The Biggest Failure of My Life

It has taken me months to settle into the loss of my mother.

Death brings us face to face with a truth we often avoid: life is not permanent. We all have an expiration date. And no matter how much we believe we are prepared for the death of a loved one, I don’t think we ever truly are.

In the quiet moments, I replay the chain of events over and over again. I ask myself the questions that haunt many of us in medicine—but feel heavier when the patient is your own mother.

Could I have made a difference?

As a physician?

As a dermatologist?

As her daughter?

When I cried, the tears were not only from loss. They were tears of failure—at least in my own eyes. Tears of a physician who could not stop a disease that should have been simple to manage. Tears of “if only.”

If only I had made the diagnosis earlier.

If only I had slowed down.

If only I had taken time out of my busy life.

Maybe I could have changed the outcome. Maybe I could have prevented the recurrence. Maybe I could have stopped the spread.

And then there are the questions that have no answers.

Why my mom?

Why the most aggressive squamous cell carcinoma I have ever seen—without risk factors?

Why my field?

Why didn’t I biopsy sooner?

I have asked myself if this was a cruel twist of fate, a message from God, or simply the randomness of life colliding with a broken medical system.

The chain of events that followed was eye-opening. Not just medically—but systemically. A glimpse into how fragmented, impersonal, and limited care can feel when you are no longer the doctor, but the daughter.

Did I fail her?

As a daughter?

As a physician?

As a dermatologist?

Grief plays tricks on your mind. It rewrites the past and convinces you that certainty once existed where it never did.

In the end, I don’t have the answers.

All I know is that I tried.

I remember looking into the eyes of the young vascular surgeon as he told me my mother was gone—that there was nothing they could do. I felt anger rise instantly.

You couldn’t do anything? Or you wouldn’t do anything?

It was a question I had already asked myself earlier in her treatment with another physician who hadn’t been particularly helpful.

As physicians, we take an oath. Somewhere along the way—amid productivity metrics, schedules, and burnout—it’s easy to forget why we chose this profession in the first place.

Remember why you became a physician.

Treat every patient like they are your own mother.

As I continue to grieve, I remind myself that there is no “right” way to move through loss. I miss her terribly. And even through the pain, I know this:

She made me a better daughter.

She made me a better physician.

She made me a stronger woman.

And perhaps that is not failure at all.