Residents' Voices

My colleagues and I entered the realm of outpatient psychiatry during residency at a logistically and dynamically interesting time. At the beginning of our third year in training (July 2022), almost all of the outpatients we were treating were still being seen virtually. For much of the year, they remained that way. However, with the reinstatement of the Ryan Haight Act in May 2023, I began to meet patients in person for the first time—the same patients whom I had known only virtually for the first 10 months of our therapeutic relationship. I observed vast changes in the dynamic of the room; many of these patients opened up more in their first in-person session than they had all year over Zoom.

Once in-person sessions resumed, patients who during virtual visits had assured me for almost a year that their home situation was optimized had a plethora of new things to share about their seemingly straightforward living situations. Relationships that appeared stable had more layers to reveal once the half of the relationship I was treating was now comfortably seated within the walls of my office. Problems that had previously seemed biologically based suddenly had complex sociocultural elements that were divulged for the first time. Some patients felt freer to be unrestricted in their affect, in contrast to the logistical (and metaphorical) buttoned-up virtual environment. Emotions ranged from cathartic (“It’s so great to see you in person!”) to bemused (“You’re taller/shorter, older/younger than I thought!”). The screen was gone, and the tangibility of it all breathed a different air into the room.

Virtual vs in-person: Crabs on a beach

The virtual treatment space could be envisioned as crabs in shells scattered on a beach, in which 2 crabs situated in their own shells, not necessarily adjacent to each other, could communicate. This certainly had benefits, such as the convenience of not having to move to another shell, as well as the brief but telling opportunity to gaze into their home shell environment. However, sometimes there would be disadvantages, such as interference with the connection due to static in the sand; at other times, there was the potential for other crabs to overhear and inadvertently learn of each other’s presence, thus affecting the openness of the communication. In this analogy, perhaps the equivalent of an in-person meeting would be 1 crab meandering over and the 2 crabs cohabiting a conch for the first time—it’s spacious (enough), all-enveloping, and within the harkened privacy of a shared sacred space.

A unique training experience

My co-residents and I are uniquely positioned to observe this novel phenomenon due to the timing of having entered our outpatient psychiatry training during the COVID-19 pandemic. Previous generations of residents—as well as practicing psychiatrists who had initially met their patients in person and were forced to switch to virtual sessions during the pandemic—had certain perspectives and challenges of their own, but they had a known dynamic of in-person interactions at baseline. Accordingly, residents who practiced peak- and mid-pandemic and graduated without being required to treat patients face-to-face (the classes of 2022 and 2023) might have spent entire therapeutic relationships having never met their patients in person. My class (2024) was situated in this time- and situation-bound frame in which we started virtually, and by requirements of the law, later met our patients in person. Being not only an observer but an active participant in a treatment dyad within the context of this phenomenon taught me astutely about transference, countertransference, and the holding environment. Training in psychodynamic psychotherapy has taught me about the act of listening deeply and qualities of therapeutic communication. Having the opportunity to enact these principles in such a dichotomy of treatment settings has been invaluable in my education, in getting to know different facets of my patients, and in understanding the nuances of the human experience.

My colleagues and I entered the realm of outpatient psychiatry during residency at a logistically and dynamically interesting time. At the beginning of our third year in training (July 2022), almost all of the outpatients we were treating were still being seen virtually. For much of the year, they remained that way. However, with the reinstatement of the Ryan Haight Act in May 2023, I began to meet patients in person for the first time—the same patients whom I had known only virtually for the first 10 months of our therapeutic relationship. I observed vast changes in the dynamic of the room; many of these patients opened up more in their first in-person session than they had all year over Zoom.

Once in-person sessions resumed, patients who during virtual visits had assured me for almost a year that their home situation was optimized had a plethora of new things to share about their seemingly straightforward living situations. Relationships that appeared stable had more layers to reveal once the half of the relationship I was treating was now comfortably seated within the walls of my office. Problems that had previously seemed biologically based suddenly had complex sociocultural elements that were divulged for the first time. Some patients felt freer to be unrestricted in their affect, in contrast to the logistical (and metaphorical) buttoned-up virtual environment. Emotions ranged from cathartic (“It’s so great to see you in person!”) to bemused (“You’re taller/shorter, older/younger than I thought!”). The screen was gone, and the tangibility of it all breathed a different air into the room.

Virtual vs in-person: Crabs on a beach

The virtual treatment space could be envisioned as crabs in shells scattered on a beach, in which 2 crabs situated in their own shells, not necessarily adjacent to each other, could communicate. This certainly had benefits, such as the convenience of not having to move to another shell, as well as the brief but telling opportunity to gaze into their home shell environment. However, sometimes there would be disadvantages, such as interference with the connection due to static in the sand; at other times, there was the potential for other crabs to overhear and inadvertently learn of each other’s presence, thus affecting the openness of the communication. In this analogy, perhaps the equivalent of an in-person meeting would be 1 crab meandering over and the 2 crabs cohabiting a conch for the first time—it’s spacious (enough), all-enveloping, and within the harkened privacy of a shared sacred space.

A unique training experience

My co-residents and I are uniquely positioned to observe this novel phenomenon due to the timing of having entered our outpatient psychiatry training during the COVID-19 pandemic. Previous generations of residents—as well as practicing psychiatrists who had initially met their patients in person and were forced to switch to virtual sessions during the pandemic—had certain perspectives and challenges of their own, but they had a known dynamic of in-person interactions at baseline. Accordingly, residents who practiced peak- and mid-pandemic and graduated without being required to treat patients face-to-face (the classes of 2022 and 2023) might have spent entire therapeutic relationships having never met their patients in person. My class (2024) was situated in this time- and situation-bound frame in which we started virtually, and by requirements of the law, later met our patients in person. Being not only an observer but an active participant in a treatment dyad within the context of this phenomenon taught me astutely about transference, countertransference, and the holding environment. Training in psychodynamic psychotherapy has taught me about the act of listening deeply and qualities of therapeutic communication. Having the opportunity to enact these principles in such a dichotomy of treatment settings has been invaluable in my education, in getting to know different facets of my patients, and in understanding the nuances of the human experience.

My colleagues and I entered the realm of outpatient psychiatry during residency at a logistically and dynamically interesting time. At the beginning of our third year in training (July 2022), almost all of the outpatients we were treating were still being seen virtually. For much of the year, they remained that way. However, with the reinstatement of the Ryan Haight Act in May 2023, I began to meet patients in person for the first time—the same patients whom I had known only virtually for the first 10 months of our therapeutic relationship. I observed vast changes in the dynamic of the room; many of these patients opened up more in their first in-person session than they had all year over Zoom.

Once in-person sessions resumed, patients who during virtual visits had assured me for almost a year that their home situation was optimized had a plethora of new things to share about their seemingly straightforward living situations. Relationships that appeared stable had more layers to reveal once the half of the relationship I was treating was now comfortably seated within the walls of my office. Problems that had previously seemed biologically based suddenly had complex sociocultural elements that were divulged for the first time. Some patients felt freer to be unrestricted in their affect, in contrast to the logistical (and metaphorical) buttoned-up virtual environment. Emotions ranged from cathartic (“It’s so great to see you in person!”) to bemused (“You’re taller/shorter, older/younger than I thought!”). The screen was gone, and the tangibility of it all breathed a different air into the room.

Virtual vs in-person: Crabs on a beach

The virtual treatment space could be envisioned as crabs in shells scattered on a beach, in which 2 crabs situated in their own shells, not necessarily adjacent to each other, could communicate. This certainly had benefits, such as the convenience of not having to move to another shell, as well as the brief but telling opportunity to gaze into their home shell environment. However, sometimes there would be disadvantages, such as interference with the connection due to static in the sand; at other times, there was the potential for other crabs to overhear and inadvertently learn of each other’s presence, thus affecting the openness of the communication. In this analogy, perhaps the equivalent of an in-person meeting would be 1 crab meandering over and the 2 crabs cohabiting a conch for the first time—it’s spacious (enough), all-enveloping, and within the harkened privacy of a shared sacred space.

