The Enemy Within

Untimely notes on 2025.

T has recommended that I take stock of 2025. I’m late, partly because 2025 has been a difficult year and I don’t really feel like facing it head-on. Even so, since doing my homework is my thing, here I am: taking stock.

I’ve been trying to reinvent myself professionally for just over a year. The reasons are few but intense, and I can’t fit them all into this letter. It’s not that I don’t like my job; what bothers me is a healthcare system that is dedicated to patching up a society that prefers to consume short videos on YouTube rather than seek solutions and does not feel responsible for its future. The current model is unsustainable, I can tell you that much. That said, I promise not to get apocalyptic. When I get into this mood, instead of complaining, I find myself humming Nacho Vegas. What a great album El Manifiesto Desastre is.

In 2025, I wanted to change jobs, but I wasn’t particularly good at it. I didn’t aspire to sell macramé online or pursue a second career as a professional dancer. I wanted to stay in healthcare, but in a field that promotes health rather than just treating illness. Prevention is by far the most effective intervention against cancer. And I’ll leave it at that.

The initial plan seemed sensible: rearrange my CV, highlight my soft skills, take a public health course and move forward from there. I gave it my all, and I put so much enthusiasm and energy into it. Halfway through this marathon that felt like a sprint, the Little Miss Smug I carry inside whispered:

‘What a strange luck mine is, that even when I could do less, I always want to do more.’

A year and a half of studying, sending CVs in every direction, without much luck. Automated emails thanking me for taking part in selection processes I never came out on top of. The final blow came a month ago, when they called to tell me that a position that was meant to be a step in the right direction would no longer be so. The reasons, ultimately, are irrelevant: what was meant to be, wasn’t.

Morir de sed y beber del mar.

In this race to reinvent myself, I lost my bearings. I started to believe that everything came down to proving my abilities, so I set out to do everything. Literally EVERYTHING. There wasn’t a single project or initiative at work that I didn’t volunteer for. The Little Miss Efficient I carry inside repeated, with conviction: “this shows leadership,” “this proves your ability to coordinate,” followed by a long list of slogans that now sound like little more than noise. The result: 31 December, and back to square one. I was never good at Parcheesi.

Te diré mil cosas por las que llorar.

The worst part was that, in my attempt to shine professionally, I stopped doing so at home. The stress of an ever-pending inbox, of projects constantly demanding attention, the perpetual feeling of never quite getting to everything. Like having an app permanently running in the background, quietly draining your energy.

What a strange curse mine is, that when wanting to do more, what I really need is to do less.

A few weeks ago, T asked me what I liked about myself. The first thing that came to mind was the sound of my laughter, which reminds me of church bells ringing at a wedding. I burst into tears, because it had been a long time since I had truly laughed. I miss that peal of laughter. Now, when I laugh, I immediately feel a weight on my chest—the weight of not having rationed my hope. Talk about self-inflicted drama. As Nacho Vegas puts it, “these sorrows always come from clumsiness.”

Que es jodido ya lo sé. Pero no es dramático. Esto no es tan trágico.

I’ve left my calendar blank for 2026. Being ultra-efficient has not been my strong suit, so in 2026 I plan to do my job—as an oncologist—just as well as I always have, and nothing more. The only thing I’m going to plan is my holidays, so I can buy plane tickets at a reasonable price.

Let’s see if, without plans, laughter finds me again. That’s all I’m hoping for.