Lorenzo Norris, MD

Regardless of the setting, one of the most frequently discussed topics in health care is imposter syndrome.

Imposter syndrome was first defined by Clance and Imes as an inability to internalize success, and the tendency to attribute success to external causes such as luck, error, or knowing the appropriate individual.¹ This definition is essential because most health care professionals have had a sense of doubt or questioned the full extent of their competencies in various situations. I would argue that this is normal and – within reason – helpful to the practice of medicine. The problem with true imposter syndrome is that the individual does not incorporate success in a way that builds healthy self-esteem and self-efficacy.² 

Imposter syndrome has a very nasty way of interacting with burnout. Studies have shown that imposter syndrome can be associated with high levels of emotional exhaustion at work.³ In my experience, this makes clinical sense. Professionals suffering from imposter syndrome can spend a great deal of time and energy trying to maintain a particular image.⁴ They are acting a part 24/7. Have you ever seriously tried to act? It’s arduous work. A friend once asked me to read a role for a play because “you’d be great; you’re a natural.” By the time I was done with rehearsal, I felt like I had run a 4-by-400-meter relay, by myself, in Victoria, Tex.

And any talk of imposter syndrome must include its running mate, perfectionism. These two conditions exist together so commonly it can be a bit of a chicken or egg question as to which came first.

Imposter syndrome, perfectionism, and burnout can form a deadly triad if not recognized and addressed quickly. In medicine, perfectionism can be a coping strategy that sets up unrelenting standards. Failure to meet unrelenting standards then serves as fuel and validation for imposter syndrome and emotional exhaustion. The consequences of this cycle going unchecked over a health care professional’s career are seismic and can include downstream effects ranging from depression to suicide.

Some readers will relate to this, while others will shrug their shoulders and say that this has never happened in their professional life. I get it. However, I would now ask if you have ever felt like an imposter in your personal life. I’ll make a cup of tea and wait for you to figure out precisely what is the boundary between your personal and professional life. Okay, all done? Great. Now I’ll give you some more time to sincerely reflect if any of the traits of imposter syndrome have described you at times in your personal life. Hmmm, interesting to think about, isn’t it?

I believe that health care professionals frequently use one credit card to pay off another, but the debt remains the same. So even if things are going well at work, we may have just shifted the debt to our personal lives. (At some point in the future, I’ll share my 10 greatest father fails to date to elucidate my point.)

In my work at the GW Resiliency and Well-Being Center, I’ve gravitated toward a few methods supported by evidence that help alleviate imposter syndrome symptoms and potentially serve as protective factors against the future development of imposter syndrome.⁴ These include but are not limited to:

• Keep a record of small personal success that is yours alone.
• Have a mentor to share failures with.
• Use personal reflection to examine what it means to successfully reach your goals and fulfill your purpose, not a relative value unit target.
• Share experiences with each other, so you know you’re not alone.

The last method is one of my favorites because it involves connecting to others and shining a light on our shared experiences and, coincidentally, our collective strengths. Once this collective strength is realized, the circumstances of that 4-by-400-meter relay change drastically. Be safe and well, everyone.

Lorenzo Norris, MD, is a psychiatrist and chief wellness officer for the George Washington University Medical Enterprise and serves as associate dean of student affairs and administration for the George Washington University School of Medicine and Health Sciences. A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

References

1. Clance PR, Imes SA. The imposter phenomenon in high achieving women: Dynamics and therapeutic intervention. Psychotherapy: Theory, Research & Practice. 1978;15(3): 241-7. doi: 10.1037/h0086006.

2. Thomas M, Bigatti S. Perfectionism, impostor phenomenon, and mental health in medicine: A literature review. Int J Med Educ. 2020 Sep 28;11:201-3. doi: 10.5116/ijme.5f54.c8f8.

3. Liu RQ et al. Impostorism and anxiety contribute to burnout among resident physicians. Med Teach. 2022 Jul;44(7):758-64. doi: 10.1080/0142159X.2022.2028751.

4. Gottlieb M et al. Impostor syndrome among physicians and physicians in training: A scoping review. Med Educ. 2020 Feb;54(2):116-24. doi: 10.1111/medu.13956.


 

Regardless of the setting, one of the most frequently discussed topics in health care is imposter syndrome.

Imposter syndrome was first defined by Clance and Imes as an inability to internalize success, and the tendency to attribute success to external causes such as luck, error, or knowing the appropriate individual.¹ This definition is essential because most health care professionals have had a sense of doubt or questioned the full extent of their competencies in various situations. I would argue that this is normal and – within reason – helpful to the practice of medicine. The problem with true imposter syndrome is that the individual does not incorporate success in a way that builds healthy self-esteem and self-efficacy.² 

Imposter syndrome has a very nasty way of interacting with burnout. Studies have shown that imposter syndrome can be associated with high levels of emotional exhaustion at work.³ In my experience, this makes clinical sense. Professionals suffering from imposter syndrome can spend a great deal of time and energy trying to maintain a particular image.⁴ They are acting a part 24/7. Have you ever seriously tried to act? It’s arduous work. A friend once asked me to read a role for a play because “you’d be great; you’re a natural.” By the time I was done with rehearsal, I felt like I had run a 4-by-400-meter relay, by myself, in Victoria, Tex.

And any talk of imposter syndrome must include its running mate, perfectionism. These two conditions exist together so commonly it can be a bit of a chicken or egg question as to which came first.

Imposter syndrome, perfectionism, and burnout can form a deadly triad if not recognized and addressed quickly. In medicine, perfectionism can be a coping strategy that sets up unrelenting standards. Failure to meet unrelenting standards then serves as fuel and validation for imposter syndrome and emotional exhaustion. The consequences of this cycle going unchecked over a health care professional’s career are seismic and can include downstream effects ranging from depression to suicide.

Some readers will relate to this, while others will shrug their shoulders and say that this has never happened in their professional life. I get it. However, I would now ask if you have ever felt like an imposter in your personal life. I’ll make a cup of tea and wait for you to figure out precisely what is the boundary between your personal and professional life. Okay, all done? Great. Now I’ll give you some more time to sincerely reflect if any of the traits of imposter syndrome have described you at times in your personal life. Hmmm, interesting to think about, isn’t it?

I believe that health care professionals frequently use one credit card to pay off another, but the debt remains the same. So even if things are going well at work, we may have just shifted the debt to our personal lives. (At some point in the future, I’ll share my 10 greatest father fails to date to elucidate my point.)

In my work at the GW Resiliency and Well-Being Center, I’ve gravitated toward a few methods supported by evidence that help alleviate imposter syndrome symptoms and potentially serve as protective factors against the future development of imposter syndrome.⁴ These include but are not limited to:

• Keep a record of small personal success that is yours alone.
• Have a mentor to share failures with.
• Use personal reflection to examine what it means to successfully reach your goals and fulfill your purpose, not a relative value unit target.
• Share experiences with each other, so you know you’re not alone.

The last method is one of my favorites because it involves connecting to others and shining a light on our shared experiences and, coincidentally, our collective strengths. Once this collective strength is realized, the circumstances of that 4-by-400-meter relay change drastically. Be safe and well, everyone.

Lorenzo Norris, MD, is a psychiatrist and chief wellness officer for the George Washington University Medical Enterprise and serves as associate dean of student affairs and administration for the George Washington University School of Medicine and Health Sciences. A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

References

1. Clance PR, Imes SA. The imposter phenomenon in high achieving women: Dynamics and therapeutic intervention. Psychotherapy: Theory, Research & Practice. 1978;15(3): 241-7. doi: 10.1037/h0086006.

2. Thomas M, Bigatti S. Perfectionism, impostor phenomenon, and mental health in medicine: A literature review. Int J Med Educ. 2020 Sep 28;11:201-3. doi: 10.5116/ijme.5f54.c8f8.

3. Liu RQ et al. Impostorism and anxiety contribute to burnout among resident physicians. Med Teach. 2022 Jul;44(7):758-64. doi: 10.1080/0142159X.2022.2028751.

4. Gottlieb M et al. Impostor syndrome among physicians and physicians in training: A scoping review. Med Educ. 2020 Feb;54(2):116-24. doi: 10.1111/medu.13956.


 

Regardless of the setting, one of the most frequently discussed topics in health care is imposter syndrome.

Imposter syndrome was first defined by Clance and Imes as an inability to internalize success, and the tendency to attribute success to external causes such as luck, error, or knowing the appropriate individual.¹ This definition is essential because most health care professionals have had a sense of doubt or questioned the full extent of their competencies in various situations. I would argue that this is normal and – within reason – helpful to the practice of medicine. The problem with true imposter syndrome is that the individual does not incorporate success in a way that builds healthy self-esteem and self-efficacy.² 

Imposter syndrome has a very nasty way of interacting with burnout. Studies have shown that imposter syndrome can be associated with high levels of emotional exhaustion at work.³ In my experience, this makes clinical sense. Professionals suffering from imposter syndrome can spend a great deal of time and energy trying to maintain a particular image.⁴ They are acting a part 24/7. Have you ever seriously tried to act? It’s arduous work. A friend once asked me to read a role for a play because “you’d be great; you’re a natural.” By the time I was done with rehearsal, I felt like I had run a 4-by-400-meter relay, by myself, in Victoria, Tex.

And any talk of imposter syndrome must include its running mate, perfectionism. These two conditions exist together so commonly it can be a bit of a chicken or egg question as to which came first.

Imposter syndrome, perfectionism, and burnout can form a deadly triad if not recognized and addressed quickly. In medicine, perfectionism can be a coping strategy that sets up unrelenting standards. Failure to meet unrelenting standards then serves as fuel and validation for imposter syndrome and emotional exhaustion. The consequences of this cycle going unchecked over a health care professional’s career are seismic and can include downstream effects ranging from depression to suicide.

Some readers will relate to this, while others will shrug their shoulders and say that this has never happened in their professional life. I get it. However, I would now ask if you have ever felt like an imposter in your personal life. I’ll make a cup of tea and wait for you to figure out precisely what is the boundary between your personal and professional life. Okay, all done? Great. Now I’ll give you some more time to sincerely reflect if any of the traits of imposter syndrome have described you at times in your personal life. Hmmm, interesting to think about, isn’t it?

I believe that health care professionals frequently use one credit card to pay off another, but the debt remains the same. So even if things are going well at work, we may have just shifted the debt to our personal lives. (At some point in the future, I’ll share my 10 greatest father fails to date to elucidate my point.)

In my work at the GW Resiliency and Well-Being Center, I’ve gravitated toward a few methods supported by evidence that help alleviate imposter syndrome symptoms and potentially serve as protective factors against the future development of imposter syndrome.⁴ These include but are not limited to:

• Keep a record of small personal success that is yours alone.
• Have a mentor to share failures with.
• Use personal reflection to examine what it means to successfully reach your goals and fulfill your purpose, not a relative value unit target.
• Share experiences with each other, so you know you’re not alone.

The last method is one of my favorites because it involves connecting to others and shining a light on our shared experiences and, coincidentally, our collective strengths. Once this collective strength is realized, the circumstances of that 4-by-400-meter relay change drastically. Be safe and well, everyone.

Lorenzo Norris, MD, is a psychiatrist and chief wellness officer for the George Washington University Medical Enterprise and serves as associate dean of student affairs and administration for the George Washington University School of Medicine and Health Sciences. A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

References

1. Clance PR, Imes SA. The imposter phenomenon in high achieving women: Dynamics and therapeutic intervention. Psychotherapy: Theory, Research & Practice. 1978;15(3): 241-7. doi: 10.1037/h0086006.

2. Thomas M, Bigatti S. Perfectionism, impostor phenomenon, and mental health in medicine: A literature review. Int J Med Educ. 2020 Sep 28;11:201-3. doi: 10.5116/ijme.5f54.c8f8.

3. Liu RQ et al. Impostorism and anxiety contribute to burnout among resident physicians. Med Teach. 2022 Jul;44(7):758-64. doi: 10.1080/0142159X.2022.2028751.

4. Gottlieb M et al. Impostor syndrome among physicians and physicians in training: A scoping review. Med Educ. 2020 Feb;54(2):116-24. doi: 10.1111/medu.13956.


 

In the age of COVID, what exactly does it mean to be optimistic? I get this question quite a bit from virtually everyone I meet in one form or another through my work with the George Washington Resiliency and Well-Being Center in Washington, D.C. Giving a lecture on resilience and staying positive can be a significant challenge. Especially when we wake up to the news that 1 of every 100 older Americans has died secondary to COVID. The mind doesn’t really know how to process this type of loss. It is hard to maintain any form of a positive attitude when you’re still struggling just to accept the magnitude of what humanity has experienced over the past 2 years.

In “Resilience: The Science of Mastering Life’s Greatest Challenges,” (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 2018), Steven M. Southwick, MD, and Dennis S. Charney, MD, identify 10 critical factors associated with very resilient individuals. The authors based their work on science, personal experience, and interviews of people who have literally been through hell and back. One of the critical factors they identified is optimism.
“Optimism ignites resilience, providing energy to power the other resilience factors. It facilitates an active and creative approach to coping with challenging situations.”

Dr. Southwick and Dr. Charney are a lot smarter than me and far more patient to weave all this data together into a coherent story about optimism. Sounds like a damn good factor to focus a lecture on in my book! Slight problem: In my experience, many health professionals are already expert optimists. They literally eat, sleep, and sincerely breathe this stuff. So if we are going to talk about optimism, then we need to discuss realistic optimism.

How does realistic optimism differ from, say, blind optimism? Dr. Southwick and Dr. Charney’s review of the literature points to three features worthy of highlighting.
 

Realistic vs. blind optimism: Take-home points

• In realistic optimism, we notice the negative but don’t stay engaged with it. Realistic optimists moved on from problems that were not solvable.
• Blind optimism can involve optimistic biases that affect self-deception or convincing oneself of desired beliefs without reality checks.
• Blind optimism can lead to underestimating risk, overestimating abilities, and inadequate preparation.

Growing up in northeast Ohio, I can absolutely embrace the concept of realistic optimism. It’s overcast in Cleveland 8 months out of the year. To hope for 3 sunny days in a row in April is genuinely a fools’ errand. So you learn over time, the sun will shine; you just have to at times wait 3-4 months for it to occur.

• “Once we get enough COVID-19 tests, things will improve.”
• “All we need to do is get vaccines, and then the new normal is right there.”
• “Once everyone gets the booster, then we got this thing beat.”

At this point, you could argue that I was engaged in blind optimism. I consider the above statements blind for a couple of reasons. They weren’t balanced (both positive and negative), didn’t have a clear definition of the outcome, and were more focused on external events I couldn’t control. These statements were the equivalent of wishes, and I don’t have a magic lamp with a genie, so I need to let go of my wishful thinking first. Let me rephrase that: I need to forcefully toss it into the sea of COVID variants and start figuring out how I’m going to tread water for another 6-12 months. So with this in mind, here are my initial thoughts on ways to navigate the next year of the pandemic:

• A multilayered form of protection gives me the best chance to survive the next 6 months of the pandemic.
• It will take time, but I’ll process the loss associated with a workplace that will never be the same.
• Until we have positivity test rates lower than 2% across the globe, COVID will remain a substantial disruption to humanity.
• I can’t bring back missed graduation or the first day of school, but I can share ways that I’ve countered and survived loneliness in my life with my children.

Okay, this is the starting point – hopefully not pessimistic, or blindly optimistic, just realistic. Now I can address other important topics, such as planning to rebuild my disappointing fantasy football team. I was No. 1 in our GW department of psychiatry fantasy football league until my star running back Derrick Henry went down. My residents will become attendings and still give me grief about this for many years to follow, and that is a very good thing.

Everyone be well and safe.

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs; associate professor, department of psychiatry, George Washington University; chief wellness officer, GW Hospital, GW Medical Faculty Associates, and the GW School of Medicine and Health Sciences (GWU Medical Enterprise), Washington. He has disclosed having no relevant financial relationships. A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

In the age of COVID, what exactly does it mean to be optimistic? I get this question quite a bit from virtually everyone I meet in one form or another through my work with the George Washington Resiliency and Well-Being Center in Washington, D.C. Giving a lecture on resilience and staying positive can be a significant challenge. Especially when we wake up to the news that 1 of every 100 older Americans has died secondary to COVID. The mind doesn’t really know how to process this type of loss. It is hard to maintain any form of a positive attitude when you’re still struggling just to accept the magnitude of what humanity has experienced over the past 2 years.

In “Resilience: The Science of Mastering Life’s Greatest Challenges,” (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 2018), Steven M. Southwick, MD, and Dennis S. Charney, MD, identify 10 critical factors associated with very resilient individuals. The authors based their work on science, personal experience, and interviews of people who have literally been through hell and back. One of the critical factors they identified is optimism.
“Optimism ignites resilience, providing energy to power the other resilience factors. It facilitates an active and creative approach to coping with challenging situations.”