A unique training experience

My co-residents and I are uniquely positioned to observe this novel phenomenon due to the timing of having entered our outpatient psychiatry training during the COVID-19 pandemic. Previous generations of residents—as well as practicing psychiatrists who had initially met their patients in person and were forced to switch to virtual sessions during the pandemic—had certain perspectives and challenges of their own, but they had a known dynamic of in-person interactions at baseline. Accordingly, residents who practiced peak- and mid-pandemic and graduated without being required to treat patients face-to-face (the classes of 2022 and 2023) might have spent entire therapeutic relationships having never met their patients in person. My class (2024) was situated in this time- and situation-bound frame in which we started virtually, and by requirements of the law, later met our patients in person. Being not only an observer but an active participant in a treatment dyad within the context of this phenomenon taught me astutely about transference, countertransference, and the holding environment. Training in psychodynamic psychotherapy has taught me about the act of listening deeply and qualities of therapeutic communication. Having the opportunity to enact these principles in such a dichotomy of treatment settings has been invaluable in my education, in getting to know different facets of my patients, and in understanding the nuances of the human experience.

As a 2020 graduate, my medical school experience was largely untouched by the coronavirus. However, when I transitioned to residency, the world was 4 months into the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was required to wear an N95 mask. Just as I started calling myself Dr. Petteruti, I stopped seeing my patients’ entire face, and they stopped seeing mine. In this article, I share my reflections on wearing a mask during residency.

Even after 3 years of daily practice, I have found that wearing a mask brings an acute awareness of my face. As a community physician, the spheres of personal and public life intersect as I treat patients. Learning to navigate this is an important and shared experience across many community-based residency programs. However, during the first few years of residency, I have been able to shop at a local grocery store or eat at a nearby restaurant without any concerns of being recognized by a patient. Until recently, my patients had never seen my face. That has now changed.

For a new intern, a mask can be a savior. It can hide most of what is on your face from your patient. It is remarkable how the brain fills in the gaps of the visage and, by extension, aspects of the person. Many times, I was thankful to have my morning yawn or facial expression covered during provoking conversations with patients. Furthermore, masks gave me an opportunity to examine my own reactions, emotions, affect, and countertransference of each interaction on my own time.

The mask mandate also protected some features that illustrated my youth. For the patient, a mask can add a dry, clinical distance to the physician, often emitting a professional interpretation to the encounter. For the physician, the mask serves as a concrete barrier to the otherwise effortless acts of observation. Early in my career, I had to set reminders to have patients who were taking antipsychotic medications remove their masks to assess for tardive dyskinesia. Sometimes this surprised the patient, who was hesitant to expose themselves physically and psychologically. Alternatively, mask wearing has proved to be an additional data point on some patients, such as those with disorganized behavior. If the mask is located on the patient’s head, chin, or eyes, or is otherwise inappropriately placed, this provides the clinician with supplemental information.

After spending most of my third year of residency in an outpatient office diligently learning how to build a sturdy therapeutic patient alliance, the mask mandate was lifted. Patients’ transference began to change right before my newly bared face. People often relate age to wisdom and experience, so my lack of age—and thus, possible perceived lack of knowledge—became glaringly apparent. During our initial encounters without masks, patients I had known for most of the year began discussing their symptoms and treatments with more hesitancy. My established patients suddenly had a noticeable change in the intensity of their eye contact. Some even asked if I had cut my hair or what had changed about my appearance since our previous visit. This change in affect and behavior offers a unique experience for the resident; renovating the patient-doctor relationship based on the physician’s appearance.

As psychiatrists, we would generally assume mask wearing has an undesirable effect on the therapeutic alliance and increases skewed inferences in our evaluations. This held true for my experience in residency. In psychotherapy, we work to help patients remove their own metaphorical “masks” of defense and security in self-exploration. However, as young physicians, rather than creating barriers between us and our patients, the mask mandate seemed to have created a sense of credibility in our practice and trustworthiness in our decisions.

Some questions remain. As clinicians, what are we missing when we can only see our patient’s eyes and forehead? How will the COVID-19 pandemic affect my training and career as a psychiatrist? These may remain unanswered for my generation of trainees for some time, as society will look back and contemplate this period for decades. Though we entered our career in uncertain times, with an increased risk of morbidity and death and high demand for proper personal protective equipment, we were and still are thankful for our masks and for the limited infection exposure afforded by the nature of our specialty.

As a 2020 graduate, my medical school experience was largely untouched by the coronavirus. However, when I transitioned to residency, the world was 4 months into the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was required to wear an N95 mask. Just as I started calling myself Dr. Petteruti, I stopped seeing my patients’ entire face, and they stopped seeing mine. In this article, I share my reflections on wearing a mask during residency.

Even after 3 years of daily practice, I have found that wearing a mask brings an acute awareness of my face. As a community physician, the spheres of personal and public life intersect as I treat patients. Learning to navigate this is an important and shared experience across many community-based residency programs. However, during the first few years of residency, I have been able to shop at a local grocery store or eat at a nearby restaurant without any concerns of being recognized by a patient. Until recently, my patients had never seen my face. That has now changed.

For a new intern, a mask can be a savior. It can hide most of what is on your face from your patient. It is remarkable how the brain fills in the gaps of the visage and, by extension, aspects of the person. Many times, I was thankful to have my morning yawn or facial expression covered during provoking conversations with patients. Furthermore, masks gave me an opportunity to examine my own reactions, emotions, affect, and countertransference of each interaction on my own time.

The mask mandate also protected some features that illustrated my youth. For the patient, a mask can add a dry, clinical distance to the physician, often emitting a professional interpretation to the encounter. For the physician, the mask serves as a concrete barrier to the otherwise effortless acts of observation. Early in my career, I had to set reminders to have patients who were taking antipsychotic medications remove their masks to assess for tardive dyskinesia. Sometimes this surprised the patient, who was hesitant to expose themselves physically and psychologically. Alternatively, mask wearing has proved to be an additional data point on some patients, such as those with disorganized behavior. If the mask is located on the patient’s head, chin, or eyes, or is otherwise inappropriately placed, this provides the clinician with supplemental information.

After spending most of my third year of residency in an outpatient office diligently learning how to build a sturdy therapeutic patient alliance, the mask mandate was lifted. Patients’ transference began to change right before my newly bared face. People often relate age to wisdom and experience, so my lack of age—and thus, possible perceived lack of knowledge—became glaringly apparent. During our initial encounters without masks, patients I had known for most of the year began discussing their symptoms and treatments with more hesitancy. My established patients suddenly had a noticeable change in the intensity of their eye contact. Some even asked if I had cut my hair or what had changed about my appearance since our previous visit. This change in affect and behavior offers a unique experience for the resident; renovating the patient-doctor relationship based on the physician’s appearance.

As psychiatrists, we would generally assume mask wearing has an undesirable effect on the therapeutic alliance and increases skewed inferences in our evaluations. This held true for my experience in residency. In psychotherapy, we work to help patients remove their own metaphorical “masks” of defense and security in self-exploration. However, as young physicians, rather than creating barriers between us and our patients, the mask mandate seemed to have created a sense of credibility in our practice and trustworthiness in our decisions.

Some questions remain. As clinicians, what are we missing when we can only see our patient’s eyes and forehead? How will the COVID-19 pandemic affect my training and career as a psychiatrist? These may remain unanswered for my generation of trainees for some time, as society will look back and contemplate this period for decades. Though we entered our career in uncertain times, with an increased risk of morbidity and death and high demand for proper personal protective equipment, we were and still are thankful for our masks and for the limited infection exposure afforded by the nature of our specialty.

As a 2020 graduate, my medical school experience was largely untouched by the coronavirus. However, when I transitioned to residency, the world was 4 months into the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was required to wear an N95 mask. Just as I started calling myself Dr. Petteruti, I stopped seeing my patients’ entire face, and they stopped seeing mine. In this article, I share my reflections on wearing a mask during residency.

Even after 3 years of daily practice, I have found that wearing a mask brings an acute awareness of my face. As a community physician, the spheres of personal and public life intersect as I treat patients. Learning to navigate this is an important and shared experience across many community-based residency programs. However, during the first few years of residency, I have been able to shop at a local grocery store or eat at a nearby restaurant without any concerns of being recognized by a patient. Until recently, my patients had never seen my face. That has now changed.

For a new intern, a mask can be a savior. It can hide most of what is on your face from your patient. It is remarkable how the brain fills in the gaps of the visage and, by extension, aspects of the person. Many times, I was thankful to have my morning yawn or facial expression covered during provoking conversations with patients. Furthermore, masks gave me an opportunity to examine my own reactions, emotions, affect, and countertransference of each interaction on my own time.

