lucky have treatable worries: cataract surgery, a neighbor’s renovation, let’s not even mention our weight. Other worries are more serious: deteriorating friendships, deteriorating health, deteriorating faith.
It takes no pleasure in me to confess that some of us worry about achievement and recognition, or lack thereof. A deep, personal river flows from which the happiest stand on the shore while the rest of us, especially those raised with expectations, row along at different speeds, sometimes well beyond the age of rationality in the water. Raise your hand if you recognize this. I’ll count with the other hand.
This reminds me of a story my psychiatric mentor told me many years ago. He was young and ambitious then, competing with similarly ambitious colleagues for subtle, unseen recognition. The professional ranks were high and the competition fierce. Maybe they are even higher and fiercer now. Psychiatrists understand the human condition and its frailties, yet we are at the mercy of our own power. We want to be known and respected, just like anyone else.
My boss was attending a multi-day academic conference on a cutting-edge topic, primarily to hear a talk by a particularly well-known speaker, an expert in a narrow field of research and a mentor to those who read, admired, and emulated him.
He was sitting next to a stranger in a hotel ballroom. While they waited for the conference to begin, they engaged in polite conversation with people they would never see again. They took notes together during the morning lecture, had coffee together in the hotel lobby during the break, and became anonymous friends. The boss assumed they were both waiting for the same speaker.
The time came, and we were introduced by a conference moderator who, presumably, hopes to become famous someday, with the usual flattery and a lengthy recitation of resume highlights.
The great man stepped up to the podium.
At this point, my supervisor got dramatic as he told the story. He was enjoying this bit. The famous professor looked pale, unwell, overworked and exhausted. He looked exhausted and victimised. It was shocking to see him hunched over.
My boss leaned over to me respectfully and commented. This was the confidence our two new friends shared. It was the price of achievement that comes with summiting: years of effort, highly focused work, probably very long journeys and time away from family, obviously very long hours of self-care – all for someone else, for this audience. Here, in his pale face, was the price.
I wasn’t at the meeting, of course, but I heard what happened afterward. My boss tells it often. His colleague was looking down at her syllabus; she might have been circling an upcoming talk or forum or thinking about lunch. And then he made a comment about the terrible price that greatness demands of great people.
She looked up a bit.
“I’ve never heard of him,” she said.
Elisa Elie is a psychiatrist.