Dr. Southwick and Dr. Charney are a lot smarter than me and far more patient to weave all this data together into a coherent story about optimism. Sounds like a damn good factor to focus a lecture on in my book! Slight problem: In my experience, many health professionals are already expert optimists. They literally eat, sleep, and sincerely breathe this stuff. So if we are going to talk about optimism, then we need to discuss realistic optimism.

How does realistic optimism differ from, say, blind optimism? Dr. Southwick and Dr. Charney’s review of the literature points to three features worthy of highlighting.
 

Realistic vs. blind optimism: Take-home points

• In realistic optimism, we notice the negative but don’t stay engaged with it. Realistic optimists moved on from problems that were not solvable.
• Blind optimism can involve optimistic biases that affect self-deception or convincing oneself of desired beliefs without reality checks.
• Blind optimism can lead to underestimating risk, overestimating abilities, and inadequate preparation.

Growing up in northeast Ohio, I can absolutely embrace the concept of realistic optimism. It’s overcast in Cleveland 8 months out of the year. To hope for 3 sunny days in a row in April is genuinely a fools’ errand. So you learn over time, the sun will shine; you just have to at times wait 3-4 months for it to occur.

• “Once we get enough COVID-19 tests, things will improve.”
• “All we need to do is get vaccines, and then the new normal is right there.”
• “Once everyone gets the booster, then we got this thing beat.”

At this point, you could argue that I was engaged in blind optimism. I consider the above statements blind for a couple of reasons. They weren’t balanced (both positive and negative), didn’t have a clear definition of the outcome, and were more focused on external events I couldn’t control. These statements were the equivalent of wishes, and I don’t have a magic lamp with a genie, so I need to let go of my wishful thinking first. Let me rephrase that: I need to forcefully toss it into the sea of COVID variants and start figuring out how I’m going to tread water for another 6-12 months. So with this in mind, here are my initial thoughts on ways to navigate the next year of the pandemic:

• A multilayered form of protection gives me the best chance to survive the next 6 months of the pandemic.
• It will take time, but I’ll process the loss associated with a workplace that will never be the same.
• Until we have positivity test rates lower than 2% across the globe, COVID will remain a substantial disruption to humanity.
• I can’t bring back missed graduation or the first day of school, but I can share ways that I’ve countered and survived loneliness in my life with my children.

Okay, this is the starting point – hopefully not pessimistic, or blindly optimistic, just realistic. Now I can address other important topics, such as planning to rebuild my disappointing fantasy football team. I was No. 1 in our GW department of psychiatry fantasy football league until my star running back Derrick Henry went down. My residents will become attendings and still give me grief about this for many years to follow, and that is a very good thing.

Everyone be well and safe.

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs; associate professor, department of psychiatry, George Washington University; chief wellness officer, GW Hospital, GW Medical Faculty Associates, and the GW School of Medicine and Health Sciences (GWU Medical Enterprise), Washington. He has disclosed having no relevant financial relationships. A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

In the age of COVID, what exactly does it mean to be optimistic? I get this question quite a bit from virtually everyone I meet in one form or another through my work with the George Washington Resiliency and Well-Being Center in Washington, D.C. Giving a lecture on resilience and staying positive can be a significant challenge. Especially when we wake up to the news that 1 of every 100 older Americans has died secondary to COVID. The mind doesn’t really know how to process this type of loss. It is hard to maintain any form of a positive attitude when you’re still struggling just to accept the magnitude of what humanity has experienced over the past 2 years.

In “Resilience: The Science of Mastering Life’s Greatest Challenges,” (Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 2018), Steven M. Southwick, MD, and Dennis S. Charney, MD, identify 10 critical factors associated with very resilient individuals. The authors based their work on science, personal experience, and interviews of people who have literally been through hell and back. One of the critical factors they identified is optimism.
“Optimism ignites resilience, providing energy to power the other resilience factors. It facilitates an active and creative approach to coping with challenging situations.”

Dr. Southwick and Dr. Charney are a lot smarter than me and far more patient to weave all this data together into a coherent story about optimism. Sounds like a damn good factor to focus a lecture on in my book! Slight problem: In my experience, many health professionals are already expert optimists. They literally eat, sleep, and sincerely breathe this stuff. So if we are going to talk about optimism, then we need to discuss realistic optimism.

How does realistic optimism differ from, say, blind optimism? Dr. Southwick and Dr. Charney’s review of the literature points to three features worthy of highlighting.
 

Realistic vs. blind optimism: Take-home points

• In realistic optimism, we notice the negative but don’t stay engaged with it. Realistic optimists moved on from problems that were not solvable.
• Blind optimism can involve optimistic biases that affect self-deception or convincing oneself of desired beliefs without reality checks.
• Blind optimism can lead to underestimating risk, overestimating abilities, and inadequate preparation.

Growing up in northeast Ohio, I can absolutely embrace the concept of realistic optimism. It’s overcast in Cleveland 8 months out of the year. To hope for 3 sunny days in a row in April is genuinely a fools’ errand. So you learn over time, the sun will shine; you just have to at times wait 3-4 months for it to occur.

• “Once we get enough COVID-19 tests, things will improve.”
• “All we need to do is get vaccines, and then the new normal is right there.”
• “Once everyone gets the booster, then we got this thing beat.”

At this point, you could argue that I was engaged in blind optimism. I consider the above statements blind for a couple of reasons. They weren’t balanced (both positive and negative), didn’t have a clear definition of the outcome, and were more focused on external events I couldn’t control. These statements were the equivalent of wishes, and I don’t have a magic lamp with a genie, so I need to let go of my wishful thinking first. Let me rephrase that: I need to forcefully toss it into the sea of COVID variants and start figuring out how I’m going to tread water for another 6-12 months. So with this in mind, here are my initial thoughts on ways to navigate the next year of the pandemic:

• A multilayered form of protection gives me the best chance to survive the next 6 months of the pandemic.
• It will take time, but I’ll process the loss associated with a workplace that will never be the same.
• Until we have positivity test rates lower than 2% across the globe, COVID will remain a substantial disruption to humanity.
• I can’t bring back missed graduation or the first day of school, but I can share ways that I’ve countered and survived loneliness in my life with my children.

Okay, this is the starting point – hopefully not pessimistic, or blindly optimistic, just realistic. Now I can address other important topics, such as planning to rebuild my disappointing fantasy football team. I was No. 1 in our GW department of psychiatry fantasy football league until my star running back Derrick Henry went down. My residents will become attendings and still give me grief about this for many years to follow, and that is a very good thing.

Everyone be well and safe.

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs; associate professor, department of psychiatry, George Washington University; chief wellness officer, GW Hospital, GW Medical Faculty Associates, and the GW School of Medicine and Health Sciences (GWU Medical Enterprise), Washington. He has disclosed having no relevant financial relationships. A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Depending on the data you’re looking at, 40%-60% of physicians are burned out.

Research studies and the eye test reveal the painfully obvious: Colleagues are tired, winded, spent, and at times way past burned out. People aren’t asking me if they’re burned out. They know they’re burned out; heck, they can even recite the Maslach burnout inventory, forward and backward, in a mask, or while completing a COVID quarantine. A fair share of people know the key steps to prevent burnout and promote recovery.

What I’m starting to see more of is, “Why should I even bother to recover from this? Why pick myself up again just to get another occupational stress injury (burnout, demoralization, moral injury, etc.)?” In other words, it’s not just simply about negating burnout; it’s about supporting and facilitating the motivation to work.

We’ve been through so much with COVID that it might be challenging to remember when you saw a truly engaged work environment. No doubt, we have outstanding professionals across medicine who answer the bell every day. However, if you’ve been looking closely, many teams/units have lost a bit of the zip and pep. The synergy and trust aren’t as smooth, and at noon, everyone counts the hours to the end of the shift.

You may be thinking, Well, of course, they are; we’re still amid a pandemic, and people have been through hell. Your observation would be correct, except I’ve personally seen some teams weather the pandemic storm and still remain engaged (some even more involved).

The No. 1 consult result for the GW Resiliency and Well-Being Center, where I work, has been on lectures for burnout. The R&WC has given so many of these lectures that my dreams take the form of a PowerPoint presentation. Overall the talks have gone very well. We’ve added skills sections on practices of whole-person care. We’ve blitzed the daylights out of restorative sleep, yet I know we are still searching for the correct narrative.

Motivated staff, faculty, and students will genuinely take in the information and follow the recommendations; however, they still struggle to find that drive and zest for work. Yes, moving from burnout to neutral is reasonable but likely won’t move the needle of your professional or personal life. We need to have the emotional energy and the clear desire to utilize that energy for a meaningful purpose.

Talking about burnout in specific ways is straightforward and, in my opinion, much easier than talking about engagement. Part of the challenge when trying to discuss engagement is that people can feel invalidated or that you’re telling them to be stoic. Or worse yet, that the problem of burnout primarily lies with them. It’s essential to recognize the role of an organizational factor in burnout (approximately 80%, depending on the study); still, even if you address burnout, people may not be miserable, but it doesn’t mean they will stay at their current job (please cue intro music for the Great Resignation).

Engagement models have existed for some time and certainly have gained much more attention in health care settings over the past 2 decades. Engagement can be described as having three components: dedication, vigor, and absorption. When a person is filling all three of these components over time, presto – you get the much-sought-after state of the supremely engaged professional.

These models definitely give us excellent starting points to approach engagement from a pre-COVID era. In COVID and beyond, I’m not sure how these models will stand up in a hybrid work environment, where autonomy and flexibility could be more valued than ever. Personally, COVID revealed some things I was missing in my work pre-COVID:

• Time to think and process. This was one of the great things about being a consultation-liaison psychiatrist; it was literally feast or famine.
• Doing what I’m talented at and really enjoy.
• Time is short, and I want to be more present in the life of my family.
• Growth and curiosity are vitally important to me. These have to be part of my daily ritual and practice.

The list above isn’t exhaustive, but I’ve found them to be my own personal recipe for being engaged. Over the next series of articles, I’m going to focus on engagement and factors related to key resilience. These articles will be informed by a front-line view from my colleagues, and hopefully start to separate the myth from reality on the subject of health professional engagement and resilience.

Everyone be safe and well!

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Depending on the data you’re looking at, 40%-60% of physicians are burned out.

Research studies and the eye test reveal the painfully obvious: Colleagues are tired, winded, spent, and at times way past burned out. People aren’t asking me if they’re burned out. They know they’re burned out; heck, they can even recite the Maslach burnout inventory, forward and backward, in a mask, or while completing a COVID quarantine. A fair share of people know the key steps to prevent burnout and promote recovery.

What I’m starting to see more of is, “Why should I even bother to recover from this? Why pick myself up again just to get another occupational stress injury (burnout, demoralization, moral injury, etc.)?” In other words, it’s not just simply about negating burnout; it’s about supporting and facilitating the motivation to work.

We’ve been through so much with COVID that it might be challenging to remember when you saw a truly engaged work environment. No doubt, we have outstanding professionals across medicine who answer the bell every day. However, if you’ve been looking closely, many teams/units have lost a bit of the zip and pep. The synergy and trust aren’t as smooth, and at noon, everyone counts the hours to the end of the shift.

You may be thinking, Well, of course, they are; we’re still amid a pandemic, and people have been through hell. Your observation would be correct, except I’ve personally seen some teams weather the pandemic storm and still remain engaged (some even more involved).

The No. 1 consult result for the GW Resiliency and Well-Being Center, where I work, has been on lectures for burnout. The R&WC has given so many of these lectures that my dreams take the form of a PowerPoint presentation. Overall the talks have gone very well. We’ve added skills sections on practices of whole-person care. We’ve blitzed the daylights out of restorative sleep, yet I know we are still searching for the correct narrative.

Motivated staff, faculty, and students will genuinely take in the information and follow the recommendations; however, they still struggle to find that drive and zest for work. Yes, moving from burnout to neutral is reasonable but likely won’t move the needle of your professional or personal life. We need to have the emotional energy and the clear desire to utilize that energy for a meaningful purpose.

Talking about burnout in specific ways is straightforward and, in my opinion, much easier than talking about engagement. Part of the challenge when trying to discuss engagement is that people can feel invalidated or that you’re telling them to be stoic. Or worse yet, that the problem of burnout primarily lies with them. It’s essential to recognize the role of an organizational factor in burnout (approximately 80%, depending on the study); still, even if you address burnout, people may not be miserable, but it doesn’t mean they will stay at their current job (please cue intro music for the Great Resignation).

Engagement models have existed for some time and certainly have gained much more attention in health care settings over the past 2 decades. Engagement can be described as having three components: dedication, vigor, and absorption. When a person is filling all three of these components over time, presto – you get the much-sought-after state of the supremely engaged professional.

These models definitely give us excellent starting points to approach engagement from a pre-COVID era. In COVID and beyond, I’m not sure how these models will stand up in a hybrid work environment, where autonomy and flexibility could be more valued than ever. Personally, COVID revealed some things I was missing in my work pre-COVID:

• Time to think and process. This was one of the great things about being a consultation-liaison psychiatrist; it was literally feast or famine.
• Doing what I’m talented at and really enjoy.
• Time is short, and I want to be more present in the life of my family.
• Growth and curiosity are vitally important to me. These have to be part of my daily ritual and practice.

The list above isn’t exhaustive, but I’ve found them to be my own personal recipe for being engaged. Over the next series of articles, I’m going to focus on engagement and factors related to key resilience. These articles will be informed by a front-line view from my colleagues, and hopefully start to separate the myth from reality on the subject of health professional engagement and resilience.

Everyone be safe and well!

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Depending on the data you’re looking at, 40%-60% of physicians are burned out.

Research studies and the eye test reveal the painfully obvious: Colleagues are tired, winded, spent, and at times way past burned out. People aren’t asking me if they’re burned out. They know they’re burned out; heck, they can even recite the Maslach burnout inventory, forward and backward, in a mask, or while completing a COVID quarantine. A fair share of people know the key steps to prevent burnout and promote recovery.

What I’m starting to see more of is, “Why should I even bother to recover from this? Why pick myself up again just to get another occupational stress injury (burnout, demoralization, moral injury, etc.)?” In other words, it’s not just simply about negating burnout; it’s about supporting and facilitating the motivation to work.

We’ve been through so much with COVID that it might be challenging to remember when you saw a truly engaged work environment. No doubt, we have outstanding professionals across medicine who answer the bell every day. However, if you’ve been looking closely, many teams/units have lost a bit of the zip and pep. The synergy and trust aren’t as smooth, and at noon, everyone counts the hours to the end of the shift.

You may be thinking, Well, of course, they are; we’re still amid a pandemic, and people have been through hell. Your observation would be correct, except I’ve personally seen some teams weather the pandemic storm and still remain engaged (some even more involved).

The No. 1 consult result for the GW Resiliency and Well-Being Center, where I work, has been on lectures for burnout. The R&WC has given so many of these lectures that my dreams take the form of a PowerPoint presentation. Overall the talks have gone very well. We’ve added skills sections on practices of whole-person care. We’ve blitzed the daylights out of restorative sleep, yet I know we are still searching for the correct narrative.

Motivated staff, faculty, and students will genuinely take in the information and follow the recommendations; however, they still struggle to find that drive and zest for work. Yes, moving from burnout to neutral is reasonable but likely won’t move the needle of your professional or personal life. We need to have the emotional energy and the clear desire to utilize that energy for a meaningful purpose.

Talking about burnout in specific ways is straightforward and, in my opinion, much easier than talking about engagement. Part of the challenge when trying to discuss engagement is that people can feel invalidated or that you’re telling them to be stoic. Or worse yet, that the problem of burnout primarily lies with them. It’s essential to recognize the role of an organizational factor in burnout (approximately 80%, depending on the study); still, even if you address burnout, people may not be miserable, but it doesn’t mean they will stay at their current job (please cue intro music for the Great Resignation).

Engagement models have existed for some time and certainly have gained much more attention in health care settings over the past 2 decades. Engagement can be described as having three components: dedication, vigor, and absorption. When a person is filling all three of these components over time, presto – you get the much-sought-after state of the supremely engaged professional.

These models definitely give us excellent starting points to approach engagement from a pre-COVID era. In COVID and beyond, I’m not sure how these models will stand up in a hybrid work environment, where autonomy and flexibility could be more valued than ever. Personally, COVID revealed some things I was missing in my work pre-COVID:

• Time to think and process. This was one of the great things about being a consultation-liaison psychiatrist; it was literally feast or famine.
• Doing what I’m talented at and really enjoy.
• Time is short, and I want to be more present in the life of my family.
• Growth and curiosity are vitally important to me. These have to be part of my daily ritual and practice.