The mask mandate also protected some features that illustrated my youth. For the patient, a mask can add a dry, clinical distance to the physician, often emitting a professional interpretation to the encounter. For the physician, the mask serves as a concrete barrier to the otherwise effortless acts of observation. Early in my career, I had to set reminders to have patients who were taking antipsychotic medications remove their masks to assess for tardive dyskinesia. Sometimes this surprised the patient, who was hesitant to expose themselves physically and psychologically. Alternatively, mask wearing has proved to be an additional data point on some patients, such as those with disorganized behavior. If the mask is located on the patient’s head, chin, or eyes, or is otherwise inappropriately placed, this provides the clinician with supplemental information.

After spending most of my third year of residency in an outpatient office diligently learning how to build a sturdy therapeutic patient alliance, the mask mandate was lifted. Patients’ transference began to change right before my newly bared face. People often relate age to wisdom and experience, so my lack of age—and thus, possible perceived lack of knowledge—became glaringly apparent. During our initial encounters without masks, patients I had known for most of the year began discussing their symptoms and treatments with more hesitancy. My established patients suddenly had a noticeable change in the intensity of their eye contact. Some even asked if I had cut my hair or what had changed about my appearance since our previous visit. This change in affect and behavior offers a unique experience for the resident; renovating the patient-doctor relationship based on the physician’s appearance.

As psychiatrists, we would generally assume mask wearing has an undesirable effect on the therapeutic alliance and increases skewed inferences in our evaluations. This held true for my experience in residency. In psychotherapy, we work to help patients remove their own metaphorical “masks” of defense and security in self-exploration. However, as young physicians, rather than creating barriers between us and our patients, the mask mandate seemed to have created a sense of credibility in our practice and trustworthiness in our decisions.

Some questions remain. As clinicians, what are we missing when we can only see our patient’s eyes and forehead? How will the COVID-19 pandemic affect my training and career as a psychiatrist? These may remain unanswered for my generation of trainees for some time, as society will look back and contemplate this period for decades. Though we entered our career in uncertain times, with an increased risk of morbidity and death and high demand for proper personal protective equipment, we were and still are thankful for our masks and for the limited infection exposure afforded by the nature of our specialty.

In March 2020, as I was wheeling my patient into the operating room to perform a Caesarean section, covered head-to-toe in COVID personal protective equipment, my phone rang. It was Jody Schindelheim, MD, Director of the Psychiatry Residency Program at Tufts Medical Center in Boston, calling to offer me a PGY-2 spot in their program.

As COVID upended the world, I was struggling with my own major change. My path had been planned since before medical school: I would grind through a 4-year OB/GYN residency, complete a fellowship, and establish myself as a reproductive endocrinology and infertility specialist. My personal statement emphasized my dream that no woman should be made to feel useless based on infertility. OB/GYN, genetics, and ultrasound were my favorite rotations at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in the Bronx.

However, 6 months into my OB/GYN intern year, I grew curious about the possibility of a future in reproductive psychiatry and women’s mental health. This decision was not easy. As someone who loved the adrenaline rush of delivering babies and performing surgery, I had paid little attention to psychiatry in medical school. However, my experience in gynecologic oncology in January 2020 made me realize my love of stories and trauma-informed care. I recall a woman, cachectic with only days left to live due to ovarian cancer, talking to me about her trauma and the power of her lifelong partner. Another woman, experiencing complications from chemotherapy to treat fallopian tube cancer, shared about her coping skill of chair yoga.

Fulfilling an unmet need

As I spent time with these 2 women and heard their stories, I felt compelled to help them with these psychological challenges. As a gynecologist, I addressed their physical needs, but not their personal needs. I spoke to many psychiatrists, including reproductive psychiatrists, in New York, who shared their stories and taught me about the prevalence of postpartum depression and psychosis. After caring for hundreds of pregnant and postpartum women in the Bronx, I thought about the unmet need for women’s mental health and how this career change could still fulfill my purpose of helping women feel empowered regardless of their fertility status.

In the inpatient and outpatient settings at Tufts, I have loved hearing my patients’ stories and providing continuity of care with medical management and therapy. My mentors in reproductive psychiatry inspired me to create the Reproductive Psychiatry Trainee Interest Group (https://www.repropsychtrainees.com), a national group for the burgeoning field that now has more than 650 members. With monthly lectures, journal clubs, and book clubs, I have surrounded myself with like-minded individuals who love learning about the perinatal, postpartum, and perimenopausal experiences.

As I prepare to begin a full-time faculty position in psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania, I know I have found my joy and my calling. I once feared the life of a psychiatrist would be too sedentary for someone accustomed to the pace of OB/GYN. Now I know that my patients’ stories are all the motivation I need.

In March 2020, as I was wheeling my patient into the operating room to perform a Caesarean section, covered head-to-toe in COVID personal protective equipment, my phone rang. It was Jody Schindelheim, MD, Director of the Psychiatry Residency Program at Tufts Medical Center in Boston, calling to offer me a PGY-2 spot in their program.

As COVID upended the world, I was struggling with my own major change. My path had been planned since before medical school: I would grind through a 4-year OB/GYN residency, complete a fellowship, and establish myself as a reproductive endocrinology and infertility specialist. My personal statement emphasized my dream that no woman should be made to feel useless based on infertility. OB/GYN, genetics, and ultrasound were my favorite rotations at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in the Bronx.

However, 6 months into my OB/GYN intern year, I grew curious about the possibility of a future in reproductive psychiatry and women’s mental health. This decision was not easy. As someone who loved the adrenaline rush of delivering babies and performing surgery, I had paid little attention to psychiatry in medical school. However, my experience in gynecologic oncology in January 2020 made me realize my love of stories and trauma-informed care. I recall a woman, cachectic with only days left to live due to ovarian cancer, talking to me about her trauma and the power of her lifelong partner. Another woman, experiencing complications from chemotherapy to treat fallopian tube cancer, shared about her coping skill of chair yoga.

Fulfilling an unmet need

As I spent time with these 2 women and heard their stories, I felt compelled to help them with these psychological challenges. As a gynecologist, I addressed their physical needs, but not their personal needs. I spoke to many psychiatrists, including reproductive psychiatrists, in New York, who shared their stories and taught me about the prevalence of postpartum depression and psychosis. After caring for hundreds of pregnant and postpartum women in the Bronx, I thought about the unmet need for women’s mental health and how this career change could still fulfill my purpose of helping women feel empowered regardless of their fertility status.

In the inpatient and outpatient settings at Tufts, I have loved hearing my patients’ stories and providing continuity of care with medical management and therapy. My mentors in reproductive psychiatry inspired me to create the Reproductive Psychiatry Trainee Interest Group (https://www.repropsychtrainees.com), a national group for the burgeoning field that now has more than 650 members. With monthly lectures, journal clubs, and book clubs, I have surrounded myself with like-minded individuals who love learning about the perinatal, postpartum, and perimenopausal experiences.

As I prepare to begin a full-time faculty position in psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania, I know I have found my joy and my calling. I once feared the life of a psychiatrist would be too sedentary for someone accustomed to the pace of OB/GYN. Now I know that my patients’ stories are all the motivation I need.

In March 2020, as I was wheeling my patient into the operating room to perform a Caesarean section, covered head-to-toe in COVID personal protective equipment, my phone rang. It was Jody Schindelheim, MD, Director of the Psychiatry Residency Program at Tufts Medical Center in Boston, calling to offer me a PGY-2 spot in their program.

As COVID upended the world, I was struggling with my own major change. My path had been planned since before medical school: I would grind through a 4-year OB/GYN residency, complete a fellowship, and establish myself as a reproductive endocrinology and infertility specialist. My personal statement emphasized my dream that no woman should be made to feel useless based on infertility. OB/GYN, genetics, and ultrasound were my favorite rotations at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine in the Bronx.

However, 6 months into my OB/GYN intern year, I grew curious about the possibility of a future in reproductive psychiatry and women’s mental health. This decision was not easy. As someone who loved the adrenaline rush of delivering babies and performing surgery, I had paid little attention to psychiatry in medical school. However, my experience in gynecologic oncology in January 2020 made me realize my love of stories and trauma-informed care. I recall a woman, cachectic with only days left to live due to ovarian cancer, talking to me about her trauma and the power of her lifelong partner. Another woman, experiencing complications from chemotherapy to treat fallopian tube cancer, shared about her coping skill of chair yoga.

Fulfilling an unmet need

As I spent time with these 2 women and heard their stories, I felt compelled to help them with these psychological challenges. As a gynecologist, I addressed their physical needs, but not their personal needs. I spoke to many psychiatrists, including reproductive psychiatrists, in New York, who shared their stories and taught me about the prevalence of postpartum depression and psychosis. After caring for hundreds of pregnant and postpartum women in the Bronx, I thought about the unmet need for women’s mental health and how this career change could still fulfill my purpose of helping women feel empowered regardless of their fertility status.

