The Burnout
By the summer of 2022, I had served as Medical Superintendent for nearly thirteen years. My predecessor had held the post for a decade; I had surpassed him in time, if not in patience. But calendars mattered less than the persistent heaviness in my gut. I was tired in a way that sleep did not cure.
Administration had once energised me. I enjoyed the complexity—budgets, people, crises that demanded quick judgement. Over time, that energy thinned. I found myself losing touch with the two things that had brought me to Sevagram in the first place: patients and students. To patients, I was no longer the physician they sought out; I was the official who was “never available” in the OPD.
My wife Bhavana noticed it first.
“These days our colleagues no longer smile in the hospital corridors. Many simply look away.”
She was right.
The daily friction of administration—saying no to colleagues, managing expectations, firefighting without pause—had hardened me. I could feel cynicism seeping in, quietly, like a leak in a boat that still appears seaworthy.
But it wasn’t only personal fatigue. The institution itself seemed to be drifting. Leadership structures were aging, succession planning remained vague, and decision-making slowed. Outside Sevagram, the world of medical education was moving fast. New institutions offered younger faculty clearer paths and greater autonomy. We were holding our ground—but no longer stretching ourselves.
The numbers reflected this stasis. Admissions and outpatient visits rose modestly over a decade, but not enough to suggest renewal. The hospital was not failing. It was stagnating. Institutions rarely collapse overnight; they decline one deferred decision at a time.
Around this period, I came across a line by Morgan Housel that struck with the force of a diagnosis:
“Nothing diminishes past success like overstaying your welcome.”
I recognised myself in that sentence. I had played my innings. Staying on would not solve deeper structural problems. It might even delay their resolution.
Months passed. Conversations with management were cordial but circular. I was reassured that I was “irreplaceable”—a word that often means “convenient.” My resolve hardened. This time, I would not negotiate with myself.
On 4 January 2023, I wrote formally to step down.
I did not argue my case at length. I stated simply that the cumulative weight of administration had begun to erode my peace and purpose, and that my family—wisely—insisted that health come before titles. I asked to be relieved within days, not months.
I quoted Vijay Merchant’s old advice: retire when people ask why, not when they ask why not.
Leaving was not easy. But staying would have been harder.
Stepping down felt less like retreat and more like stewardship. It allowed the institution the chance to renew itself—and allowed me to return to what had first given my professional life meaning.