The list above isn’t exhaustive, but I’ve found them to be my own personal recipe for being engaged. Over the next series of articles, I’m going to focus on engagement and factors related to key resilience. These articles will be informed by a front-line view from my colleagues, and hopefully start to separate the myth from reality on the subject of health professional engagement and resilience.

Everyone be safe and well!

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

On March 16, the world was witness to a horrific act of violence when a gunman killed six Asian American women and two others at spas in the Atlanta, Georgia area. The attack prompted a national outcry and protests against the rising levels of hate and violence directed at Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders (AAPI), a community that has experienced a profound and disturbing legacy of racism in American history.

Despite this fact, my own understanding and awareness of the hate and racism experienced by the AAPI community, then and now, would be described as limited at best. Was I aware on some level? Perhaps. But if I’m being honest, I have not fully appreciated the unique experiences of AAPI colleagues, friends, and students.

That changed when I attended a White Coats Against Asian Hate & Racism rally, held by the George Washington University School of Medicine and Health Sciences 2 months after the Atlanta killings. Hearing my colleagues speak of their personal experiences, I quickly realized my lack of education on the subject of how systemic racism has long affected Asian Americans in this country.
 

Measuring the alarming rise in anti-Asian hate

The data supporting a rise in anti-Asian hate crimes have been staring us in the face for decades but have drawn increasing attention since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, when these already distressingly high numbers experienced a steep rise.

Before looking at these figures, though, we must begin by defining what is considered a hate crime versus a hate incident. The National Asian Pacific American Bar Association and Asian & Pacific Islander American Health Forum have produced a beneficial summary document on precisely what separates these terms:

• A hate crime is a crime committed on the basis of the victim’s perceived or actual race, color, religion, national origin, sexual orientation, gender identity, or disability. It differs from “regular” crime in that its victims include the immediate crime target and others like them. Hate crimes affect families, communities, and, at times, an entire nation.
• A hate incident describes acts of prejudice that are not crimes and do not involve violence, threats, or property damage. The most common examples are isolated forms of speech, such as racial slurs.

Stop AAPI Hate (SAH) was founded in March 2020 as a coalition to track and analyze incidents of hate against this community. SAH’s 2020-2021 national report details 3,795 hate incidents that occurred from March 19, 2020, to Feb. 28, 2021. In a notable parallel to the Georgia killings, SAH found that Asian American women reported hate incidents 2.3 times more often than men and that businesses were the primary site of discrimination.

This rise in hate incidents has occurred in parallel with an increase in Asian American hate crimes. Recently, the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism (CSUSB) released its Report to the Nation: Anti-Asian Prejudice & Hate Crime. CSUSB found that anti-Asian hate crimes increased by 164% in the first quarter of 2021. I re-read that data point multiple times, thinking it must be in error. If you’re asking exactly why I was having difficulty accepting this data, you have to appreciate these two critical points:

• Per the CSUSB, anti-Asian hate crimes were already surging by 146% in 2020.
• This surge occurred while overall hate crimes dropped by 7%.

So, if 2020 was a surge, the first quarter of 2021 is a hurricane. What’s perhaps most concerning is that these data only capture reported cases and therefore are a fraction of the total.

Undoubtedly, we are living through an unprecedented rise in anti-Asian hate incidents and hate crimes since the start of the pandemic. This rise in hate-related events paralleled the many pandemic-related stressors (disease, isolation, economics, mental health, etc.). Should anyone have been surprised when this most recent deadly spike of anti-Asian hate occurred in the first quarter of 2021?
 

Hate’s toll on mental health

As a psychiatrist, I’ve spent my entire career working with dedicated teams to treat patients with mental health disorders. Currently, hate is not classified by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders as a mental illness. However, I can’t think of another emotion that is a better candidate for further research and scientific instigation, if for no other reason than to better understand when prejudice and bias transform into hatred and crime.

Surprisingly, there has been relatively little research on the topic of hate in the fields of psychology and psychiatry. I’d be willing to wager that if you asked a typical graduating class of medical students to give you an actual working definition of the emotion of hate, most would be at a loss for words.

Dr. Fischer and Dr. Halperin published a helpful article that gives a functional perspective on hate. The authors cover a great deal of research on hate and offer the following four starting points valuable in considering it:

• “Hate is different from anger because an anger target is appraised as someone whose behavior can be influenced and changed.”
• “A hate target, on the contrary, implies appraisals of the other’s malevolent nature and malicious intent.”
• “Hate is characterized by appraisals that imply a stable perception of a person or group and thus the incapability to change the extremely negative characteristics attributed to the target of hate.”
• “Everyday observations also suggest that hate is so powerful that it does, not just temporarily but permanently, destroy relations between individuals or groups.”

When I view hate with these insights in mind, it completely changes how I choose to utilize the word or concept. Hate is an emotion whose goal/action tendency is to eliminate groups (not just people or obstacles) and destroy any current or future relationships. We can take this a step further in noting that hate spreads, not only to the intended targets but potentially my “own” group. Similar to secondhand smoke, there is no risk-free exposure to hate or racism.

In the past decade, a robust body of evidence has emerged that clearly illustrates the negative health impacts of racism. Dr. Paradies and colleagues performed a systematic meta-analysis explicitly focused on racism as a determinant of health, finding that it was associated with poorer mental health, including depression, anxiety, and psychological distress. Over the past two decades, researchers have increasingly looked at the effects of racial discrimination on the AAPI community. In their 2009 review article, Dr. Gee and colleagues identified 62 empirical articles assessing the relation between discrimination and health among Asian Americans. Most of the studies found that discrimination was associated with poorer health. Of the 40 studies focused on mental health, 37 reported that discrimination was associated with poorer outcomes.

SAH recently released its very illuminating Mental Health Report. Among several key findings, two in particular caught my attention. First, Asian Americans who have experienced racism are more stressed by anti-Asian hate than the pandemic itself. Second, one in five Asian Americans who have experienced racism display racial trauma, the psychological and emotional harm caused by racism. Given the rise in hate crimes, there must be concern regarding the level of trauma being inflicted upon the Asian American community.

A complete review of the health effects of racism is beyond this article’s scope. Still, the previously mentioned studies further support the need to treat racism in general, and specifically anti-Asian hate, as the urgent public health concern that it truly is. The U.S. government recently outlined an action plan to respond to anti-Asian violence, xenophobia, and bias. These are helpful first steps, but much more is required on a societal and individual level, given the mental health disparities faced by the AAPI community.

Determining the best ways to address this urgent public health concern can be overwhelming, exhausting, and outright demoralizing. The bottom line is that if we do nothing, communities and groups will continue to suffer the effects of racial hatred. These consequences are severe and transgenerational.

But we must start somewhere. For me, that begins by gaining a better understanding of the emotion of hate and my role in either facilitating or stopping it, and by listening, listening, and listening some more to AAPI colleagues, friends, and family about their lived experience with anti-Asian hate.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

On March 16, the world was witness to a horrific act of violence when a gunman killed six Asian American women and two others at spas in the Atlanta, Georgia area. The attack prompted a national outcry and protests against the rising levels of hate and violence directed at Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders (AAPI), a community that has experienced a profound and disturbing legacy of racism in American history.

Despite this fact, my own understanding and awareness of the hate and racism experienced by the AAPI community, then and now, would be described as limited at best. Was I aware on some level? Perhaps. But if I’m being honest, I have not fully appreciated the unique experiences of AAPI colleagues, friends, and students.

That changed when I attended a White Coats Against Asian Hate & Racism rally, held by the George Washington University School of Medicine and Health Sciences 2 months after the Atlanta killings. Hearing my colleagues speak of their personal experiences, I quickly realized my lack of education on the subject of how systemic racism has long affected Asian Americans in this country.
 

Measuring the alarming rise in anti-Asian hate

The data supporting a rise in anti-Asian hate crimes have been staring us in the face for decades but have drawn increasing attention since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, when these already distressingly high numbers experienced a steep rise.

Before looking at these figures, though, we must begin by defining what is considered a hate crime versus a hate incident. The National Asian Pacific American Bar Association and Asian & Pacific Islander American Health Forum have produced a beneficial summary document on precisely what separates these terms:

• A hate crime is a crime committed on the basis of the victim’s perceived or actual race, color, religion, national origin, sexual orientation, gender identity, or disability. It differs from “regular” crime in that its victims include the immediate crime target and others like them. Hate crimes affect families, communities, and, at times, an entire nation.
• A hate incident describes acts of prejudice that are not crimes and do not involve violence, threats, or property damage. The most common examples are isolated forms of speech, such as racial slurs.

Stop AAPI Hate (SAH) was founded in March 2020 as a coalition to track and analyze incidents of hate against this community. SAH’s 2020-2021 national report details 3,795 hate incidents that occurred from March 19, 2020, to Feb. 28, 2021. In a notable parallel to the Georgia killings, SAH found that Asian American women reported hate incidents 2.3 times more often than men and that businesses were the primary site of discrimination.

This rise in hate incidents has occurred in parallel with an increase in Asian American hate crimes. Recently, the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism (CSUSB) released its Report to the Nation: Anti-Asian Prejudice & Hate Crime. CSUSB found that anti-Asian hate crimes increased by 164% in the first quarter of 2021. I re-read that data point multiple times, thinking it must be in error. If you’re asking exactly why I was having difficulty accepting this data, you have to appreciate these two critical points:

• Per the CSUSB, anti-Asian hate crimes were already surging by 146% in 2020.
• This surge occurred while overall hate crimes dropped by 7%.

So, if 2020 was a surge, the first quarter of 2021 is a hurricane. What’s perhaps most concerning is that these data only capture reported cases and therefore are a fraction of the total.

Undoubtedly, we are living through an unprecedented rise in anti-Asian hate incidents and hate crimes since the start of the pandemic. This rise in hate-related events paralleled the many pandemic-related stressors (disease, isolation, economics, mental health, etc.). Should anyone have been surprised when this most recent deadly spike of anti-Asian hate occurred in the first quarter of 2021?
 

Hate’s toll on mental health

As a psychiatrist, I’ve spent my entire career working with dedicated teams to treat patients with mental health disorders. Currently, hate is not classified by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders as a mental illness. However, I can’t think of another emotion that is a better candidate for further research and scientific instigation, if for no other reason than to better understand when prejudice and bias transform into hatred and crime.

Surprisingly, there has been relatively little research on the topic of hate in the fields of psychology and psychiatry. I’d be willing to wager that if you asked a typical graduating class of medical students to give you an actual working definition of the emotion of hate, most would be at a loss for words.

Dr. Fischer and Dr. Halperin published a helpful article that gives a functional perspective on hate. The authors cover a great deal of research on hate and offer the following four starting points valuable in considering it:

• “Hate is different from anger because an anger target is appraised as someone whose behavior can be influenced and changed.”
• “A hate target, on the contrary, implies appraisals of the other’s malevolent nature and malicious intent.”
• “Hate is characterized by appraisals that imply a stable perception of a person or group and thus the incapability to change the extremely negative characteristics attributed to the target of hate.”
• “Everyday observations also suggest that hate is so powerful that it does, not just temporarily but permanently, destroy relations between individuals or groups.”

When I view hate with these insights in mind, it completely changes how I choose to utilize the word or concept. Hate is an emotion whose goal/action tendency is to eliminate groups (not just people or obstacles) and destroy any current or future relationships. We can take this a step further in noting that hate spreads, not only to the intended targets but potentially my “own” group. Similar to secondhand smoke, there is no risk-free exposure to hate or racism.

In the past decade, a robust body of evidence has emerged that clearly illustrates the negative health impacts of racism. Dr. Paradies and colleagues performed a systematic meta-analysis explicitly focused on racism as a determinant of health, finding that it was associated with poorer mental health, including depression, anxiety, and psychological distress. Over the past two decades, researchers have increasingly looked at the effects of racial discrimination on the AAPI community. In their 2009 review article, Dr. Gee and colleagues identified 62 empirical articles assessing the relation between discrimination and health among Asian Americans. Most of the studies found that discrimination was associated with poorer health. Of the 40 studies focused on mental health, 37 reported that discrimination was associated with poorer outcomes.

SAH recently released its very illuminating Mental Health Report. Among several key findings, two in particular caught my attention. First, Asian Americans who have experienced racism are more stressed by anti-Asian hate than the pandemic itself. Second, one in five Asian Americans who have experienced racism display racial trauma, the psychological and emotional harm caused by racism. Given the rise in hate crimes, there must be concern regarding the level of trauma being inflicted upon the Asian American community.

A complete review of the health effects of racism is beyond this article’s scope. Still, the previously mentioned studies further support the need to treat racism in general, and specifically anti-Asian hate, as the urgent public health concern that it truly is. The U.S. government recently outlined an action plan to respond to anti-Asian violence, xenophobia, and bias. These are helpful first steps, but much more is required on a societal and individual level, given the mental health disparities faced by the AAPI community.

Determining the best ways to address this urgent public health concern can be overwhelming, exhausting, and outright demoralizing. The bottom line is that if we do nothing, communities and groups will continue to suffer the effects of racial hatred. These consequences are severe and transgenerational.

But we must start somewhere. For me, that begins by gaining a better understanding of the emotion of hate and my role in either facilitating or stopping it, and by listening, listening, and listening some more to AAPI colleagues, friends, and family about their lived experience with anti-Asian hate.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

On March 16, the world was witness to a horrific act of violence when a gunman killed six Asian American women and two others at spas in the Atlanta, Georgia area. The attack prompted a national outcry and protests against the rising levels of hate and violence directed at Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders (AAPI), a community that has experienced a profound and disturbing legacy of racism in American history.

Despite this fact, my own understanding and awareness of the hate and racism experienced by the AAPI community, then and now, would be described as limited at best. Was I aware on some level? Perhaps. But if I’m being honest, I have not fully appreciated the unique experiences of AAPI colleagues, friends, and students.

That changed when I attended a White Coats Against Asian Hate & Racism rally, held by the George Washington University School of Medicine and Health Sciences 2 months after the Atlanta killings. Hearing my colleagues speak of their personal experiences, I quickly realized my lack of education on the subject of how systemic racism has long affected Asian Americans in this country.
 

Measuring the alarming rise in anti-Asian hate

The data supporting a rise in anti-Asian hate crimes have been staring us in the face for decades but have drawn increasing attention since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, when these already distressingly high numbers experienced a steep rise.

Before looking at these figures, though, we must begin by defining what is considered a hate crime versus a hate incident. The National Asian Pacific American Bar Association and Asian & Pacific Islander American Health Forum have produced a beneficial summary document on precisely what separates these terms:

• A hate crime is a crime committed on the basis of the victim’s perceived or actual race, color, religion, national origin, sexual orientation, gender identity, or disability. It differs from “regular” crime in that its victims include the immediate crime target and others like them. Hate crimes affect families, communities, and, at times, an entire nation.
• A hate incident describes acts of prejudice that are not crimes and do not involve violence, threats, or property damage. The most common examples are isolated forms of speech, such as racial slurs.

Stop AAPI Hate (SAH) was founded in March 2020 as a coalition to track and analyze incidents of hate against this community. SAH’s 2020-2021 national report details 3,795 hate incidents that occurred from March 19, 2020, to Feb. 28, 2021. In a notable parallel to the Georgia killings, SAH found that Asian American women reported hate incidents 2.3 times more often than men and that businesses were the primary site of discrimination.

This rise in hate incidents has occurred in parallel with an increase in Asian American hate crimes. Recently, the Center for the Study of Hate and Extremism (CSUSB) released its Report to the Nation: Anti-Asian Prejudice & Hate Crime. CSUSB found that anti-Asian hate crimes increased by 164% in the first quarter of 2021. I re-read that data point multiple times, thinking it must be in error. If you’re asking exactly why I was having difficulty accepting this data, you have to appreciate these two critical points:

• Per the CSUSB, anti-Asian hate crimes were already surging by 146% in 2020.
• This surge occurred while overall hate crimes dropped by 7%.

So, if 2020 was a surge, the first quarter of 2021 is a hurricane. What’s perhaps most concerning is that these data only capture reported cases and therefore are a fraction of the total.

Undoubtedly, we are living through an unprecedented rise in anti-Asian hate incidents and hate crimes since the start of the pandemic. This rise in hate-related events paralleled the many pandemic-related stressors (disease, isolation, economics, mental health, etc.). Should anyone have been surprised when this most recent deadly spike of anti-Asian hate occurred in the first quarter of 2021?
 