In the inpatient and outpatient settings at Tufts, I have loved hearing my patients’ stories and providing continuity of care with medical management and therapy. My mentors in reproductive psychiatry inspired me to create the Reproductive Psychiatry Trainee Interest Group (https://www.repropsychtrainees.com), a national group for the burgeoning field that now has more than 650 members. With monthly lectures, journal clubs, and book clubs, I have surrounded myself with like-minded individuals who love learning about the perinatal, postpartum, and perimenopausal experiences.

As I prepare to begin a full-time faculty position in psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania, I know I have found my joy and my calling. I once feared the life of a psychiatrist would be too sedentary for someone accustomed to the pace of OB/GYN. Now I know that my patients’ stories are all the motivation I need.

Sound moral principles are essential in the development of all physicians. Given how heavily each clinical encounter is laden with ethical implications, this is taught early in medical school. The medical student and resident physician must be able to make ethical and moral decisions on a consistent basis.

Speaking as a psychiatrist in training, there is an intimate relationship between psychiatry and moral questions.¹ Issues such as determining an individual’s ability to make decisions about their medical care, hospitalizing patients against their will, and involuntarily administering medication are an almost-daily occurrence.² Physicians, especially those who practice psychiatric medicine, must be ethically grounded to properly make these difficult but common decisions. It is also imperative that residents are given proper guidance in ethical practice in structured didactics and hands-on training.

However, many residents may be unfamiliar with ethics in research, more specifically ethical authorship. While some trainees might have participated in scholarly activities before residency, residency is the time to discover one’s interests, and residents are encouraged to engage in research. Unfortunately, many of the considerations surrounding ethical authorship are not emphasized, and questionable practices are common.³ In this article, I summarize the different faces of unethical authorship, and call for a greater emphasis on ethical authorship in medical residency training programs.

What drives unethical authorship practices

One of the main drivers for the increase in unethical practices is the need to publish to advance one’s academic career. The academic principle of “publish or perish” pressures many faculty researchers.³ The impact of this expectation plays a significant role in potentially unethical authorship practices, and also has increased the number of publications of mediocre quality or fraudulent data.⁴ This mindset has also seeped into the clinical world because promotions and financial bonuses are incentives for attending physicians to perform scholarly work. Due to these incentives and pressures, a senior academician might compel a junior researcher to include them as a coauthor on the junior researcher’s paper, even when the senior’s contributions to the paper might be limited.⁵

Most journals have specific criteria for authorship. The International Committee of Medical Journal Editors (ICMJE) has 4 core criteria for authorship: 1) substantial contributions to the conception or design of the work, or the acquisition, analysis, or interpretation of data for the work; 2) drafting the work or revising it critically for important intellectual content; 3) providing final approval of the version to be published, and 4) agreement to be accountable for all aspects of the work in ensuring that questions related to the accuracy or integrity of any part of the work are appropriately investigated and resolved.^5,6 One survey found that in certain journals, approximately 15% of authors met full ICMJE authorship criteria, while one-half claimed there were substantial contributions but did not state anything more specific.⁷

There are several types of authorship abuse.⁵ Gift authorship is when authorship is awarded to a friend either out of respect or in hopes that friend will return the favor (quid pro quo). Ghost authorship occurs when a third party commissions an author to write or help write a paper (eg, when a pharmaceutical company hires writers to produce a paper about a medication they manufacture) or when legitimate authors are denied recognition on a paper. Honorary authorship occurs when authorship is granted with the hope that the reputation of the honorary author will increase the chances of the paper getting published and possibly boost citations.

While these forms of authorship abuse occur with unsettling frequency, they might not be common among physician trainees who do not engage in full-time research.⁵ Resident authors might be more likely to experience coercive authorship.

Continue to: Coercive authorship is when...

Coercive authorship is when an individual in a superior position (such as an attending physician) forces their name onto a paper of a junior individual (such as a resident). Kwok⁸ called this “The White Bull effect,” based on Greek mythology in which Zeus transformed himself into a white bull to seduce Europa. The White Bull represents the predatory nature of the senior individual who exploits ambiguous institutional research regulations to their benefit.⁸ They stretch out the ICMJE criteria, only superficially satisfying them to justify authorship. In this scenario, the attending physician with promotional incentives notices the work of a resident and demands authorship, given their role as the “supervising” physician (akin to general supervision of a research group). This is not justification for authorship per the ICMJE or any major medical journal criteria. However, a resident with limited research experience may agree to include the attending as a coauthor for a variety of reasons, including fear of a poor performance evaluation or professionalism complaints, or just to maintain a positive working relationship.

Serious implications

While there are countless reasons to be concerned about this behavior, the central issue is the attending physician’s role to train and/or mentor the resident. As previously stated, a physician—especially one practicing psychiatric medicine—must be of morally sound mind. A resident being taught unethical behaviors by their attending physician has dangerous implications. Academic dishonesty does not occur in vacuum. It is likely that dishonest and unethical behavior in research matters can cross over into the clinical arena. One study found that individuals who exhibit dishonest academic behavior are more likely to violate workplace policies.⁹ Also, these behaviors lead to increased moral disengagement in all areas.^10,11 Imagining a morally disengaged attending psychiatrist practicing medicine and training the next generation of psychiatrists is unsettling.

My hope is that residency programs discourage this detrimental conduct in their departments and support those trying to uphold integrity.

Sound moral principles are essential in the development of all physicians. Given how heavily each clinical encounter is laden with ethical implications, this is taught early in medical school. The medical student and resident physician must be able to make ethical and moral decisions on a consistent basis.

Speaking as a psychiatrist in training, there is an intimate relationship between psychiatry and moral questions.¹ Issues such as determining an individual’s ability to make decisions about their medical care, hospitalizing patients against their will, and involuntarily administering medication are an almost-daily occurrence.² Physicians, especially those who practice psychiatric medicine, must be ethically grounded to properly make these difficult but common decisions. It is also imperative that residents are given proper guidance in ethical practice in structured didactics and hands-on training.

However, many residents may be unfamiliar with ethics in research, more specifically ethical authorship. While some trainees might have participated in scholarly activities before residency, residency is the time to discover one’s interests, and residents are encouraged to engage in research. Unfortunately, many of the considerations surrounding ethical authorship are not emphasized, and questionable practices are common.³ In this article, I summarize the different faces of unethical authorship, and call for a greater emphasis on ethical authorship in medical residency training programs.

What drives unethical authorship practices

One of the main drivers for the increase in unethical practices is the need to publish to advance one’s academic career. The academic principle of “publish or perish” pressures many faculty researchers.³ The impact of this expectation plays a significant role in potentially unethical authorship practices, and also has increased the number of publications of mediocre quality or fraudulent data.⁴ This mindset has also seeped into the clinical world because promotions and financial bonuses are incentives for attending physicians to perform scholarly work. Due to these incentives and pressures, a senior academician might compel a junior researcher to include them as a coauthor on the junior researcher’s paper, even when the senior’s contributions to the paper might be limited.⁵

Most journals have specific criteria for authorship. The International Committee of Medical Journal Editors (ICMJE) has 4 core criteria for authorship: 1) substantial contributions to the conception or design of the work, or the acquisition, analysis, or interpretation of data for the work; 2) drafting the work or revising it critically for important intellectual content; 3) providing final approval of the version to be published, and 4) agreement to be accountable for all aspects of the work in ensuring that questions related to the accuracy or integrity of any part of the work are appropriately investigated and resolved.^5,6 One survey found that in certain journals, approximately 15% of authors met full ICMJE authorship criteria, while one-half claimed there were substantial contributions but did not state anything more specific.⁷

There are several types of authorship abuse.⁵ Gift authorship is when authorship is awarded to a friend either out of respect or in hopes that friend will return the favor (quid pro quo). Ghost authorship occurs when a third party commissions an author to write or help write a paper (eg, when a pharmaceutical company hires writers to produce a paper about a medication they manufacture) or when legitimate authors are denied recognition on a paper. Honorary authorship occurs when authorship is granted with the hope that the reputation of the honorary author will increase the chances of the paper getting published and possibly boost citations.

While these forms of authorship abuse occur with unsettling frequency, they might not be common among physician trainees who do not engage in full-time research.⁵ Resident authors might be more likely to experience coercive authorship.