Hate’s toll on mental health

As a psychiatrist, I’ve spent my entire career working with dedicated teams to treat patients with mental health disorders. Currently, hate is not classified by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders as a mental illness. However, I can’t think of another emotion that is a better candidate for further research and scientific instigation, if for no other reason than to better understand when prejudice and bias transform into hatred and crime.

Surprisingly, there has been relatively little research on the topic of hate in the fields of psychology and psychiatry. I’d be willing to wager that if you asked a typical graduating class of medical students to give you an actual working definition of the emotion of hate, most would be at a loss for words.

Dr. Fischer and Dr. Halperin published a helpful article that gives a functional perspective on hate. The authors cover a great deal of research on hate and offer the following four starting points valuable in considering it:

• “Hate is different from anger because an anger target is appraised as someone whose behavior can be influenced and changed.”
• “A hate target, on the contrary, implies appraisals of the other’s malevolent nature and malicious intent.”
• “Hate is characterized by appraisals that imply a stable perception of a person or group and thus the incapability to change the extremely negative characteristics attributed to the target of hate.”
• “Everyday observations also suggest that hate is so powerful that it does, not just temporarily but permanently, destroy relations between individuals or groups.”

When I view hate with these insights in mind, it completely changes how I choose to utilize the word or concept. Hate is an emotion whose goal/action tendency is to eliminate groups (not just people or obstacles) and destroy any current or future relationships. We can take this a step further in noting that hate spreads, not only to the intended targets but potentially my “own” group. Similar to secondhand smoke, there is no risk-free exposure to hate or racism.

In the past decade, a robust body of evidence has emerged that clearly illustrates the negative health impacts of racism. Dr. Paradies and colleagues performed a systematic meta-analysis explicitly focused on racism as a determinant of health, finding that it was associated with poorer mental health, including depression, anxiety, and psychological distress. Over the past two decades, researchers have increasingly looked at the effects of racial discrimination on the AAPI community. In their 2009 review article, Dr. Gee and colleagues identified 62 empirical articles assessing the relation between discrimination and health among Asian Americans. Most of the studies found that discrimination was associated with poorer health. Of the 40 studies focused on mental health, 37 reported that discrimination was associated with poorer outcomes.

SAH recently released its very illuminating Mental Health Report. Among several key findings, two in particular caught my attention. First, Asian Americans who have experienced racism are more stressed by anti-Asian hate than the pandemic itself. Second, one in five Asian Americans who have experienced racism display racial trauma, the psychological and emotional harm caused by racism. Given the rise in hate crimes, there must be concern regarding the level of trauma being inflicted upon the Asian American community.

A complete review of the health effects of racism is beyond this article’s scope. Still, the previously mentioned studies further support the need to treat racism in general, and specifically anti-Asian hate, as the urgent public health concern that it truly is. The U.S. government recently outlined an action plan to respond to anti-Asian violence, xenophobia, and bias. These are helpful first steps, but much more is required on a societal and individual level, given the mental health disparities faced by the AAPI community.

Determining the best ways to address this urgent public health concern can be overwhelming, exhausting, and outright demoralizing. The bottom line is that if we do nothing, communities and groups will continue to suffer the effects of racial hatred. These consequences are severe and transgenerational.

But we must start somewhere. For me, that begins by gaining a better understanding of the emotion of hate and my role in either facilitating or stopping it, and by listening, listening, and listening some more to AAPI colleagues, friends, and family about their lived experience with anti-Asian hate.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

On Tuesday, April 20, the country braced for the impact of the trial verdict in death of George Floyd. Despite the case having what many would consider an overwhelming amount of evidence pointing toward conviction, if we’re completely honest, the country – and particularly the African American community – had significant doubts that the jury would render a guilty verdict.

Nathan Howard/Stringer/Getty Images News

In the hour leading up to the announcement, people and images dominated my thoughts; Tamir Rice, Breonna Taylor, Eric Garner, Rashard Brooks, and most recently, Daunte Wright. With the deaths of these Black Americans and many others as historical context, I took a stoic stance and held my breath as the verdict was read. Former Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin was found guilty of second-degree murder, third-degree murder, and second-degree manslaughter.

As Mr. Chauvin was remanded to custody and led away in handcuffs, it was clear there were no “winners” in this verdict. Mr. Floyd is still dead, and violent encounters experienced by Black Americans continue at a vastly disproportionate rate. The result is far from true justice, but what we as a country do have is a moment of accountability – and perhaps an opportunity for true system-level reform.

The final report of the President’s Task Force on 21st Century Policing, released in May 2015, recommended major policy changes at the federal level and developed key pillars aimed at promoting effective crime reduction while building public trust. Based on this report, four key takeaways are relevant to any discussion of police reform. All are vitally important, but two stand out as particularly relevant in the aftermath of the verdict. One of the key recommendations was “embracing a guardian – rather than a warrior mindset” in an effort to build trust and legitimacy. Another was ensuring that “peace officer and standards training (POST) boards include mandatory Crisis Intervention Training.”

As health professionals, we know that the ultimate effectiveness of any intervention is based upon the amount of shared trust and collaboration in the patient-physician relationship. As a consultation-liaison psychiatrist, I’ve been trained to recognize that, when requested to consult on a case, I’m frequently not making a medical diagnosis or delivering an intervention; I’m helping the team and patient reestablish trust in each other. Communication skills and techniques help start a dialogue, but you will ultimately fall short of shared understanding without trust. The underpinning of trust could begin with a commitment to procedural justice. Procedural justice, as described in The Justice Collaboratory of Yale Law School, “speaks to the idea of fair processes and how the quality of their experiences strongly impacts people’s perception of fairness.” There are four central tenets of procedural justice:

• Whether they were treated with dignity and respect.
• Whether they were given voice.
• Whether the decision-maker was neutral and transparent.
• Whether the decision-maker conveyed trustworthy motives.

These four tenets have been researched and shown to improve the trust and confidence a community has in police, and lay the foundation for creating a standard set of shared interests and values.

As health professionals, there are many aspects of procedural justice that we can and should embrace, particularly as we come to our reckoning with the use of restraints in medical settings.

Building on the work of the Task Force on 21st Century Policing, the National Initiative for Building Community Trust and Justice, from January 2015 through December 2018, implemented a six-city intervention aimed at generating measurable improvements in officer behavior, public safety, and community trust in police. The National Initiative was organized around three principal ideas: procedural justice, implicit bias training, and reconciliation and candid conversations about law enforcement’s historic role in racial tensions.

In addition to the recommendations of the federal government and independent institutions, national-level health policy organizations have made clear statements regarding police brutality and the need for systemic reform to address police brutality and systemic racism. In 2018, the American Psychiatric Association released a position statement on Police Brutality and Black Males. This was then followed in 2020 with a joint statement from the National Medical Association and the APA condemning systemic racism and police violence against Black Americans. Other health policy associations, including the American Medical Association and the American Association of Medical Colleges, have made clear statements condemning systemic racism and police brutality.

In the aftermath of the verdict, we also saw something very different. In our partisan country, there appeared to be uniform common ground. Statements were made acknowledging the importance of this historic moment, from police unions, and both political parties, and various invested grassroots organizations. In short, we may have true agreement and motivation to take the next hard steps in police reform for this country. There will be policy discussions and new mandates for training, and certainly a push to ban the use of lethal techniques, such as choke holds. While helpful, these will ultimately fall short unless we hold ourselves accountable for a true culture change.

The challenge of implementing procedural justice shouldn’t be just a law enforcement challenge, and it shouldn’t fall on the shoulders of communities with high crime areas. In other words, no single racial group should own it. Ultimately, procedural justice will need to be embraced by all of us. The road is long, and change is slow, but I am optimistic.

On April 20, as I watched the verdict, my oldest daughter watched with me, and she asked, “What do you think, Dad?” I responded: “It’s accountability and an opportunity.” She nodded her head with resolve. She then grabbed her smartphone and jumped into social media and proclaimed in her very knowledgeable teenage voice, “See Dad, one voice is cool, but many voices in unison is better; time to get to work!” To Darnella Frazier, who captured the crime on video at age 17, and all in your generation who dare to hold us accountable, I salute you. I thank you for forcing us to look even when it was painful and not ignore the humanity of our fellow man. It is indeed time to get to work.

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs and administration at George Washington University, Washington. He has no disclosures.

On Tuesday, April 20, the country braced for the impact of the trial verdict in death of George Floyd. Despite the case having what many would consider an overwhelming amount of evidence pointing toward conviction, if we’re completely honest, the country – and particularly the African American community – had significant doubts that the jury would render a guilty verdict.

Nathan Howard/Stringer/Getty Images News

In the hour leading up to the announcement, people and images dominated my thoughts; Tamir Rice, Breonna Taylor, Eric Garner, Rashard Brooks, and most recently, Daunte Wright. With the deaths of these Black Americans and many others as historical context, I took a stoic stance and held my breath as the verdict was read. Former Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin was found guilty of second-degree murder, third-degree murder, and second-degree manslaughter.

As Mr. Chauvin was remanded to custody and led away in handcuffs, it was clear there were no “winners” in this verdict. Mr. Floyd is still dead, and violent encounters experienced by Black Americans continue at a vastly disproportionate rate. The result is far from true justice, but what we as a country do have is a moment of accountability – and perhaps an opportunity for true system-level reform.

The final report of the President’s Task Force on 21st Century Policing, released in May 2015, recommended major policy changes at the federal level and developed key pillars aimed at promoting effective crime reduction while building public trust. Based on this report, four key takeaways are relevant to any discussion of police reform. All are vitally important, but two stand out as particularly relevant in the aftermath of the verdict. One of the key recommendations was “embracing a guardian – rather than a warrior mindset” in an effort to build trust and legitimacy. Another was ensuring that “peace officer and standards training (POST) boards include mandatory Crisis Intervention Training.”

As health professionals, we know that the ultimate effectiveness of any intervention is based upon the amount of shared trust and collaboration in the patient-physician relationship. As a consultation-liaison psychiatrist, I’ve been trained to recognize that, when requested to consult on a case, I’m frequently not making a medical diagnosis or delivering an intervention; I’m helping the team and patient reestablish trust in each other. Communication skills and techniques help start a dialogue, but you will ultimately fall short of shared understanding without trust. The underpinning of trust could begin with a commitment to procedural justice. Procedural justice, as described in The Justice Collaboratory of Yale Law School, “speaks to the idea of fair processes and how the quality of their experiences strongly impacts people’s perception of fairness.” There are four central tenets of procedural justice:

• Whether they were treated with dignity and respect.
• Whether they were given voice.
• Whether the decision-maker was neutral and transparent.
• Whether the decision-maker conveyed trustworthy motives.

These four tenets have been researched and shown to improve the trust and confidence a community has in police, and lay the foundation for creating a standard set of shared interests and values.

As health professionals, there are many aspects of procedural justice that we can and should embrace, particularly as we come to our reckoning with the use of restraints in medical settings.

Building on the work of the Task Force on 21st Century Policing, the National Initiative for Building Community Trust and Justice, from January 2015 through December 2018, implemented a six-city intervention aimed at generating measurable improvements in officer behavior, public safety, and community trust in police. The National Initiative was organized around three principal ideas: procedural justice, implicit bias training, and reconciliation and candid conversations about law enforcement’s historic role in racial tensions.

In addition to the recommendations of the federal government and independent institutions, national-level health policy organizations have made clear statements regarding police brutality and the need for systemic reform to address police brutality and systemic racism. In 2018, the American Psychiatric Association released a position statement on Police Brutality and Black Males. This was then followed in 2020 with a joint statement from the National Medical Association and the APA condemning systemic racism and police violence against Black Americans. Other health policy associations, including the American Medical Association and the American Association of Medical Colleges, have made clear statements condemning systemic racism and police brutality.

In the aftermath of the verdict, we also saw something very different. In our partisan country, there appeared to be uniform common ground. Statements were made acknowledging the importance of this historic moment, from police unions, and both political parties, and various invested grassroots organizations. In short, we may have true agreement and motivation to take the next hard steps in police reform for this country. There will be policy discussions and new mandates for training, and certainly a push to ban the use of lethal techniques, such as choke holds. While helpful, these will ultimately fall short unless we hold ourselves accountable for a true culture change.

The challenge of implementing procedural justice shouldn’t be just a law enforcement challenge, and it shouldn’t fall on the shoulders of communities with high crime areas. In other words, no single racial group should own it. Ultimately, procedural justice will need to be embraced by all of us. The road is long, and change is slow, but I am optimistic.

On April 20, as I watched the verdict, my oldest daughter watched with me, and she asked, “What do you think, Dad?” I responded: “It’s accountability and an opportunity.” She nodded her head with resolve. She then grabbed her smartphone and jumped into social media and proclaimed in her very knowledgeable teenage voice, “See Dad, one voice is cool, but many voices in unison is better; time to get to work!” To Darnella Frazier, who captured the crime on video at age 17, and all in your generation who dare to hold us accountable, I salute you. I thank you for forcing us to look even when it was painful and not ignore the humanity of our fellow man. It is indeed time to get to work.

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs and administration at George Washington University, Washington. He has no disclosures.

On Tuesday, April 20, the country braced for the impact of the trial verdict in death of George Floyd. Despite the case having what many would consider an overwhelming amount of evidence pointing toward conviction, if we’re completely honest, the country – and particularly the African American community – had significant doubts that the jury would render a guilty verdict.

Nathan Howard/Stringer/Getty Images News

In the hour leading up to the announcement, people and images dominated my thoughts; Tamir Rice, Breonna Taylor, Eric Garner, Rashard Brooks, and most recently, Daunte Wright. With the deaths of these Black Americans and many others as historical context, I took a stoic stance and held my breath as the verdict was read. Former Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin was found guilty of second-degree murder, third-degree murder, and second-degree manslaughter.

As Mr. Chauvin was remanded to custody and led away in handcuffs, it was clear there were no “winners” in this verdict. Mr. Floyd is still dead, and violent encounters experienced by Black Americans continue at a vastly disproportionate rate. The result is far from true justice, but what we as a country do have is a moment of accountability – and perhaps an opportunity for true system-level reform.

The final report of the President’s Task Force on 21st Century Policing, released in May 2015, recommended major policy changes at the federal level and developed key pillars aimed at promoting effective crime reduction while building public trust. Based on this report, four key takeaways are relevant to any discussion of police reform. All are vitally important, but two stand out as particularly relevant in the aftermath of the verdict. One of the key recommendations was “embracing a guardian – rather than a warrior mindset” in an effort to build trust and legitimacy. Another was ensuring that “peace officer and standards training (POST) boards include mandatory Crisis Intervention Training.”

As health professionals, we know that the ultimate effectiveness of any intervention is based upon the amount of shared trust and collaboration in the patient-physician relationship. As a consultation-liaison psychiatrist, I’ve been trained to recognize that, when requested to consult on a case, I’m frequently not making a medical diagnosis or delivering an intervention; I’m helping the team and patient reestablish trust in each other. Communication skills and techniques help start a dialogue, but you will ultimately fall short of shared understanding without trust. The underpinning of trust could begin with a commitment to procedural justice. Procedural justice, as described in The Justice Collaboratory of Yale Law School, “speaks to the idea of fair processes and how the quality of their experiences strongly impacts people’s perception of fairness.” There are four central tenets of procedural justice:

• Whether they were treated with dignity and respect.
• Whether they were given voice.
• Whether the decision-maker was neutral and transparent.
• Whether the decision-maker conveyed trustworthy motives.

These four tenets have been researched and shown to improve the trust and confidence a community has in police, and lay the foundation for creating a standard set of shared interests and values.

As health professionals, there are many aspects of procedural justice that we can and should embrace, particularly as we come to our reckoning with the use of restraints in medical settings.

Building on the work of the Task Force on 21st Century Policing, the National Initiative for Building Community Trust and Justice, from January 2015 through December 2018, implemented a six-city intervention aimed at generating measurable improvements in officer behavior, public safety, and community trust in police. The National Initiative was organized around three principal ideas: procedural justice, implicit bias training, and reconciliation and candid conversations about law enforcement’s historic role in racial tensions.

In addition to the recommendations of the federal government and independent institutions, national-level health policy organizations have made clear statements regarding police brutality and the need for systemic reform to address police brutality and systemic racism. In 2018, the American Psychiatric Association released a position statement on Police Brutality and Black Males. This was then followed in 2020 with a joint statement from the National Medical Association and the APA condemning systemic racism and police violence against Black Americans. Other health policy associations, including the American Medical Association and the American Association of Medical Colleges, have made clear statements condemning systemic racism and police brutality.