Continue to: Coercive authorship is when...

Coercive authorship is when an individual in a superior position (such as an attending physician) forces their name onto a paper of a junior individual (such as a resident). Kwok⁸ called this “The White Bull effect,” based on Greek mythology in which Zeus transformed himself into a white bull to seduce Europa. The White Bull represents the predatory nature of the senior individual who exploits ambiguous institutional research regulations to their benefit.⁸ They stretch out the ICMJE criteria, only superficially satisfying them to justify authorship. In this scenario, the attending physician with promotional incentives notices the work of a resident and demands authorship, given their role as the “supervising” physician (akin to general supervision of a research group). This is not justification for authorship per the ICMJE or any major medical journal criteria. However, a resident with limited research experience may agree to include the attending as a coauthor for a variety of reasons, including fear of a poor performance evaluation or professionalism complaints, or just to maintain a positive working relationship.

Serious implications

While there are countless reasons to be concerned about this behavior, the central issue is the attending physician’s role to train and/or mentor the resident. As previously stated, a physician—especially one practicing psychiatric medicine—must be of morally sound mind. A resident being taught unethical behaviors by their attending physician has dangerous implications. Academic dishonesty does not occur in vacuum. It is likely that dishonest and unethical behavior in research matters can cross over into the clinical arena. One study found that individuals who exhibit dishonest academic behavior are more likely to violate workplace policies.⁹ Also, these behaviors lead to increased moral disengagement in all areas.^10,11 Imagining a morally disengaged attending psychiatrist practicing medicine and training the next generation of psychiatrists is unsettling.

My hope is that residency programs discourage this detrimental conduct in their departments and support those trying to uphold integrity.

Sound moral principles are essential in the development of all physicians. Given how heavily each clinical encounter is laden with ethical implications, this is taught early in medical school. The medical student and resident physician must be able to make ethical and moral decisions on a consistent basis.

Speaking as a psychiatrist in training, there is an intimate relationship between psychiatry and moral questions.¹ Issues such as determining an individual’s ability to make decisions about their medical care, hospitalizing patients against their will, and involuntarily administering medication are an almost-daily occurrence.² Physicians, especially those who practice psychiatric medicine, must be ethically grounded to properly make these difficult but common decisions. It is also imperative that residents are given proper guidance in ethical practice in structured didactics and hands-on training.

However, many residents may be unfamiliar with ethics in research, more specifically ethical authorship. While some trainees might have participated in scholarly activities before residency, residency is the time to discover one’s interests, and residents are encouraged to engage in research. Unfortunately, many of the considerations surrounding ethical authorship are not emphasized, and questionable practices are common.³ In this article, I summarize the different faces of unethical authorship, and call for a greater emphasis on ethical authorship in medical residency training programs.

What drives unethical authorship practices

One of the main drivers for the increase in unethical practices is the need to publish to advance one’s academic career. The academic principle of “publish or perish” pressures many faculty researchers.³ The impact of this expectation plays a significant role in potentially unethical authorship practices, and also has increased the number of publications of mediocre quality or fraudulent data.⁴ This mindset has also seeped into the clinical world because promotions and financial bonuses are incentives for attending physicians to perform scholarly work. Due to these incentives and pressures, a senior academician might compel a junior researcher to include them as a coauthor on the junior researcher’s paper, even when the senior’s contributions to the paper might be limited.⁵

Most journals have specific criteria for authorship. The International Committee of Medical Journal Editors (ICMJE) has 4 core criteria for authorship: 1) substantial contributions to the conception or design of the work, or the acquisition, analysis, or interpretation of data for the work; 2) drafting the work or revising it critically for important intellectual content; 3) providing final approval of the version to be published, and 4) agreement to be accountable for all aspects of the work in ensuring that questions related to the accuracy or integrity of any part of the work are appropriately investigated and resolved.^5,6 One survey found that in certain journals, approximately 15% of authors met full ICMJE authorship criteria, while one-half claimed there were substantial contributions but did not state anything more specific.⁷

There are several types of authorship abuse.⁵ Gift authorship is when authorship is awarded to a friend either out of respect or in hopes that friend will return the favor (quid pro quo). Ghost authorship occurs when a third party commissions an author to write or help write a paper (eg, when a pharmaceutical company hires writers to produce a paper about a medication they manufacture) or when legitimate authors are denied recognition on a paper. Honorary authorship occurs when authorship is granted with the hope that the reputation of the honorary author will increase the chances of the paper getting published and possibly boost citations.

While these forms of authorship abuse occur with unsettling frequency, they might not be common among physician trainees who do not engage in full-time research.⁵ Resident authors might be more likely to experience coercive authorship.

Continue to: Coercive authorship is when...

Coercive authorship is when an individual in a superior position (such as an attending physician) forces their name onto a paper of a junior individual (such as a resident). Kwok⁸ called this “The White Bull effect,” based on Greek mythology in which Zeus transformed himself into a white bull to seduce Europa. The White Bull represents the predatory nature of the senior individual who exploits ambiguous institutional research regulations to their benefit.⁸ They stretch out the ICMJE criteria, only superficially satisfying them to justify authorship. In this scenario, the attending physician with promotional incentives notices the work of a resident and demands authorship, given their role as the “supervising” physician (akin to general supervision of a research group). This is not justification for authorship per the ICMJE or any major medical journal criteria. However, a resident with limited research experience may agree to include the attending as a coauthor for a variety of reasons, including fear of a poor performance evaluation or professionalism complaints, or just to maintain a positive working relationship.

Serious implications

While there are countless reasons to be concerned about this behavior, the central issue is the attending physician’s role to train and/or mentor the resident. As previously stated, a physician—especially one practicing psychiatric medicine—must be of morally sound mind. A resident being taught unethical behaviors by their attending physician has dangerous implications. Academic dishonesty does not occur in vacuum. It is likely that dishonest and unethical behavior in research matters can cross over into the clinical arena. One study found that individuals who exhibit dishonest academic behavior are more likely to violate workplace policies.⁹ Also, these behaviors lead to increased moral disengagement in all areas.^10,11 Imagining a morally disengaged attending psychiatrist practicing medicine and training the next generation of psychiatrists is unsettling.

My hope is that residency programs discourage this detrimental conduct in their departments and support those trying to uphold integrity.

In a sea of blonde hair and blue eyes, my black hair and brown eyes stood out. At the time, I was a medical student and one of the few people of color rotating through the inpatient child psychiatric unit. While I was aware I looked “different,” I discovered that my young patients had an unbridled curiosity about such differences. Common questions I received included “Where are you from? Why are your eyes so small? Is it because you eat rice?” Their questions were never of malicious intent, but rather due to my patient’s unfamiliarity with the Asian-American community and with Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) communities in general.

Therefore, it came as no surprise that my BIPOC patients could keenly detect similarities. I could see their eyes widen, a spark of recognition, surprise, or even perhaps relief, when they saw my dark hair or the color of my skin. For members of minority racial/ethnic groups in a predominantly White society, there is a special kinship with other underrepresented BIPOC individuals. We are a community; our shared experiences of discrimination and disadvantages bind us together.

Perhaps it was because of our similarities that my BIPOC patients felt comfortable sharing their most intimate secrets: struggling with social anxiety due to language barriers in school, feeling anxious about balancing their familial expectations vs being “American,” or wishing they were dead due to the color of their skin. It hurt to hear this from my patients. My BIPOC patients’ narratives shared a common theme of fear. Fear that others wouldn’t understand their experiences. Fear that no one would understand their pain. When I reflect upon my own experiences with racism, from microaggressions to outright threats, I am reminded of my own fears, loneliness, and pain. It is these experiences that fuel every BIPOC medical student, resident, and physician to provide culturally sensitive care to patients and promote greater mental health for the BIPOC community.

Why diversity matters

Diversity is important in health care. Our patients come from various backgrounds and cultural experiences. A 2019 survey recruited participants who self-identified with >1 race or as a member of an interracial family relationship, to evaluate their preferences in clinicians.¹ Through thematic evaluation of participants’ responses, researchers noted that participants expressed a preference for clinicians who identified as a person of color.¹ Participants desired clinicians who were culturally sensitive, who could connect and empathize with their experiences as people of color.¹ Ultimately, by having a diverse array of clinicians, health care systems ensure that medical professionals can make important connections with patients due to shared experiences.

I remember talking to a mother about her daughter’s suicide attempt. During our conversation, the mother began to shake her head. “She doesn’t have depression,” she exclaimed. “She needs to snap out of it.” As I listened to her, I was reminded of my own grandmother.