In the aftermath of the verdict, we also saw something very different. In our partisan country, there appeared to be uniform common ground. Statements were made acknowledging the importance of this historic moment, from police unions, and both political parties, and various invested grassroots organizations. In short, we may have true agreement and motivation to take the next hard steps in police reform for this country. There will be policy discussions and new mandates for training, and certainly a push to ban the use of lethal techniques, such as choke holds. While helpful, these will ultimately fall short unless we hold ourselves accountable for a true culture change.

The challenge of implementing procedural justice shouldn’t be just a law enforcement challenge, and it shouldn’t fall on the shoulders of communities with high crime areas. In other words, no single racial group should own it. Ultimately, procedural justice will need to be embraced by all of us. The road is long, and change is slow, but I am optimistic.

On April 20, as I watched the verdict, my oldest daughter watched with me, and she asked, “What do you think, Dad?” I responded: “It’s accountability and an opportunity.” She nodded her head with resolve. She then grabbed her smartphone and jumped into social media and proclaimed in her very knowledgeable teenage voice, “See Dad, one voice is cool, but many voices in unison is better; time to get to work!” To Darnella Frazier, who captured the crime on video at age 17, and all in your generation who dare to hold us accountable, I salute you. I thank you for forcing us to look even when it was painful and not ignore the humanity of our fellow man. It is indeed time to get to work.

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs and administration at George Washington University, Washington. He has no disclosures.

Exhaustion, numbness, dissociation, and most notably, anger are my emotional response when viewing the video of George Floyd’s death. The homicide trial of former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin activates the shared stress of those who experienced intergenerational trauma and the legacy of racism in the United States of America.

On May 25, 2020, Mr. Floyd died after Derek Chauvin used a lethal maneuver and placed his knee on Mr. Floyd’s neck for 9 minutes and 29 seconds. Mr. Floyd has died physically, but his death is replayed through high-definition social media daily, if not hourly, as I write this article and think of the generational legacy of trauma that African Americans must cope with on an everyday basis. I struggle daily to explain this legacy to my daughters, students, residents, and colleagues. I hope to share with you some of my perspectives on the current trial and give you some insight as to how my training and personal life experience have affected my views on police brutality and the use of lethal force toward African American men.

My earliest recollection of public video-recorded images of police brutality occurred when Rodney King was beaten and assaulted by the Los Angeles Police Department on March 3, 1991. At that time, I was a senior in high school, and the world was different. My clear expectation was that any attempt to resist police arrest would be met with overwhelming and potentially lethal force. This was simply a matter of my daily reality, so, while witnessing the assault of Mr. King, the 17-year-old child didn’t expect much, if any, real change to come about in regard to police brutality. At that time, my mother kept me focused on one singular goal – becoming a physician – and protected me as best she could from the effects of intergenerational trauma woven into the African American experience.

The issue of police brutality and police-involved deaths has been recognized as a significant public health concern for some time. Over the 3 decades since the assault on Mr. King, several researchers have examined these issues. A review of all the research is beyond the scope of this opinion piece. Still, I will highlight a study that I believe illustrates some conclusions scholars have come to regarding police use of lethal force and subsequent mortality in African American men. A recent study by Frank Edwards, PhD, and colleagues, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, showed that Black men were 2.5 times more likely to be killed by police over their life course than White men.

The researchers also developed predictive models that about 1 in 1,000 Black men and boys will be killed by police over their life course, and that among all age groups Black men and boys face the highest lifetime risk. The authors concluded that “Our analysis shows that the risk of being killed by police is jointly patterned by one’s race, gender, and age. Police violence is a leading cause of death for young men, and young men of color face an exceptionally high risk of being killed by police. Inequalities in risk are pronounced throughout the life course. This study reinforces calls to treat police violence as a public health issue.”

Research such as this helps validate on a visceral level what I already was taught: “As a Black male, encounters with police can quickly become deadly, and you must remain calm, or you could die.” This thought process informed much of my thinking whenever I heard about a Black male being fatally shot by police. My first response was to ask, “Was he resisting arrest?” At this time, my naive impression was that “if you don’t resist or conflict, you’ll live.” It wasn’t until my training in psychiatry that I realized that the duty to calm, support, and most importantly, protect was the responsibility of the person who is given the trust of the public. As a psychiatrist, I am humbled by the trust the public places in physicians to restrain patients and take part in their involuntary hospitalizations. Over the years, I learned from my attending physicians, colleagues in security, social work, nursing, assertive community treatment (ACT) teams, and many other allied health professions that the responsibility to show restraint, calm, and compassion lies with those who have the power and trust of the public.

Mostly, I learned from my patients. They taught me to meet distress with compassion and humanity and not simply with force. With those lessons in mind, I now fast forward to July 17, 2014, and the death of Eric Garner. On July 17, New York Police Department officers approached Mr. Garner on the suspicion that he was selling loose cigarettes. Amid this encounter, Mr. Garner was subjected to a chokehold, and his face was pinned to the ground while he can be heard saying, “I can’t breathe.” At this time in my professional career, I had just become a dean of student affairs at the George Washington School of Medicine and Health Sciences. I can still remember the response of my minority students, and the sense of pain and anguish they felt watching the video of a chokehold being used on a man stating, “I can’t breathe.” At this point, my training would not allow me to see this as anything other than an unnecessary use of lethal force that would subsequently be ruled a homicide. I hoped that we as a nation had reached a “reckoning “ because of Mr. Garner’s death and Michael Brown Jr.’s subsequent death in Ferguson, Mo., in St. Louis County, on Aug. 9, 2014. I hoped we were ready to finally address police brutality and excessive use of force that had disproportionately affected Black men. I was utterly wrong. Black men such as Alton Sterling, Jamar Clark, and many others would die in fatal police encounters. So would Tamir Rice, who was 12 years old when he was shot and killed by a police officer.

This brings me back to the death of Mr. Floyd. As I listened to the witnesses’ testimony, it triggered an emotional response from sadness, fear, shock, but mostly anger. Some would consider it progress that the Minneapolis Police Department’s top homicide detective testified that kneeling on Mr. Floyd’s neck after he had been restrained was “unnecessary.” The officer stated, “If your knee is on someone’s neck, that could kill him.” While I acknowledge this is a form of progress, we must ultimately address the other “substantial causal factor of death” for Mr. Floyd. Namely, the systemic racism present in a criminal justice system in the form of policies and procedures that allow for continued racial disparities and inequities.

There will be coverage of the court proceedings and a detailed dissection of the legal arguments. Questions regarding Mr. Floyd’s physical health and struggle with opiate use disorder will be raised by the defense. The debate about the substantial causal factor will be played out in the court and the media. Ultimately, we, as health professionals, need to ask ourselves, “Who has the power and the duty to do no harm?”

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs and administration at George Washington University, Washington. He has no disclosures.

Exhaustion, numbness, dissociation, and most notably, anger are my emotional response when viewing the video of George Floyd’s death. The homicide trial of former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin activates the shared stress of those who experienced intergenerational trauma and the legacy of racism in the United States of America.

On May 25, 2020, Mr. Floyd died after Derek Chauvin used a lethal maneuver and placed his knee on Mr. Floyd’s neck for 9 minutes and 29 seconds. Mr. Floyd has died physically, but his death is replayed through high-definition social media daily, if not hourly, as I write this article and think of the generational legacy of trauma that African Americans must cope with on an everyday basis. I struggle daily to explain this legacy to my daughters, students, residents, and colleagues. I hope to share with you some of my perspectives on the current trial and give you some insight as to how my training and personal life experience have affected my views on police brutality and the use of lethal force toward African American men.

My earliest recollection of public video-recorded images of police brutality occurred when Rodney King was beaten and assaulted by the Los Angeles Police Department on March 3, 1991. At that time, I was a senior in high school, and the world was different. My clear expectation was that any attempt to resist police arrest would be met with overwhelming and potentially lethal force. This was simply a matter of my daily reality, so, while witnessing the assault of Mr. King, the 17-year-old child didn’t expect much, if any, real change to come about in regard to police brutality. At that time, my mother kept me focused on one singular goal – becoming a physician – and protected me as best she could from the effects of intergenerational trauma woven into the African American experience.

The issue of police brutality and police-involved deaths has been recognized as a significant public health concern for some time. Over the 3 decades since the assault on Mr. King, several researchers have examined these issues. A review of all the research is beyond the scope of this opinion piece. Still, I will highlight a study that I believe illustrates some conclusions scholars have come to regarding police use of lethal force and subsequent mortality in African American men. A recent study by Frank Edwards, PhD, and colleagues, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, showed that Black men were 2.5 times more likely to be killed by police over their life course than White men.

The researchers also developed predictive models that about 1 in 1,000 Black men and boys will be killed by police over their life course, and that among all age groups Black men and boys face the highest lifetime risk. The authors concluded that “Our analysis shows that the risk of being killed by police is jointly patterned by one’s race, gender, and age. Police violence is a leading cause of death for young men, and young men of color face an exceptionally high risk of being killed by police. Inequalities in risk are pronounced throughout the life course. This study reinforces calls to treat police violence as a public health issue.”

Research such as this helps validate on a visceral level what I already was taught: “As a Black male, encounters with police can quickly become deadly, and you must remain calm, or you could die.” This thought process informed much of my thinking whenever I heard about a Black male being fatally shot by police. My first response was to ask, “Was he resisting arrest?” At this time, my naive impression was that “if you don’t resist or conflict, you’ll live.” It wasn’t until my training in psychiatry that I realized that the duty to calm, support, and most importantly, protect was the responsibility of the person who is given the trust of the public. As a psychiatrist, I am humbled by the trust the public places in physicians to restrain patients and take part in their involuntary hospitalizations. Over the years, I learned from my attending physicians, colleagues in security, social work, nursing, assertive community treatment (ACT) teams, and many other allied health professions that the responsibility to show restraint, calm, and compassion lies with those who have the power and trust of the public.

Mostly, I learned from my patients. They taught me to meet distress with compassion and humanity and not simply with force. With those lessons in mind, I now fast forward to July 17, 2014, and the death of Eric Garner. On July 17, New York Police Department officers approached Mr. Garner on the suspicion that he was selling loose cigarettes. Amid this encounter, Mr. Garner was subjected to a chokehold, and his face was pinned to the ground while he can be heard saying, “I can’t breathe.” At this time in my professional career, I had just become a dean of student affairs at the George Washington School of Medicine and Health Sciences. I can still remember the response of my minority students, and the sense of pain and anguish they felt watching the video of a chokehold being used on a man stating, “I can’t breathe.” At this point, my training would not allow me to see this as anything other than an unnecessary use of lethal force that would subsequently be ruled a homicide. I hoped that we as a nation had reached a “reckoning “ because of Mr. Garner’s death and Michael Brown Jr.’s subsequent death in Ferguson, Mo., in St. Louis County, on Aug. 9, 2014. I hoped we were ready to finally address police brutality and excessive use of force that had disproportionately affected Black men. I was utterly wrong. Black men such as Alton Sterling, Jamar Clark, and many others would die in fatal police encounters. So would Tamir Rice, who was 12 years old when he was shot and killed by a police officer.

This brings me back to the death of Mr. Floyd. As I listened to the witnesses’ testimony, it triggered an emotional response from sadness, fear, shock, but mostly anger. Some would consider it progress that the Minneapolis Police Department’s top homicide detective testified that kneeling on Mr. Floyd’s neck after he had been restrained was “unnecessary.” The officer stated, “If your knee is on someone’s neck, that could kill him.” While I acknowledge this is a form of progress, we must ultimately address the other “substantial causal factor of death” for Mr. Floyd. Namely, the systemic racism present in a criminal justice system in the form of policies and procedures that allow for continued racial disparities and inequities.

There will be coverage of the court proceedings and a detailed dissection of the legal arguments. Questions regarding Mr. Floyd’s physical health and struggle with opiate use disorder will be raised by the defense. The debate about the substantial causal factor will be played out in the court and the media. Ultimately, we, as health professionals, need to ask ourselves, “Who has the power and the duty to do no harm?”

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs and administration at George Washington University, Washington. He has no disclosures.

Exhaustion, numbness, dissociation, and most notably, anger are my emotional response when viewing the video of George Floyd’s death. The homicide trial of former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin activates the shared stress of those who experienced intergenerational trauma and the legacy of racism in the United States of America.

On May 25, 2020, Mr. Floyd died after Derek Chauvin used a lethal maneuver and placed his knee on Mr. Floyd’s neck for 9 minutes and 29 seconds. Mr. Floyd has died physically, but his death is replayed through high-definition social media daily, if not hourly, as I write this article and think of the generational legacy of trauma that African Americans must cope with on an everyday basis. I struggle daily to explain this legacy to my daughters, students, residents, and colleagues. I hope to share with you some of my perspectives on the current trial and give you some insight as to how my training and personal life experience have affected my views on police brutality and the use of lethal force toward African American men.

My earliest recollection of public video-recorded images of police brutality occurred when Rodney King was beaten and assaulted by the Los Angeles Police Department on March 3, 1991. At that time, I was a senior in high school, and the world was different. My clear expectation was that any attempt to resist police arrest would be met with overwhelming and potentially lethal force. This was simply a matter of my daily reality, so, while witnessing the assault of Mr. King, the 17-year-old child didn’t expect much, if any, real change to come about in regard to police brutality. At that time, my mother kept me focused on one singular goal – becoming a physician – and protected me as best she could from the effects of intergenerational trauma woven into the African American experience.

The issue of police brutality and police-involved deaths has been recognized as a significant public health concern for some time. Over the 3 decades since the assault on Mr. King, several researchers have examined these issues. A review of all the research is beyond the scope of this opinion piece. Still, I will highlight a study that I believe illustrates some conclusions scholars have come to regarding police use of lethal force and subsequent mortality in African American men. A recent study by Frank Edwards, PhD, and colleagues, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, showed that Black men were 2.5 times more likely to be killed by police over their life course than White men.

The researchers also developed predictive models that about 1 in 1,000 Black men and boys will be killed by police over their life course, and that among all age groups Black men and boys face the highest lifetime risk. The authors concluded that “Our analysis shows that the risk of being killed by police is jointly patterned by one’s race, gender, and age. Police violence is a leading cause of death for young men, and young men of color face an exceptionally high risk of being killed by police. Inequalities in risk are pronounced throughout the life course. This study reinforces calls to treat police violence as a public health issue.”

Research such as this helps validate on a visceral level what I already was taught: “As a Black male, encounters with police can quickly become deadly, and you must remain calm, or you could die.” This thought process informed much of my thinking whenever I heard about a Black male being fatally shot by police. My first response was to ask, “Was he resisting arrest?” At this time, my naive impression was that “if you don’t resist or conflict, you’ll live.” It wasn’t until my training in psychiatry that I realized that the duty to calm, support, and most importantly, protect was the responsibility of the person who is given the trust of the public. As a psychiatrist, I am humbled by the trust the public places in physicians to restrain patients and take part in their involuntary hospitalizations. Over the years, I learned from my attending physicians, colleagues in security, social work, nursing, assertive community treatment (ACT) teams, and many other allied health professions that the responsibility to show restraint, calm, and compassion lies with those who have the power and trust of the public.

Mostly, I learned from my patients. They taught me to meet distress with compassion and humanity and not simply with force. With those lessons in mind, I now fast forward to July 17, 2014, and the death of Eric Garner. On July 17, New York Police Department officers approached Mr. Garner on the suspicion that he was selling loose cigarettes. Amid this encounter, Mr. Garner was subjected to a chokehold, and his face was pinned to the ground while he can be heard saying, “I can’t breathe.” At this time in my professional career, I had just become a dean of student affairs at the George Washington School of Medicine and Health Sciences. I can still remember the response of my minority students, and the sense of pain and anguish they felt watching the video of a chokehold being used on a man stating, “I can’t breathe.” At this point, my training would not allow me to see this as anything other than an unnecessary use of lethal force that would subsequently be ruled a homicide. I hoped that we as a nation had reached a “reckoning “ because of Mr. Garner’s death and Michael Brown Jr.’s subsequent death in Ferguson, Mo., in St. Louis County, on Aug. 9, 2014. I hoped we were ready to finally address police brutality and excessive use of force that had disproportionately affected Black men. I was utterly wrong. Black men such as Alton Sterling, Jamar Clark, and many others would die in fatal police encounters. So would Tamir Rice, who was 12 years old when he was shot and killed by a police officer.

This brings me back to the death of Mr. Floyd. As I listened to the witnesses’ testimony, it triggered an emotional response from sadness, fear, shock, but mostly anger. Some would consider it progress that the Minneapolis Police Department’s top homicide detective testified that kneeling on Mr. Floyd’s neck after he had been restrained was “unnecessary.” The officer stated, “If your knee is on someone’s neck, that could kill him.” While I acknowledge this is a form of progress, we must ultimately address the other “substantial causal factor of death” for Mr. Floyd. Namely, the systemic racism present in a criminal justice system in the form of policies and procedures that allow for continued racial disparities and inequities.