My grandmother struggled with depression throughout her life, yet she was adamant she was “fine.” For my grandmother, her insistence that she did not have depression was rooted in shame. In our community, depression was not viewed as a disease, but rather a moral failing. My patient’s mother shared a similar attitude towards depression, believing her daughter was struggling due to her lack of willpower.

As the only person of color on the treatment team, I understood the importance of helping others on the team to also understand the mother’s perspective—doing so changed the dynamics of the relationship between the team and the family. Rather than having an antagonistic view of the mother who seemed to be callous of her daughter’s needs, the team viewed her differently; she was now understood as a mother who was overwhelmed and lacked an understanding of the disease. This changed the treatment team’s focus. The first step was to educate the family about depression, before providing therapeutic and medication treatments.

To fully understand the patient, the physician must place the story in the correct context, recognizing how the intersectionality of race, sexuality, socioeconomic status, and culture impact mental health. I am now a resident, and as a physician, my primary goal is to be an advocate for patients. To improve patient care, we must continue to find ways to improve diversity in the field of psychiatry. One crucial way is for clinicians to share their stories and be vulnerable with our colleagues, as our patients are with us. Through sharing our personal narratives, we further honor and encourage greater diversity.

In a sea of blonde hair and blue eyes, my black hair and brown eyes stood out. At the time, I was a medical student and one of the few people of color rotating through the inpatient child psychiatric unit. While I was aware I looked “different,” I discovered that my young patients had an unbridled curiosity about such differences. Common questions I received included “Where are you from? Why are your eyes so small? Is it because you eat rice?” Their questions were never of malicious intent, but rather due to my patient’s unfamiliarity with the Asian-American community and with Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) communities in general.

Therefore, it came as no surprise that my BIPOC patients could keenly detect similarities. I could see their eyes widen, a spark of recognition, surprise, or even perhaps relief, when they saw my dark hair or the color of my skin. For members of minority racial/ethnic groups in a predominantly White society, there is a special kinship with other underrepresented BIPOC individuals. We are a community; our shared experiences of discrimination and disadvantages bind us together.

Perhaps it was because of our similarities that my BIPOC patients felt comfortable sharing their most intimate secrets: struggling with social anxiety due to language barriers in school, feeling anxious about balancing their familial expectations vs being “American,” or wishing they were dead due to the color of their skin. It hurt to hear this from my patients. My BIPOC patients’ narratives shared a common theme of fear. Fear that others wouldn’t understand their experiences. Fear that no one would understand their pain. When I reflect upon my own experiences with racism, from microaggressions to outright threats, I am reminded of my own fears, loneliness, and pain. It is these experiences that fuel every BIPOC medical student, resident, and physician to provide culturally sensitive care to patients and promote greater mental health for the BIPOC community.

Why diversity matters

Diversity is important in health care. Our patients come from various backgrounds and cultural experiences. A 2019 survey recruited participants who self-identified with >1 race or as a member of an interracial family relationship, to evaluate their preferences in clinicians.¹ Through thematic evaluation of participants’ responses, researchers noted that participants expressed a preference for clinicians who identified as a person of color.¹ Participants desired clinicians who were culturally sensitive, who could connect and empathize with their experiences as people of color.¹ Ultimately, by having a diverse array of clinicians, health care systems ensure that medical professionals can make important connections with patients due to shared experiences.

I remember talking to a mother about her daughter’s suicide attempt. During our conversation, the mother began to shake her head. “She doesn’t have depression,” she exclaimed. “She needs to snap out of it.” As I listened to her, I was reminded of my own grandmother.

My grandmother struggled with depression throughout her life, yet she was adamant she was “fine.” For my grandmother, her insistence that she did not have depression was rooted in shame. In our community, depression was not viewed as a disease, but rather a moral failing. My patient’s mother shared a similar attitude towards depression, believing her daughter was struggling due to her lack of willpower.

As the only person of color on the treatment team, I understood the importance of helping others on the team to also understand the mother’s perspective—doing so changed the dynamics of the relationship between the team and the family. Rather than having an antagonistic view of the mother who seemed to be callous of her daughter’s needs, the team viewed her differently; she was now understood as a mother who was overwhelmed and lacked an understanding of the disease. This changed the treatment team’s focus. The first step was to educate the family about depression, before providing therapeutic and medication treatments.

To fully understand the patient, the physician must place the story in the correct context, recognizing how the intersectionality of race, sexuality, socioeconomic status, and culture impact mental health. I am now a resident, and as a physician, my primary goal is to be an advocate for patients. To improve patient care, we must continue to find ways to improve diversity in the field of psychiatry. One crucial way is for clinicians to share their stories and be vulnerable with our colleagues, as our patients are with us. Through sharing our personal narratives, we further honor and encourage greater diversity.

In a sea of blonde hair and blue eyes, my black hair and brown eyes stood out. At the time, I was a medical student and one of the few people of color rotating through the inpatient child psychiatric unit. While I was aware I looked “different,” I discovered that my young patients had an unbridled curiosity about such differences. Common questions I received included “Where are you from? Why are your eyes so small? Is it because you eat rice?” Their questions were never of malicious intent, but rather due to my patient’s unfamiliarity with the Asian-American community and with Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) communities in general.

Therefore, it came as no surprise that my BIPOC patients could keenly detect similarities. I could see their eyes widen, a spark of recognition, surprise, or even perhaps relief, when they saw my dark hair or the color of my skin. For members of minority racial/ethnic groups in a predominantly White society, there is a special kinship with other underrepresented BIPOC individuals. We are a community; our shared experiences of discrimination and disadvantages bind us together.

Perhaps it was because of our similarities that my BIPOC patients felt comfortable sharing their most intimate secrets: struggling with social anxiety due to language barriers in school, feeling anxious about balancing their familial expectations vs being “American,” or wishing they were dead due to the color of their skin. It hurt to hear this from my patients. My BIPOC patients’ narratives shared a common theme of fear. Fear that others wouldn’t understand their experiences. Fear that no one would understand their pain. When I reflect upon my own experiences with racism, from microaggressions to outright threats, I am reminded of my own fears, loneliness, and pain. It is these experiences that fuel every BIPOC medical student, resident, and physician to provide culturally sensitive care to patients and promote greater mental health for the BIPOC community.

Why diversity matters

Diversity is important in health care. Our patients come from various backgrounds and cultural experiences. A 2019 survey recruited participants who self-identified with >1 race or as a member of an interracial family relationship, to evaluate their preferences in clinicians.¹ Through thematic evaluation of participants’ responses, researchers noted that participants expressed a preference for clinicians who identified as a person of color.¹ Participants desired clinicians who were culturally sensitive, who could connect and empathize with their experiences as people of color.¹ Ultimately, by having a diverse array of clinicians, health care systems ensure that medical professionals can make important connections with patients due to shared experiences.

I remember talking to a mother about her daughter’s suicide attempt. During our conversation, the mother began to shake her head. “She doesn’t have depression,” she exclaimed. “She needs to snap out of it.” As I listened to her, I was reminded of my own grandmother.

My grandmother struggled with depression throughout her life, yet she was adamant she was “fine.” For my grandmother, her insistence that she did not have depression was rooted in shame. In our community, depression was not viewed as a disease, but rather a moral failing. My patient’s mother shared a similar attitude towards depression, believing her daughter was struggling due to her lack of willpower.

As the only person of color on the treatment team, I understood the importance of helping others on the team to also understand the mother’s perspective—doing so changed the dynamics of the relationship between the team and the family. Rather than having an antagonistic view of the mother who seemed to be callous of her daughter’s needs, the team viewed her differently; she was now understood as a mother who was overwhelmed and lacked an understanding of the disease. This changed the treatment team’s focus. The first step was to educate the family about depression, before providing therapeutic and medication treatments.

To fully understand the patient, the physician must place the story in the correct context, recognizing how the intersectionality of race, sexuality, socioeconomic status, and culture impact mental health. I am now a resident, and as a physician, my primary goal is to be an advocate for patients. To improve patient care, we must continue to find ways to improve diversity in the field of psychiatry. One crucial way is for clinicians to share their stories and be vulnerable with our colleagues, as our patients are with us. Through sharing our personal narratives, we further honor and encourage greater diversity.