There will be coverage of the court proceedings and a detailed dissection of the legal arguments. Questions regarding Mr. Floyd’s physical health and struggle with opiate use disorder will be raised by the defense. The debate about the substantial causal factor will be played out in the court and the media. Ultimately, we, as health professionals, need to ask ourselves, “Who has the power and the duty to do no harm?”

Dr. Norris is associate dean of student affairs and administration at George Washington University, Washington. He has no disclosures.

“I’ve given up, doctor. We gave it our best, but I am at the point where I want to end my life.” You receive this call at 2 a.m., and you’re flooded with a series of emotions and are bewildered – until your training kicks in.

Countless hours of working with patients in emergency department settings while on call as a resident inform your ability to triage the situation. Years of supervision guide your supportive statements as you work collaboratively with your patient to address the emotional and existential distress. As the call proceeds and you realize that your patient will require hospitalization, you are struck by a sobering question: “How am I going to arrange for my patient to go to the nearest hospital in the middle of the night?”

The options for transporting patients with serious mental illness (SMI) typically vary from bad to worse and usually filter down to three possibilities:

1. Get a friend or family member to transport them to the nearest ED.

2. Call emergency medical services (EMS) for transport to the nearest ED.

3. Call the police and request transport to the nearest ED.

Several factors would determine which of those options you would use alone or in combination. Current training paradigms for mental health professionals offer a limited body of literature on evidenced-based strategies for patients with SMI. Transporting high-risk psychiatric patients requires great care and respect, and in-depth knowledge about patients’ vulnerabilities. At best – if not handled properly – these experiences can aggravate patients’ mental health conditions. At worst, they can lead to the loss of our patients. Together, we have more than 40 years’ experience working in complex mental health care systems that run the gamut, from providing direct clinical care to directing mental health care divisions.

Sobering statistics prevail

In 2017, suicide was the 10th leading cause of death in the United States, accounting for more than 47,000 deaths. Suicide was the second-leading cause of death among individuals aged 10-34 and the fourth leading cause of death for individuals aged 35- 54.¹ In 2017, more than 70,200 Americans died from a drug overdose, including illicit drugs and prescription opioids.² Drug overdose deaths nearly quadrupled between 1999 and 2017, from 16,849 deaths to 70,237, respectively.²

The life expectancy of an American with SMI is 14-32 years less than that of the average population.³ Those numbers are on par with many sub-Saharan countries, including Sudan and Ethiopia, and surpass the health disparities for most racial and ethnic groups.

The decrease in life expectancy for people with SMI is rarely the result of suicide but rather the effect of medical comorbidities, including heart disease, stroke, pulmonary disease, diabetes, and cancer.³ Individuals with SMI are much more likely to suffer from chronic illnesses that are associated with co-occurring addictions, side effects of psychotropic medications, and social determinants of mental health, such as poverty.

Major depressive disorder among people with SMI presents acute and chronic medical risks. For example, people with major depressive disorder are at a higher risk for stroke and cardiovascular disease.⁴ There is a threefold increase in cardiac-related deaths for individuals who experience depression after a heart attack.⁵ In addition, depression increases the risk of cardiac-related death after a heart attack more than any other risk factor, except for congestive heart failure.⁶

The transportation challenge

When the complexity of psychiatric conditions is conceptualized to include decreased life expectancy because of medical comorbidities, medical complications that can result from psychotropic medications, and the high incidence of co-occurring substance use disorders (SUDs), it is clear why we are concerned about the type of transport used for patients experiencing a psychiatric emergency.

A common practice for patients presenting for medical treatment for a mental health condition is for them to be transported by law enforcement in handcuffs, or by private vehicle, because of a lack of medical transport options.

One tragic example occurred on Sept. 18, 2018, when two Horry County, S.C., deputies were providing a hospital-to-hospital transport for two mental health patients. The patients, who had no legal charges and were not under arrest, were locked in a transport cage in the back of a law enforcement vehicle for transport during Hurricane Florence. While the driver tried to move through floodwaters, the car stalled and became submerged. The patients were unable to open the locked cage door, and the deputies responsible for the transport did not have a key to unlock the cage.

The two women died as a result of the incident. Both deputies are facing two counts of involuntary manslaughter – with a potential prison sentence of 5 years each.⁷

The system that promotes the use of law enforcement to transport medical patients who are not in legal custody perpetuates a high risk to patients. Also at risk are law enforcement professionals who often are not adequately trained to evaluate, intervene, and manage patients in need of medical treatment (for acute medical, SUDs, or mental illness).
 

Recommendations for transporting high-risk patients

The legal and regulatory standards required by the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services guidelines⁸ for behavioral health patients are consistent in saying that law enforcement restraints cannot be used in hospital settings – unless the patient is under law enforcement custody. If the patient is admitted to an inpatient psychiatric unit, law enforcement restraints are never allowed to be used. Despite those guidelines for handling these situations within hospital settings, a similar standard does not exist for interhospital transport of high-risk behavioral health patients.

Patients often are transported between facilities by law enforcement, and at times, with the use of law enforcement restraints. However, use of law enforcement for interhospital transport of patients not in the custody of law enforcement is both detrimental to and clinically dangerous for the patient. Not only does the scenario put the patient at risk, but it also places law enforcement professionals at risk with the potential for legal liability if the patient medically decompensates during the transport.

Also, using law enforcement to intervene and provide transportation for behavioral health patients in crisis might cause further harm to the patient’s psychological condition and deter the patient from presenting for treatment.

The appropriate level of interfacility transport for a behavioral health patient requiring an inpatient level of care is secure transport with trained medical professionals. If necessary, restraint guidelines should follow the same standard as they do in hospital settings. In situations with high risk for violence or agitation, law enforcement should be requested to accompany EMS during the transport. Handling the situation in this way allows for a collaborative approach to provide adequate medical support, and provide for the physical safety and security of the patient – and of EMS personnel.

Across police and sheriffs’ departments nationwide, law enforcement officers are required to transport mental health patients from one location or hospital to another. Hospitals and outpatient locations, often with no alternative, rely on local law enforcement agencies to provide safe transport between acute and mental health facilities. Departmental policies and the widespread belief that mental health patients automatically pose a substantial danger to themselves or others have led to these patients being handcuffed and put in the back of police cruisers. Essentially, they are treated like criminals who are under arrest.

The CMS has strict criteria for ordering, applying, evaluating, reevaluating, and reporting restraint-associated deaths. Likewise, The Joint Commission, during its accreditation survey, rightly scrutinizes a facility’s use of restraints. Both the CMS and The Joint Commission define restraint by the function of the device and not the type of the device.

According to the CMS, a restraint is any manual method, physical or mechanic device, material, or equipment that immobilizes or reduces the ability of a patient to move his or her arms, legs, body, or head freely. Within a police cruiser, handcuffs on a mental health patient who is not under arrest would fall squarely within this definition of restraint.

A patient’s current behavior or clinical needs – not history or diagnosis – should determine whether a restraint is warranted. A patient experiencing a psychiatric crisis who is not under arrest might very well escalate and become destructive and combative when being placed in handcuffs in the back of a police vehicle. What should police do at that point? Should they arrest the individual? We offer the following five recommendations.
 

Key recommendations

• Patients who require interhospital transport for an acute behavioral health crisis should be transported by medical professionals with the training and expertise to manage mental health and medical conditions.
• Interhospital transport restraint guidelines should be in line with CMS guidelines for hospital restraints. No patient that is not under law enforcement custody should be transported in law enforcement restraints.
• Patients at high risk for violence/agitation (an underlying condition causing violence/agitation may include dementia, traumatic brain injuries, delirium, SUDs, or psychiatric conditions) should be managed in accordance with medically indicated intervention such as medical restraints or medications.
• If required, a request should be made for law enforcement officers to accompany EMS to provide support and to ensure the safety of the patient and EMS professionals during the transport.
• EMS professionals should receive specific training to manage acute psychiatric and SUD conditions, and should be aware of the life-threatening medical complications that can result from SUDs and psychiatric conditions/medications.

We recognize that patients with SMI require clinicians to work collaboratively, perhaps with law enforcement, to safely transport them from one point to another. Only when the rules we have outlined are followed will our patients get transported in such ways that allow them to get the care they need.
 

Dr. Norris is editor-in-chief of MDedge Psychiatry, and assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University, Washington. He serves as assistant dean of student affairs at the university, and medical director of psychiatric and behavioral sciences at GWU Hospital. Ms. Palmieri is a managing partner of Healthcare Legal Education & Consulting Network (HLECN), and the chief clinical officer and cofounder of XFERALL. HLECN focuses on clinical education and training, and XFERALL is a company that provides a technology platform aimed at improving access to care for behavioral health and medical patients. Ms. Slater is a managing partner of legal education for HLECN, and a trial attorney at Colley Shroyer & Abraham in Columbus, Ohio. Mr. Whaley is director of the safety and security department at GWU Hospital.

References

1. National Institute of Mental Health: Suicide.

2. National Institute on Drug Abuse. Overdose death rates. Revised January 2019.

3. Post by former NIMH Director Thomas Insel: No health without mental health. Sept. 6, 2011.

4. Dhar AK and Barton DA. Depression and the link with cardiovascular disease. Front Psychiatry. 2016 Mar 21;7:33.

5. Lichtman JH et al. Depression and coronary heart disease. Circulation. 2008;118:1768-75.

6. Hare DL et al. Depression and cardiovascular disease: A clinical review. European Heart J. 2014 Jun;35(21):1365-72.

7. “ ‘How many people have to die?’ SC mental health patients endure nightmare transport.” The News & Observer. 2019 May 29.

8. 42 C.F.R. Part 482. Part IV. Department of Health and Human Services. Medicare & Medicaid programs; Hospital conditions of participation; Patients’ rights; Final rule. 2006 Dec 8.

“I’ve given up, doctor. We gave it our best, but I am at the point where I want to end my life.” You receive this call at 2 a.m., and you’re flooded with a series of emotions and are bewildered – until your training kicks in.

Countless hours of working with patients in emergency department settings while on call as a resident inform your ability to triage the situation. Years of supervision guide your supportive statements as you work collaboratively with your patient to address the emotional and existential distress. As the call proceeds and you realize that your patient will require hospitalization, you are struck by a sobering question: “How am I going to arrange for my patient to go to the nearest hospital in the middle of the night?”

The options for transporting patients with serious mental illness (SMI) typically vary from bad to worse and usually filter down to three possibilities:

1. Get a friend or family member to transport them to the nearest ED.

2. Call emergency medical services (EMS) for transport to the nearest ED.

3. Call the police and request transport to the nearest ED.

Several factors would determine which of those options you would use alone or in combination. Current training paradigms for mental health professionals offer a limited body of literature on evidenced-based strategies for patients with SMI. Transporting high-risk psychiatric patients requires great care and respect, and in-depth knowledge about patients’ vulnerabilities. At best – if not handled properly – these experiences can aggravate patients’ mental health conditions. At worst, they can lead to the loss of our patients. Together, we have more than 40 years’ experience working in complex mental health care systems that run the gamut, from providing direct clinical care to directing mental health care divisions.

Sobering statistics prevail

In 2017, suicide was the 10th leading cause of death in the United States, accounting for more than 47,000 deaths. Suicide was the second-leading cause of death among individuals aged 10-34 and the fourth leading cause of death for individuals aged 35- 54.¹ In 2017, more than 70,200 Americans died from a drug overdose, including illicit drugs and prescription opioids.² Drug overdose deaths nearly quadrupled between 1999 and 2017, from 16,849 deaths to 70,237, respectively.²

The life expectancy of an American with SMI is 14-32 years less than that of the average population.³ Those numbers are on par with many sub-Saharan countries, including Sudan and Ethiopia, and surpass the health disparities for most racial and ethnic groups.

The decrease in life expectancy for people with SMI is rarely the result of suicide but rather the effect of medical comorbidities, including heart disease, stroke, pulmonary disease, diabetes, and cancer.³ Individuals with SMI are much more likely to suffer from chronic illnesses that are associated with co-occurring addictions, side effects of psychotropic medications, and social determinants of mental health, such as poverty.

Major depressive disorder among people with SMI presents acute and chronic medical risks. For example, people with major depressive disorder are at a higher risk for stroke and cardiovascular disease.⁴ There is a threefold increase in cardiac-related deaths for individuals who experience depression after a heart attack.⁵ In addition, depression increases the risk of cardiac-related death after a heart attack more than any other risk factor, except for congestive heart failure.⁶

The transportation challenge

When the complexity of psychiatric conditions is conceptualized to include decreased life expectancy because of medical comorbidities, medical complications that can result from psychotropic medications, and the high incidence of co-occurring substance use disorders (SUDs), it is clear why we are concerned about the type of transport used for patients experiencing a psychiatric emergency.

A common practice for patients presenting for medical treatment for a mental health condition is for them to be transported by law enforcement in handcuffs, or by private vehicle, because of a lack of medical transport options.

One tragic example occurred on Sept. 18, 2018, when two Horry County, S.C., deputies were providing a hospital-to-hospital transport for two mental health patients. The patients, who had no legal charges and were not under arrest, were locked in a transport cage in the back of a law enforcement vehicle for transport during Hurricane Florence. While the driver tried to move through floodwaters, the car stalled and became submerged. The patients were unable to open the locked cage door, and the deputies responsible for the transport did not have a key to unlock the cage.

The two women died as a result of the incident. Both deputies are facing two counts of involuntary manslaughter – with a potential prison sentence of 5 years each.⁷

The system that promotes the use of law enforcement to transport medical patients who are not in legal custody perpetuates a high risk to patients. Also at risk are law enforcement professionals who often are not adequately trained to evaluate, intervene, and manage patients in need of medical treatment (for acute medical, SUDs, or mental illness).
 

Recommendations for transporting high-risk patients

The legal and regulatory standards required by the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services guidelines⁸ for behavioral health patients are consistent in saying that law enforcement restraints cannot be used in hospital settings – unless the patient is under law enforcement custody. If the patient is admitted to an inpatient psychiatric unit, law enforcement restraints are never allowed to be used. Despite those guidelines for handling these situations within hospital settings, a similar standard does not exist for interhospital transport of high-risk behavioral health patients.

Patients often are transported between facilities by law enforcement, and at times, with the use of law enforcement restraints. However, use of law enforcement for interhospital transport of patients not in the custody of law enforcement is both detrimental to and clinically dangerous for the patient. Not only does the scenario put the patient at risk, but it also places law enforcement professionals at risk with the potential for legal liability if the patient medically decompensates during the transport.

Also, using law enforcement to intervene and provide transportation for behavioral health patients in crisis might cause further harm to the patient’s psychological condition and deter the patient from presenting for treatment.

The appropriate level of interfacility transport for a behavioral health patient requiring an inpatient level of care is secure transport with trained medical professionals. If necessary, restraint guidelines should follow the same standard as they do in hospital settings. In situations with high risk for violence or agitation, law enforcement should be requested to accompany EMS during the transport. Handling the situation in this way allows for a collaborative approach to provide adequate medical support, and provide for the physical safety and security of the patient – and of EMS personnel.

Across police and sheriffs’ departments nationwide, law enforcement officers are required to transport mental health patients from one location or hospital to another. Hospitals and outpatient locations, often with no alternative, rely on local law enforcement agencies to provide safe transport between acute and mental health facilities. Departmental policies and the widespread belief that mental health patients automatically pose a substantial danger to themselves or others have led to these patients being handcuffed and put in the back of police cruisers. Essentially, they are treated like criminals who are under arrest.

The CMS has strict criteria for ordering, applying, evaluating, reevaluating, and reporting restraint-associated deaths. Likewise, The Joint Commission, during its accreditation survey, rightly scrutinizes a facility’s use of restraints. Both the CMS and The Joint Commission define restraint by the function of the device and not the type of the device.

According to the CMS, a restraint is any manual method, physical or mechanic device, material, or equipment that immobilizes or reduces the ability of a patient to move his or her arms, legs, body, or head freely. Within a police cruiser, handcuffs on a mental health patient who is not under arrest would fall squarely within this definition of restraint.

A patient’s current behavior or clinical needs – not history or diagnosis – should determine whether a restraint is warranted. A patient experiencing a psychiatric crisis who is not under arrest might very well escalate and become destructive and combative when being placed in handcuffs in the back of a police vehicle. What should police do at that point? Should they arrest the individual? We offer the following five recommendations.
 