Psychogenic nonepileptic seizures (PNES) are a physical manifestation of a psychological disturbance. They are characterized by episodes of altered subjective experience and movements that can resemble epilepsy, syncope, or other paroxysmal disorders, but are not caused by neuronal hypersynchronization or other epileptic semiology.¹ Asynchronous movements, closed eyes, crying, stuttering, side-to-side head movement, and pelvic thrusting may be observed, all of which are atypical of epileptic seizures.¹ PNES, a syndrome of “pseudo-seizures,” is recognized in 11% of convulsive seizure cases presenting to the emergency department (ED).² PNES can co-occur with epilepsy; in 2 population-based studies, the pooled rate of EEG-confirmed comorbid epilepsy in PNES was 14%.³

Patients with PNES may present to multiple clinicians and hospitals for assessment. Access to outside hospital records can be limited, which can lead to redundant testing and increased health care costs and burden. Additionally, repeat presentations can increase stigmatization of the patient and delay or prevent appropriate therapeutic management, which might exacerbate a patient’s underlying psychiatric condition and could be dangerous in a patient with a co-occurring true seizure disorder. Though obtaining and reviewing external medical records can be cumbersome, doing so may prevent unnecessary testing, guide medical treatment, and strengthen the patient-doctor therapeutic alliance.

In this article, I discuss our treatment team’s management of a patient with PNES who, based on our careful review of records from previous hospitalizations, may have had a co-occurring true seizure disorder.

Case report

Ms. M, age 31, has a medical history of anxiety, depression, first-degree atrioventricular block, type 2 diabetes, and PNES. She presented to the ED with witnessed seizure activity at home.

According to collateral information, earlier that day Ms. M said she felt like she was seizing and began mumbling, but returned to baseline within a few minutes. Later, she demonstrated intermittent upper and lower extremity shaking for more than 1 hour. At one point, Ms. M appeared to be not breathing. However, upon initiation of chest compressions, she began gasping for air and immediately returned to baseline.

In the ED, Ms. M demonstrated multiple seizure-like episodes every 5 minutes, each lasting 5 to 10 seconds. These episodes were described as thrashing of the bilateral limbs and head crossing midline with eyes closed. No urinary incontinence or tongue biting was observed. Following each episode, Ms. M was unresponsive to verbal or tactile stimuli but intermittently opened her eyes. Laboratory test results were notable for an elevated serum lactate and positive for cannabinoids on urine drug screen.

Ms. M expressed frustration when told that her seizures were psychogenic. She was adamant that she had a true seizure disorder, demanded testing, and threatened to leave against medical advice without it. She said her brother had epilepsy, and thus she knew how seizures present. The interview was complicated by Ms. M’s mistrust and Cluster B personality disorder traits, such as splitting staff into “good and bad.” Ultimately, she was able to be reassured and did not leave the hospital.

Continue to: The treatment team...

The treatment team reviewed external records from 2 hospitals, Hospital A and Hospital B. These records showed well-documented inpatient and outpatient Psychiatry and Neurology diagnoses of PNES and other conversion disorders. Her medications included 2 anticonvulsants—topiramate 200 mg every 12 hours and oxcarbazepine 300 mg every 12 hours—as well as clonazepam 0.5 mg as needed for seizures and anxiety.

Ms. M’s first lifetime documented seizure occurred in May 2020, when she woke up with tongue biting, extremity shaking (laterality was unclear), and urinary incontinence followed by fatigue. She did not go to the hospital after this first episode. In June 2020, she presented and was admitted to Hospital A after similar seizure-like activity. While admitted and monitored on continuous EEG (cEEG), she had numerous events consistent with a nonepileptic etiology without a postictal state. A brain MRI was unremarkable, and Ms. M was diagnosed with PNES.

She presented to Hospital B in October 2020 reporting seizure-like activity. Hospital B reviewed Hospital A’s brain MRI and found right temporal lobe cortical dysplasia that was not noted in Hospital A’s MRI read. Ms. M again underwent cEEG while at Hospital B and had 2 recorded nonepileptic events. Interestingly, the cEEG demonstrated right temporal spikes that were consistent with the dysplasia location on the MRI. Ms. M was discharged and instructed to keep a seizure journal until outpatient follow-up.

Ms. M documented 3 seizure-like events between October and December 2020. She documented activity with and without full-body convulsions, some with laterality, some with loss of consciousness, and some preceded by an aura of impending doom. Ms. M was referred to psychotherapy and instructed to continue topiramate 100 mg every 12 hours for seizure prophylaxis.

Ms. M presented to Hospital B again in March 2022 reporting seizure-like activity. A brain MRI found cortical dysplasia in the right temporal lobe, consistent with the MRI at Hospital A in June 2020. cEEG was also repeated at Hospital B and was unremarkable. Oxcarbazepine 300 mg every 12 hours was added to Ms. M’s medications.

Ultimately, based on an external record review, our team (at Hospital C) concluded Ms. M had a possible true seizure co-occurrence with PNES. To avoid redundant testing, we did not repeat imaging or cEEG. Instead, we increased the patient’s oxcarbazepine to 450 mg every 12 hours, for both its effectiveness in temporal seizures and its mood-stabilizing properties. Moreover, in collecting our own data to draw a conclusion by a thorough record review, we gained Ms. M’s trust and strengthened the therapeutic alliance. She was agreeable to forgo more testing and continue outpatient follow-up with our hospital’s Neurology team.

Take-home points

Although PNES and true seizure disorder may not frequently co-occur, this case highlights the importance of clinician due diligence when evaluating a potential psychogenic illness, both for patient safety and clinician liability. By trusting our patients and drawing our own data-based conclusions, we can cultivate a safer and more satisfactory patient-clinician experience in the context of psychosomatic disorders.

Psychogenic nonepileptic seizures (PNES) are a physical manifestation of a psychological disturbance. They are characterized by episodes of altered subjective experience and movements that can resemble epilepsy, syncope, or other paroxysmal disorders, but are not caused by neuronal hypersynchronization or other epileptic semiology.¹ Asynchronous movements, closed eyes, crying, stuttering, side-to-side head movement, and pelvic thrusting may be observed, all of which are atypical of epileptic seizures.¹ PNES, a syndrome of “pseudo-seizures,” is recognized in 11% of convulsive seizure cases presenting to the emergency department (ED).² PNES can co-occur with epilepsy; in 2 population-based studies, the pooled rate of EEG-confirmed comorbid epilepsy in PNES was 14%.³

Patients with PNES may present to multiple clinicians and hospitals for assessment. Access to outside hospital records can be limited, which can lead to redundant testing and increased health care costs and burden. Additionally, repeat presentations can increase stigmatization of the patient and delay or prevent appropriate therapeutic management, which might exacerbate a patient’s underlying psychiatric condition and could be dangerous in a patient with a co-occurring true seizure disorder. Though obtaining and reviewing external medical records can be cumbersome, doing so may prevent unnecessary testing, guide medical treatment, and strengthen the patient-doctor therapeutic alliance.

In this article, I discuss our treatment team’s management of a patient with PNES who, based on our careful review of records from previous hospitalizations, may have had a co-occurring true seizure disorder.

Case report

Ms. M, age 31, has a medical history of anxiety, depression, first-degree atrioventricular block, type 2 diabetes, and PNES. She presented to the ED with witnessed seizure activity at home.

According to collateral information, earlier that day Ms. M said she felt like she was seizing and began mumbling, but returned to baseline within a few minutes. Later, she demonstrated intermittent upper and lower extremity shaking for more than 1 hour. At one point, Ms. M appeared to be not breathing. However, upon initiation of chest compressions, she began gasping for air and immediately returned to baseline.

In the ED, Ms. M demonstrated multiple seizure-like episodes every 5 minutes, each lasting 5 to 10 seconds. These episodes were described as thrashing of the bilateral limbs and head crossing midline with eyes closed. No urinary incontinence or tongue biting was observed. Following each episode, Ms. M was unresponsive to verbal or tactile stimuli but intermittently opened her eyes. Laboratory test results were notable for an elevated serum lactate and positive for cannabinoids on urine drug screen.

Ms. M expressed frustration when told that her seizures were psychogenic. She was adamant that she had a true seizure disorder, demanded testing, and threatened to leave against medical advice without it. She said her brother had epilepsy, and thus she knew how seizures present. The interview was complicated by Ms. M’s mistrust and Cluster B personality disorder traits, such as splitting staff into “good and bad.” Ultimately, she was able to be reassured and did not leave the hospital.

Continue to: The treatment team...