Key recommendations

• Patients who require interhospital transport for an acute behavioral health crisis should be transported by medical professionals with the training and expertise to manage mental health and medical conditions.
• Interhospital transport restraint guidelines should be in line with CMS guidelines for hospital restraints. No patient that is not under law enforcement custody should be transported in law enforcement restraints.
• Patients at high risk for violence/agitation (an underlying condition causing violence/agitation may include dementia, traumatic brain injuries, delirium, SUDs, or psychiatric conditions) should be managed in accordance with medically indicated intervention such as medical restraints or medications.
• If required, a request should be made for law enforcement officers to accompany EMS to provide support and to ensure the safety of the patient and EMS professionals during the transport.
• EMS professionals should receive specific training to manage acute psychiatric and SUD conditions, and should be aware of the life-threatening medical complications that can result from SUDs and psychiatric conditions/medications.

We recognize that patients with SMI require clinicians to work collaboratively, perhaps with law enforcement, to safely transport them from one point to another. Only when the rules we have outlined are followed will our patients get transported in such ways that allow them to get the care they need.
 

Dr. Norris is editor-in-chief of MDedge Psychiatry, and assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University, Washington. He serves as assistant dean of student affairs at the university, and medical director of psychiatric and behavioral sciences at GWU Hospital. Ms. Palmieri is a managing partner of Healthcare Legal Education & Consulting Network (HLECN), and the chief clinical officer and cofounder of XFERALL. HLECN focuses on clinical education and training, and XFERALL is a company that provides a technology platform aimed at improving access to care for behavioral health and medical patients. Ms. Slater is a managing partner of legal education for HLECN, and a trial attorney at Colley Shroyer & Abraham in Columbus, Ohio. Mr. Whaley is director of the safety and security department at GWU Hospital.

References

1. National Institute of Mental Health: Suicide.

2. National Institute on Drug Abuse. Overdose death rates. Revised January 2019.

3. Post by former NIMH Director Thomas Insel: No health without mental health. Sept. 6, 2011.

4. Dhar AK and Barton DA. Depression and the link with cardiovascular disease. Front Psychiatry. 2016 Mar 21;7:33.

5. Lichtman JH et al. Depression and coronary heart disease. Circulation. 2008;118:1768-75.

6. Hare DL et al. Depression and cardiovascular disease: A clinical review. European Heart J. 2014 Jun;35(21):1365-72.

7. “ ‘How many people have to die?’ SC mental health patients endure nightmare transport.” The News & Observer. 2019 May 29.

8. 42 C.F.R. Part 482. Part IV. Department of Health and Human Services. Medicare & Medicaid programs; Hospital conditions of participation; Patients’ rights; Final rule. 2006 Dec 8.

“I’ve given up, doctor. We gave it our best, but I am at the point where I want to end my life.” You receive this call at 2 a.m., and you’re flooded with a series of emotions and are bewildered – until your training kicks in.

Countless hours of working with patients in emergency department settings while on call as a resident inform your ability to triage the situation. Years of supervision guide your supportive statements as you work collaboratively with your patient to address the emotional and existential distress. As the call proceeds and you realize that your patient will require hospitalization, you are struck by a sobering question: “How am I going to arrange for my patient to go to the nearest hospital in the middle of the night?”

The options for transporting patients with serious mental illness (SMI) typically vary from bad to worse and usually filter down to three possibilities:

1. Get a friend or family member to transport them to the nearest ED.

2. Call emergency medical services (EMS) for transport to the nearest ED.

3. Call the police and request transport to the nearest ED.

Several factors would determine which of those options you would use alone or in combination. Current training paradigms for mental health professionals offer a limited body of literature on evidenced-based strategies for patients with SMI. Transporting high-risk psychiatric patients requires great care and respect, and in-depth knowledge about patients’ vulnerabilities. At best – if not handled properly – these experiences can aggravate patients’ mental health conditions. At worst, they can lead to the loss of our patients. Together, we have more than 40 years’ experience working in complex mental health care systems that run the gamut, from providing direct clinical care to directing mental health care divisions.

Sobering statistics prevail

In 2017, suicide was the 10th leading cause of death in the United States, accounting for more than 47,000 deaths. Suicide was the second-leading cause of death among individuals aged 10-34 and the fourth leading cause of death for individuals aged 35- 54.¹ In 2017, more than 70,200 Americans died from a drug overdose, including illicit drugs and prescription opioids.² Drug overdose deaths nearly quadrupled between 1999 and 2017, from 16,849 deaths to 70,237, respectively.²

The life expectancy of an American with SMI is 14-32 years less than that of the average population.³ Those numbers are on par with many sub-Saharan countries, including Sudan and Ethiopia, and surpass the health disparities for most racial and ethnic groups.

The decrease in life expectancy for people with SMI is rarely the result of suicide but rather the effect of medical comorbidities, including heart disease, stroke, pulmonary disease, diabetes, and cancer.³ Individuals with SMI are much more likely to suffer from chronic illnesses that are associated with co-occurring addictions, side effects of psychotropic medications, and social determinants of mental health, such as poverty.

Major depressive disorder among people with SMI presents acute and chronic medical risks. For example, people with major depressive disorder are at a higher risk for stroke and cardiovascular disease.⁴ There is a threefold increase in cardiac-related deaths for individuals who experience depression after a heart attack.⁵ In addition, depression increases the risk of cardiac-related death after a heart attack more than any other risk factor, except for congestive heart failure.⁶

The transportation challenge

When the complexity of psychiatric conditions is conceptualized to include decreased life expectancy because of medical comorbidities, medical complications that can result from psychotropic medications, and the high incidence of co-occurring substance use disorders (SUDs), it is clear why we are concerned about the type of transport used for patients experiencing a psychiatric emergency.

A common practice for patients presenting for medical treatment for a mental health condition is for them to be transported by law enforcement in handcuffs, or by private vehicle, because of a lack of medical transport options.

One tragic example occurred on Sept. 18, 2018, when two Horry County, S.C., deputies were providing a hospital-to-hospital transport for two mental health patients. The patients, who had no legal charges and were not under arrest, were locked in a transport cage in the back of a law enforcement vehicle for transport during Hurricane Florence. While the driver tried to move through floodwaters, the car stalled and became submerged. The patients were unable to open the locked cage door, and the deputies responsible for the transport did not have a key to unlock the cage.

The two women died as a result of the incident. Both deputies are facing two counts of involuntary manslaughter – with a potential prison sentence of 5 years each.⁷

The system that promotes the use of law enforcement to transport medical patients who are not in legal custody perpetuates a high risk to patients. Also at risk are law enforcement professionals who often are not adequately trained to evaluate, intervene, and manage patients in need of medical treatment (for acute medical, SUDs, or mental illness).
 

Recommendations for transporting high-risk patients

The legal and regulatory standards required by the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services guidelines⁸ for behavioral health patients are consistent in saying that law enforcement restraints cannot be used in hospital settings – unless the patient is under law enforcement custody. If the patient is admitted to an inpatient psychiatric unit, law enforcement restraints are never allowed to be used. Despite those guidelines for handling these situations within hospital settings, a similar standard does not exist for interhospital transport of high-risk behavioral health patients.

Patients often are transported between facilities by law enforcement, and at times, with the use of law enforcement restraints. However, use of law enforcement for interhospital transport of patients not in the custody of law enforcement is both detrimental to and clinically dangerous for the patient. Not only does the scenario put the patient at risk, but it also places law enforcement professionals at risk with the potential for legal liability if the patient medically decompensates during the transport.

Also, using law enforcement to intervene and provide transportation for behavioral health patients in crisis might cause further harm to the patient’s psychological condition and deter the patient from presenting for treatment.

The appropriate level of interfacility transport for a behavioral health patient requiring an inpatient level of care is secure transport with trained medical professionals. If necessary, restraint guidelines should follow the same standard as they do in hospital settings. In situations with high risk for violence or agitation, law enforcement should be requested to accompany EMS during the transport. Handling the situation in this way allows for a collaborative approach to provide adequate medical support, and provide for the physical safety and security of the patient – and of EMS personnel.

Across police and sheriffs’ departments nationwide, law enforcement officers are required to transport mental health patients from one location or hospital to another. Hospitals and outpatient locations, often with no alternative, rely on local law enforcement agencies to provide safe transport between acute and mental health facilities. Departmental policies and the widespread belief that mental health patients automatically pose a substantial danger to themselves or others have led to these patients being handcuffed and put in the back of police cruisers. Essentially, they are treated like criminals who are under arrest.

The CMS has strict criteria for ordering, applying, evaluating, reevaluating, and reporting restraint-associated deaths. Likewise, The Joint Commission, during its accreditation survey, rightly scrutinizes a facility’s use of restraints. Both the CMS and The Joint Commission define restraint by the function of the device and not the type of the device.

According to the CMS, a restraint is any manual method, physical or mechanic device, material, or equipment that immobilizes or reduces the ability of a patient to move his or her arms, legs, body, or head freely. Within a police cruiser, handcuffs on a mental health patient who is not under arrest would fall squarely within this definition of restraint.

A patient’s current behavior or clinical needs – not history or diagnosis – should determine whether a restraint is warranted. A patient experiencing a psychiatric crisis who is not under arrest might very well escalate and become destructive and combative when being placed in handcuffs in the back of a police vehicle. What should police do at that point? Should they arrest the individual? We offer the following five recommendations.
 

Key recommendations

• Patients who require interhospital transport for an acute behavioral health crisis should be transported by medical professionals with the training and expertise to manage mental health and medical conditions.
• Interhospital transport restraint guidelines should be in line with CMS guidelines for hospital restraints. No patient that is not under law enforcement custody should be transported in law enforcement restraints.
• Patients at high risk for violence/agitation (an underlying condition causing violence/agitation may include dementia, traumatic brain injuries, delirium, SUDs, or psychiatric conditions) should be managed in accordance with medically indicated intervention such as medical restraints or medications.
• If required, a request should be made for law enforcement officers to accompany EMS to provide support and to ensure the safety of the patient and EMS professionals during the transport.
• EMS professionals should receive specific training to manage acute psychiatric and SUD conditions, and should be aware of the life-threatening medical complications that can result from SUDs and psychiatric conditions/medications.

We recognize that patients with SMI require clinicians to work collaboratively, perhaps with law enforcement, to safely transport them from one point to another. Only when the rules we have outlined are followed will our patients get transported in such ways that allow them to get the care they need.
 

Dr. Norris is editor-in-chief of MDedge Psychiatry, and assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University, Washington. He serves as assistant dean of student affairs at the university, and medical director of psychiatric and behavioral sciences at GWU Hospital. Ms. Palmieri is a managing partner of Healthcare Legal Education & Consulting Network (HLECN), and the chief clinical officer and cofounder of XFERALL. HLECN focuses on clinical education and training, and XFERALL is a company that provides a technology platform aimed at improving access to care for behavioral health and medical patients. Ms. Slater is a managing partner of legal education for HLECN, and a trial attorney at Colley Shroyer & Abraham in Columbus, Ohio. Mr. Whaley is director of the safety and security department at GWU Hospital.

References

1. National Institute of Mental Health: Suicide.

2. National Institute on Drug Abuse. Overdose death rates. Revised January 2019.

3. Post by former NIMH Director Thomas Insel: No health without mental health. Sept. 6, 2011.

4. Dhar AK and Barton DA. Depression and the link with cardiovascular disease. Front Psychiatry. 2016 Mar 21;7:33.

5. Lichtman JH et al. Depression and coronary heart disease. Circulation. 2008;118:1768-75.

6. Hare DL et al. Depression and cardiovascular disease: A clinical review. European Heart J. 2014 Jun;35(21):1365-72.

7. “ ‘How many people have to die?’ SC mental health patients endure nightmare transport.” The News & Observer. 2019 May 29.

8. 42 C.F.R. Part 482. Part IV. Department of Health and Human Services. Medicare & Medicaid programs; Hospital conditions of participation; Patients’ rights; Final rule. 2006 Dec 8.

Carl C. Bell, MD, started his career by asking the hard questions that no one dared to ask. His curiosity, courage, and compassion for all communities would lead him to impact the world in ways that few psychiatrists could ever imagine.

His accomplishments were many and far-reaching, dating back over 4 decades of service and research. He was a prolific author and researcher, having written more than 400 books, chapters, and articles. His research covered a lot of ground, but four critical areas of focus were childhood trauma, violence prevention, criminal justice reform, and most recently, fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

The word “visionary” is frequently overused. But when we apply it to Dr. Carl Bell, the word does not do him justice. If you take a closer look at all four of those areas, you can see a common thread: What are the elements of a society that can tear communities apart?

When I look at Dr. Bell’s research, I see a man with a dedicated vision to addressing each of those elements in systematic way, and a determination to bring the results of that research into his Southside Chicago community in numerous ways, including by serving as president and CEO of the Community Mental Health Council, and as director of the Institute for Juvenile Research at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Dr. Bell was a leader for his patients as well as for black psychiatrists. He was a founding member of Black Psychiatrists of America and served as a mentor in some way to the vast majority of black psychiatrists currently practicing in the country. As a black male psychiatrist, I saw Dr. Bell as a source of inspiration in my career and the standard by which I measured myself. I’m not talking about awards or accomplishments, as Dr. Bell has countless accolades, including most recently, being presented this year with the American Psychiatric Association’s Adolph Meyer Award for Lifetime Achievement in Psychiatric Research and the National Medical Association’s Scroll of Merit. I am referring to Dr. Bell’s willingness to walk away from something he thought was wrong.

For every accolade he won or prestigious committee he served on, I would wager that he declined or stepped way from just as many. Dr. Bell’s character and vision for psychiatry in general, and the mental health of African American communities specifically, would not allow him to pay lip service to agendas that were self-serving, and did not push the field and communities forward.

During his service as an editorial advisory board member for Clinical Psychiatry News, Dr. Bell could always be relied upon to offer an insightful perspective to any discussion, ranging from violence prevention to the social determinants of health and their role in fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

What I will remember most about Dr. Bell is his strong character. My guess is that he was never shy about stating the truth to a patient or a president of the United States. He possessed the intellect to back up any of his views while also having the humility of a dedicated community psychiatrist who worked for no other reason than to serve his patients.

When I first met Dr. Bell, he was giving a grand rounds at the George Washington University department of psychiatry. He was wearing a hat during the lecture and a belt with the Superman logo. I thought to myself, “Whoa, this is a different type of guy,” then I sat and listened to the talk, and was utterly astounded by his intellect, humor, honesty, and passion for his patients. I had never heard a psychiatrist speak with a combination of such command and approachability, and again, I thought to myself, “Whoa, this is a different type of guy.”

Little did I know that Dr. Bell and I would end up serving together on the editorial board of CPN. I loved seeing Dr. Bell, and catching up and gleaning from his wisdom. I was very humbled by how generous Dr. Bell was with his time and the extent to which he would make himself available as a mentor. During a CPN board meeting, we were trying to come up with a mantra that would capture the mission of the new MDedge Psychiatry website. Dr. Bell (in a hat, of course) let everyone else talk, and then, in a calm voice, said: “We ask the hard questions.” As editor in chief of MDedge Psychiatry, I knew this had to be the mantra. It was aspirational, gave us an identity, and held our feet to the fire – to always ask hard questions in the service of patients and readers. I looked forward to discussing the evolution of the site, seeing him at meetings and conferences, brainstorming the implications of new advances in the field, and simply walking down the street and laughing.

Those events will never occur again, because Carl left us on Thursday, Aug 1. We at MDedge Psychiatry are grieving the loss of a colleague and friend. Carl has left us with a legacy of work that we are still coming to appreciate. He left us with a mandate to pursue the truth and make an impact in our communities. He taught black psychiatrists what it meant to stand up unapologetically for your community and society. As I reflect on the scope of his life, I have one last hard question for Carl: “Why did you have to leave us so soon?”

Dr. Norris is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University, Washington. He also serves as assistant dean of student affairs at the university, and medical director of psychiatric and behavioral sciences at GWU Hospital. Dr. Norris also is host of the MDedge Psychcast.

Carl C. Bell, MD, started his career by asking the hard questions that no one dared to ask. His curiosity, courage, and compassion for all communities would lead him to impact the world in ways that few psychiatrists could ever imagine.

His accomplishments were many and far-reaching, dating back over 4 decades of service and research. He was a prolific author and researcher, having written more than 400 books, chapters, and articles. His research covered a lot of ground, but four critical areas of focus were childhood trauma, violence prevention, criminal justice reform, and most recently, fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

The word “visionary” is frequently overused. But when we apply it to Dr. Carl Bell, the word does not do him justice. If you take a closer look at all four of those areas, you can see a common thread: What are the elements of a society that can tear communities apart?