The treatment team reviewed external records from 2 hospitals, Hospital A and Hospital B. These records showed well-documented inpatient and outpatient Psychiatry and Neurology diagnoses of PNES and other conversion disorders. Her medications included 2 anticonvulsants—topiramate 200 mg every 12 hours and oxcarbazepine 300 mg every 12 hours—as well as clonazepam 0.5 mg as needed for seizures and anxiety.

Ms. M’s first lifetime documented seizure occurred in May 2020, when she woke up with tongue biting, extremity shaking (laterality was unclear), and urinary incontinence followed by fatigue. She did not go to the hospital after this first episode. In June 2020, she presented and was admitted to Hospital A after similar seizure-like activity. While admitted and monitored on continuous EEG (cEEG), she had numerous events consistent with a nonepileptic etiology without a postictal state. A brain MRI was unremarkable, and Ms. M was diagnosed with PNES.

She presented to Hospital B in October 2020 reporting seizure-like activity. Hospital B reviewed Hospital A’s brain MRI and found right temporal lobe cortical dysplasia that was not noted in Hospital A’s MRI read. Ms. M again underwent cEEG while at Hospital B and had 2 recorded nonepileptic events. Interestingly, the cEEG demonstrated right temporal spikes that were consistent with the dysplasia location on the MRI. Ms. M was discharged and instructed to keep a seizure journal until outpatient follow-up.

Ms. M documented 3 seizure-like events between October and December 2020. She documented activity with and without full-body convulsions, some with laterality, some with loss of consciousness, and some preceded by an aura of impending doom. Ms. M was referred to psychotherapy and instructed to continue topiramate 100 mg every 12 hours for seizure prophylaxis.

Ms. M presented to Hospital B again in March 2022 reporting seizure-like activity. A brain MRI found cortical dysplasia in the right temporal lobe, consistent with the MRI at Hospital A in June 2020. cEEG was also repeated at Hospital B and was unremarkable. Oxcarbazepine 300 mg every 12 hours was added to Ms. M’s medications.

Ultimately, based on an external record review, our team (at Hospital C) concluded Ms. M had a possible true seizure co-occurrence with PNES. To avoid redundant testing, we did not repeat imaging or cEEG. Instead, we increased the patient’s oxcarbazepine to 450 mg every 12 hours, for both its effectiveness in temporal seizures and its mood-stabilizing properties. Moreover, in collecting our own data to draw a conclusion by a thorough record review, we gained Ms. M’s trust and strengthened the therapeutic alliance. She was agreeable to forgo more testing and continue outpatient follow-up with our hospital’s Neurology team.

Take-home points

Although PNES and true seizure disorder may not frequently co-occur, this case highlights the importance of clinician due diligence when evaluating a potential psychogenic illness, both for patient safety and clinician liability. By trusting our patients and drawing our own data-based conclusions, we can cultivate a safer and more satisfactory patient-clinician experience in the context of psychosomatic disorders.

Psychogenic nonepileptic seizures (PNES) are a physical manifestation of a psychological disturbance. They are characterized by episodes of altered subjective experience and movements that can resemble epilepsy, syncope, or other paroxysmal disorders, but are not caused by neuronal hypersynchronization or other epileptic semiology.¹ Asynchronous movements, closed eyes, crying, stuttering, side-to-side head movement, and pelvic thrusting may be observed, all of which are atypical of epileptic seizures.¹ PNES, a syndrome of “pseudo-seizures,” is recognized in 11% of convulsive seizure cases presenting to the emergency department (ED).² PNES can co-occur with epilepsy; in 2 population-based studies, the pooled rate of EEG-confirmed comorbid epilepsy in PNES was 14%.³

Patients with PNES may present to multiple clinicians and hospitals for assessment. Access to outside hospital records can be limited, which can lead to redundant testing and increased health care costs and burden. Additionally, repeat presentations can increase stigmatization of the patient and delay or prevent appropriate therapeutic management, which might exacerbate a patient’s underlying psychiatric condition and could be dangerous in a patient with a co-occurring true seizure disorder. Though obtaining and reviewing external medical records can be cumbersome, doing so may prevent unnecessary testing, guide medical treatment, and strengthen the patient-doctor therapeutic alliance.

In this article, I discuss our treatment team’s management of a patient with PNES who, based on our careful review of records from previous hospitalizations, may have had a co-occurring true seizure disorder.

Case report

Ms. M, age 31, has a medical history of anxiety, depression, first-degree atrioventricular block, type 2 diabetes, and PNES. She presented to the ED with witnessed seizure activity at home.

According to collateral information, earlier that day Ms. M said she felt like she was seizing and began mumbling, but returned to baseline within a few minutes. Later, she demonstrated intermittent upper and lower extremity shaking for more than 1 hour. At one point, Ms. M appeared to be not breathing. However, upon initiation of chest compressions, she began gasping for air and immediately returned to baseline.

In the ED, Ms. M demonstrated multiple seizure-like episodes every 5 minutes, each lasting 5 to 10 seconds. These episodes were described as thrashing of the bilateral limbs and head crossing midline with eyes closed. No urinary incontinence or tongue biting was observed. Following each episode, Ms. M was unresponsive to verbal or tactile stimuli but intermittently opened her eyes. Laboratory test results were notable for an elevated serum lactate and positive for cannabinoids on urine drug screen.

Ms. M expressed frustration when told that her seizures were psychogenic. She was adamant that she had a true seizure disorder, demanded testing, and threatened to leave against medical advice without it. She said her brother had epilepsy, and thus she knew how seizures present. The interview was complicated by Ms. M’s mistrust and Cluster B personality disorder traits, such as splitting staff into “good and bad.” Ultimately, she was able to be reassured and did not leave the hospital.

Continue to: The treatment team...

The treatment team reviewed external records from 2 hospitals, Hospital A and Hospital B. These records showed well-documented inpatient and outpatient Psychiatry and Neurology diagnoses of PNES and other conversion disorders. Her medications included 2 anticonvulsants—topiramate 200 mg every 12 hours and oxcarbazepine 300 mg every 12 hours—as well as clonazepam 0.5 mg as needed for seizures and anxiety.

Ms. M’s first lifetime documented seizure occurred in May 2020, when she woke up with tongue biting, extremity shaking (laterality was unclear), and urinary incontinence followed by fatigue. She did not go to the hospital after this first episode. In June 2020, she presented and was admitted to Hospital A after similar seizure-like activity. While admitted and monitored on continuous EEG (cEEG), she had numerous events consistent with a nonepileptic etiology without a postictal state. A brain MRI was unremarkable, and Ms. M was diagnosed with PNES.

She presented to Hospital B in October 2020 reporting seizure-like activity. Hospital B reviewed Hospital A’s brain MRI and found right temporal lobe cortical dysplasia that was not noted in Hospital A’s MRI read. Ms. M again underwent cEEG while at Hospital B and had 2 recorded nonepileptic events. Interestingly, the cEEG demonstrated right temporal spikes that were consistent with the dysplasia location on the MRI. Ms. M was discharged and instructed to keep a seizure journal until outpatient follow-up.

Ms. M documented 3 seizure-like events between October and December 2020. She documented activity with and without full-body convulsions, some with laterality, some with loss of consciousness, and some preceded by an aura of impending doom. Ms. M was referred to psychotherapy and instructed to continue topiramate 100 mg every 12 hours for seizure prophylaxis.

Ms. M presented to Hospital B again in March 2022 reporting seizure-like activity. A brain MRI found cortical dysplasia in the right temporal lobe, consistent with the MRI at Hospital A in June 2020. cEEG was also repeated at Hospital B and was unremarkable. Oxcarbazepine 300 mg every 12 hours was added to Ms. M’s medications.

Ultimately, based on an external record review, our team (at Hospital C) concluded Ms. M had a possible true seizure co-occurrence with PNES. To avoid redundant testing, we did not repeat imaging or cEEG. Instead, we increased the patient’s oxcarbazepine to 450 mg every 12 hours, for both its effectiveness in temporal seizures and its mood-stabilizing properties. Moreover, in collecting our own data to draw a conclusion by a thorough record review, we gained Ms. M’s trust and strengthened the therapeutic alliance. She was agreeable to forgo more testing and continue outpatient follow-up with our hospital’s Neurology team.

Take-home points

Although PNES and true seizure disorder may not frequently co-occur, this case highlights the importance of clinician due diligence when evaluating a potential psychogenic illness, both for patient safety and clinician liability. By trusting our patients and drawing our own data-based conclusions, we can cultivate a safer and more satisfactory patient-clinician experience in the context of psychosomatic disorders.