When I look at Dr. Bell’s research, I see a man with a dedicated vision to addressing each of those elements in systematic way, and a determination to bring the results of that research into his Southside Chicago community in numerous ways, including by serving as president and CEO of the Community Mental Health Council, and as director of the Institute for Juvenile Research at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Dr. Bell was a leader for his patients as well as for black psychiatrists. He was a founding member of Black Psychiatrists of America and served as a mentor in some way to the vast majority of black psychiatrists currently practicing in the country. As a black male psychiatrist, I saw Dr. Bell as a source of inspiration in my career and the standard by which I measured myself. I’m not talking about awards or accomplishments, as Dr. Bell has countless accolades, including most recently, being presented this year with the American Psychiatric Association’s Adolph Meyer Award for Lifetime Achievement in Psychiatric Research and the National Medical Association’s Scroll of Merit. I am referring to Dr. Bell’s willingness to walk away from something he thought was wrong.

For every accolade he won or prestigious committee he served on, I would wager that he declined or stepped way from just as many. Dr. Bell’s character and vision for psychiatry in general, and the mental health of African American communities specifically, would not allow him to pay lip service to agendas that were self-serving, and did not push the field and communities forward.

During his service as an editorial advisory board member for Clinical Psychiatry News, Dr. Bell could always be relied upon to offer an insightful perspective to any discussion, ranging from violence prevention to the social determinants of health and their role in fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

What I will remember most about Dr. Bell is his strong character. My guess is that he was never shy about stating the truth to a patient or a president of the United States. He possessed the intellect to back up any of his views while also having the humility of a dedicated community psychiatrist who worked for no other reason than to serve his patients.

When I first met Dr. Bell, he was giving a grand rounds at the George Washington University department of psychiatry. He was wearing a hat during the lecture and a belt with the Superman logo. I thought to myself, “Whoa, this is a different type of guy,” then I sat and listened to the talk, and was utterly astounded by his intellect, humor, honesty, and passion for his patients. I had never heard a psychiatrist speak with a combination of such command and approachability, and again, I thought to myself, “Whoa, this is a different type of guy.”

Little did I know that Dr. Bell and I would end up serving together on the editorial board of CPN. I loved seeing Dr. Bell, and catching up and gleaning from his wisdom. I was very humbled by how generous Dr. Bell was with his time and the extent to which he would make himself available as a mentor. During a CPN board meeting, we were trying to come up with a mantra that would capture the mission of the new MDedge Psychiatry website. Dr. Bell (in a hat, of course) let everyone else talk, and then, in a calm voice, said: “We ask the hard questions.” As editor in chief of MDedge Psychiatry, I knew this had to be the mantra. It was aspirational, gave us an identity, and held our feet to the fire – to always ask hard questions in the service of patients and readers. I looked forward to discussing the evolution of the site, seeing him at meetings and conferences, brainstorming the implications of new advances in the field, and simply walking down the street and laughing.

Those events will never occur again, because Carl left us on Thursday, Aug 1. We at MDedge Psychiatry are grieving the loss of a colleague and friend. Carl has left us with a legacy of work that we are still coming to appreciate. He left us with a mandate to pursue the truth and make an impact in our communities. He taught black psychiatrists what it meant to stand up unapologetically for your community and society. As I reflect on the scope of his life, I have one last hard question for Carl: “Why did you have to leave us so soon?”

Dr. Norris is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University, Washington. He also serves as assistant dean of student affairs at the university, and medical director of psychiatric and behavioral sciences at GWU Hospital. Dr. Norris also is host of the MDedge Psychcast.

Carl C. Bell, MD, started his career by asking the hard questions that no one dared to ask. His curiosity, courage, and compassion for all communities would lead him to impact the world in ways that few psychiatrists could ever imagine.

His accomplishments were many and far-reaching, dating back over 4 decades of service and research. He was a prolific author and researcher, having written more than 400 books, chapters, and articles. His research covered a lot of ground, but four critical areas of focus were childhood trauma, violence prevention, criminal justice reform, and most recently, fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

The word “visionary” is frequently overused. But when we apply it to Dr. Carl Bell, the word does not do him justice. If you take a closer look at all four of those areas, you can see a common thread: What are the elements of a society that can tear communities apart?

When I look at Dr. Bell’s research, I see a man with a dedicated vision to addressing each of those elements in systematic way, and a determination to bring the results of that research into his Southside Chicago community in numerous ways, including by serving as president and CEO of the Community Mental Health Council, and as director of the Institute for Juvenile Research at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Dr. Bell was a leader for his patients as well as for black psychiatrists. He was a founding member of Black Psychiatrists of America and served as a mentor in some way to the vast majority of black psychiatrists currently practicing in the country. As a black male psychiatrist, I saw Dr. Bell as a source of inspiration in my career and the standard by which I measured myself. I’m not talking about awards or accomplishments, as Dr. Bell has countless accolades, including most recently, being presented this year with the American Psychiatric Association’s Adolph Meyer Award for Lifetime Achievement in Psychiatric Research and the National Medical Association’s Scroll of Merit. I am referring to Dr. Bell’s willingness to walk away from something he thought was wrong.

For every accolade he won or prestigious committee he served on, I would wager that he declined or stepped way from just as many. Dr. Bell’s character and vision for psychiatry in general, and the mental health of African American communities specifically, would not allow him to pay lip service to agendas that were self-serving, and did not push the field and communities forward.

During his service as an editorial advisory board member for Clinical Psychiatry News, Dr. Bell could always be relied upon to offer an insightful perspective to any discussion, ranging from violence prevention to the social determinants of health and their role in fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

What I will remember most about Dr. Bell is his strong character. My guess is that he was never shy about stating the truth to a patient or a president of the United States. He possessed the intellect to back up any of his views while also having the humility of a dedicated community psychiatrist who worked for no other reason than to serve his patients.

When I first met Dr. Bell, he was giving a grand rounds at the George Washington University department of psychiatry. He was wearing a hat during the lecture and a belt with the Superman logo. I thought to myself, “Whoa, this is a different type of guy,” then I sat and listened to the talk, and was utterly astounded by his intellect, humor, honesty, and passion for his patients. I had never heard a psychiatrist speak with a combination of such command and approachability, and again, I thought to myself, “Whoa, this is a different type of guy.”

Little did I know that Dr. Bell and I would end up serving together on the editorial board of CPN. I loved seeing Dr. Bell, and catching up and gleaning from his wisdom. I was very humbled by how generous Dr. Bell was with his time and the extent to which he would make himself available as a mentor. During a CPN board meeting, we were trying to come up with a mantra that would capture the mission of the new MDedge Psychiatry website. Dr. Bell (in a hat, of course) let everyone else talk, and then, in a calm voice, said: “We ask the hard questions.” As editor in chief of MDedge Psychiatry, I knew this had to be the mantra. It was aspirational, gave us an identity, and held our feet to the fire – to always ask hard questions in the service of patients and readers. I looked forward to discussing the evolution of the site, seeing him at meetings and conferences, brainstorming the implications of new advances in the field, and simply walking down the street and laughing.

Those events will never occur again, because Carl left us on Thursday, Aug 1. We at MDedge Psychiatry are grieving the loss of a colleague and friend. Carl has left us with a legacy of work that we are still coming to appreciate. He left us with a mandate to pursue the truth and make an impact in our communities. He taught black psychiatrists what it meant to stand up unapologetically for your community and society. As I reflect on the scope of his life, I have one last hard question for Carl: “Why did you have to leave us so soon?”

Dr. Norris is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at George Washington University, Washington. He also serves as assistant dean of student affairs at the university, and medical director of psychiatric and behavioral sciences at GWU Hospital. Dr. Norris also is host of the MDedge Psychcast.

The mounting impact of mental illness on patients and the American health care system has been of growing concern, especially in recent years. As such, now more than ever, it is important to understand the mental health burden and investigate the factors contributing to the elevated use of emergency departments to treat patients with psychiatric illness.

In recent years, the overall prevalence of mental illness has not changed drastically. According to the 2014 National Survey of Drug Use and Health, 18.1% of adults indicated having “any mental illness,” a prevalence that had not changed much since 2008.¹ It is possible, however, that despite the relative stability in the prevalence of mental illness, the acuity of mental illness may be on the rise. For instance, 4.1% of adults indicated having a “serious mental illness” (SMI) in 2014, a prevalence that was 0.4% higher than that of 2008 and 2009.¹ Also, of note, the prevalence of SMI among the 18-to-25-year-old population in 2014 had increased in previous years.¹ Meanwhile, 6.6% of adults indicated having experienced a major depressive episode at least once in the preceding 12 months. That prevalence has held relatively steady over recent years.¹

References

1. “Behavioral Health Trends in the United States: Results from the 2014 National Survey on Drug Use and Health.”

2. “Increase in Suicide in the United States, 1999-2014.” NCHS Data Brief No. 241, April 2016.

3. Web-Based Injury Statistics Query and Reporting System (WISQARS), Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

4. National Health Policy Forum Issue Brief (2007 Aug 1;[823]:1-21).

5. “No Room at the Inn: Trends and Consequences of Closing Public Psychiatric Hospitals, 2005-2010,” Arlington, Va.: Treatment Advocacy Center, July 19, 2012.

6. “Population of U.S. Practicing Psychiatrists Declined, 2003-13, Which May Help Explain Poor Access to Mental Health Care,” Health Aff (Millwood). 2016 Jul 1;35[7]:1271-7.

7. “Mental Health and Substance Abuse-Related Emergency Department Visits Among Adults, 2007: Statistical Brief #92,” in Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project Statistical Briefs, (Rockville, Md.: Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality, 2010).

8. “Trends in Potentially Preventable Inpatient Hospital Admissions and Emergency Department Visits, 2015: Statistical Brief #195,” in Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project Statistical Briefs, (Rockville, Md.: Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality).

9. Nurs Res. 2015 Jan-Feb;64[1]3-12.

10. Ann Emerg Med. 2016 Apr;67[4]:525-30.

Ms. Kablanian is a 2nd-year medical student at the George Washington University, Washington, where she is enrolled in the Community and Urban Health Scholarly Concentration Program. Before attending medical school, she earned a master of public health degree in epidemiology from Columbia University, New York. She also holds a bachelor’s degree in biology and French from Scripps College, Claremont, Calif. Her interests include advocating for the urban underserved, contributing to medical curriculum development, and investigating population-level contributors to adverse health outcomes. Dr. Norris is assistant professor in the department of psychiatry & behavioral sciences, and assistant dean of student affairs at the George Washington University. He also is medical director of psychiatric & behavioral sciences at George Washington University Hospital. As part of his commitment to providing mental health care to patients with severe medical illness, Dr. Norris has been a leading voice within the psychiatric community on the value of palliative psychotherapy.

The mounting impact of mental illness on patients and the American health care system has been of growing concern, especially in recent years. As such, now more than ever, it is important to understand the mental health burden and investigate the factors contributing to the elevated use of emergency departments to treat patients with psychiatric illness.

In recent years, the overall prevalence of mental illness has not changed drastically. According to the 2014 National Survey of Drug Use and Health, 18.1% of adults indicated having “any mental illness,” a prevalence that had not changed much since 2008.¹ It is possible, however, that despite the relative stability in the prevalence of mental illness, the acuity of mental illness may be on the rise. For instance, 4.1% of adults indicated having a “serious mental illness” (SMI) in 2014, a prevalence that was 0.4% higher than that of 2008 and 2009.¹ Also, of note, the prevalence of SMI among the 18-to-25-year-old population in 2014 had increased in previous years.¹ Meanwhile, 6.6% of adults indicated having experienced a major depressive episode at least once in the preceding 12 months. That prevalence has held relatively steady over recent years.¹

References

1. “Behavioral Health Trends in the United States: Results from the 2014 National Survey on Drug Use and Health.”

2. “Increase in Suicide in the United States, 1999-2014.” NCHS Data Brief No. 241, April 2016.

3. Web-Based Injury Statistics Query and Reporting System (WISQARS), Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

4. National Health Policy Forum Issue Brief (2007 Aug 1;[823]:1-21).

5. “No Room at the Inn: Trends and Consequences of Closing Public Psychiatric Hospitals, 2005-2010,” Arlington, Va.: Treatment Advocacy Center, July 19, 2012.

6. “Population of U.S. Practicing Psychiatrists Declined, 2003-13, Which May Help Explain Poor Access to Mental Health Care,” Health Aff (Millwood). 2016 Jul 1;35[7]:1271-7.

7. “Mental Health and Substance Abuse-Related Emergency Department Visits Among Adults, 2007: Statistical Brief #92,” in Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project Statistical Briefs, (Rockville, Md.: Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality, 2010).

8. “Trends in Potentially Preventable Inpatient Hospital Admissions and Emergency Department Visits, 2015: Statistical Brief #195,” in Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project Statistical Briefs, (Rockville, Md.: Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality).

9. Nurs Res. 2015 Jan-Feb;64[1]3-12.

10. Ann Emerg Med. 2016 Apr;67[4]:525-30.

Ms. Kablanian is a 2nd-year medical student at the George Washington University, Washington, where she is enrolled in the Community and Urban Health Scholarly Concentration Program. Before attending medical school, she earned a master of public health degree in epidemiology from Columbia University, New York. She also holds a bachelor’s degree in biology and French from Scripps College, Claremont, Calif. Her interests include advocating for the urban underserved, contributing to medical curriculum development, and investigating population-level contributors to adverse health outcomes. Dr. Norris is assistant professor in the department of psychiatry & behavioral sciences, and assistant dean of student affairs at the George Washington University. He also is medical director of psychiatric & behavioral sciences at George Washington University Hospital. As part of his commitment to providing mental health care to patients with severe medical illness, Dr. Norris has been a leading voice within the psychiatric community on the value of palliative psychotherapy.

The mounting impact of mental illness on patients and the American health care system has been of growing concern, especially in recent years. As such, now more than ever, it is important to understand the mental health burden and investigate the factors contributing to the elevated use of emergency departments to treat patients with psychiatric illness.

In recent years, the overall prevalence of mental illness has not changed drastically. According to the 2014 National Survey of Drug Use and Health, 18.1% of adults indicated having “any mental illness,” a prevalence that had not changed much since 2008.¹ It is possible, however, that despite the relative stability in the prevalence of mental illness, the acuity of mental illness may be on the rise. For instance, 4.1% of adults indicated having a “serious mental illness” (SMI) in 2014, a prevalence that was 0.4% higher than that of 2008 and 2009.¹ Also, of note, the prevalence of SMI among the 18-to-25-year-old population in 2014 had increased in previous years.¹ Meanwhile, 6.6% of adults indicated having experienced a major depressive episode at least once in the preceding 12 months. That prevalence has held relatively steady over recent years.¹

References

1. “Behavioral Health Trends in the United States: Results from the 2014 National Survey on Drug Use and Health.”

2. “Increase in Suicide in the United States, 1999-2014.” NCHS Data Brief No. 241, April 2016.

3. Web-Based Injury Statistics Query and Reporting System (WISQARS), Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

4. National Health Policy Forum Issue Brief (2007 Aug 1;[823]:1-21).

5. “No Room at the Inn: Trends and Consequences of Closing Public Psychiatric Hospitals, 2005-2010,” Arlington, Va.: Treatment Advocacy Center, July 19, 2012.

6. “Population of U.S. Practicing Psychiatrists Declined, 2003-13, Which May Help Explain Poor Access to Mental Health Care,” Health Aff (Millwood). 2016 Jul 1;35[7]:1271-7.

7. “Mental Health and Substance Abuse-Related Emergency Department Visits Among Adults, 2007: Statistical Brief #92,” in Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project Statistical Briefs, (Rockville, Md.: Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality, 2010).

8. “Trends in Potentially Preventable Inpatient Hospital Admissions and Emergency Department Visits, 2015: Statistical Brief #195,” in Healthcare Cost and Utilization Project Statistical Briefs, (Rockville, Md.: Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality).

9. Nurs Res. 2015 Jan-Feb;64[1]3-12.

10. Ann Emerg Med. 2016 Apr;67[4]:525-30.

Ms. Kablanian is a 2nd-year medical student at the George Washington University, Washington, where she is enrolled in the Community and Urban Health Scholarly Concentration Program. Before attending medical school, she earned a master of public health degree in epidemiology from Columbia University, New York. She also holds a bachelor’s degree in biology and French from Scripps College, Claremont, Calif. Her interests include advocating for the urban underserved, contributing to medical curriculum development, and investigating population-level contributors to adverse health outcomes. Dr. Norris is assistant professor in the department of psychiatry & behavioral sciences, and assistant dean of student affairs at the George Washington University. He also is medical director of psychiatric & behavioral sciences at George Washington University Hospital. As part of his commitment to providing mental health care to patients with severe medical illness, Dr. Norris has been a leading voice within the psychiatric community on the value of palliative psychotherapy.