09/01/2026
My Take Tuesday: More Than the Work We Do
There is danger in defining ourselves exclusively by our profession.
I am proud to be a veterinarian. Veterinary medicine has given me a life filled with purpose, service, and experiences I could never have imagined. It has allowed me to care for remarkable animals, walk beside people during some of their most difficult moments, and build friendships that reach far beyond the walls of an examination room.
Being a veterinarian is an important part of who I am.
But it is not all that I am.
That can be difficult to remember in a profession that asks so much of us. Veterinary medicine does not always remain neatly at the clinic when we turn off the lights. It follows us home in the form of unfinished cases, difficult decisions, unanswered questions, and animals we continue to worry about long after the appointment has ended.
There is always another patient who needs us. Another phone call to return. Another record to complete. Another problem waiting for an answer.
If we are not careful, the work can begin to consume not only our time but also our identity.
We start measuring our worth by the outcome of a case, the productivity of a day, or how much we can carry without asking for help. We become known to others, and sometimes to ourselves, only by the title attached to our name.
But none of us is one-dimensional.
We are parents and partners. Sons and daughters. Friends, neighbors, mentors, and students. We are gardeners, fishermen, writers, travelers, artists, musicians, and dreamers. These parts of us are not distractions from our professional lives. They are pieces of what make our lives whole.
One of the things I love to do is play the piano.
After a stressful day at the clinic, I sometimes sit down at the keys and begin to play. My hands, which may have spent the day performing surgery, examining animals, or wrestling with a particularly uncooperative patient, are suddenly asked to do something entirely different.
For a few moments, the demands of the day begin to fade. My breathing slows. My mind becomes still. The cases I have been replaying loosen their grip, and the notes fill spaces that worry had occupied only minutes before.
I am not playing for an audience. I am not trying to accomplish anything or prove anything. I am simply playing because I love it.
And perhaps that is precisely why it restores me.
The piano reminds me that there is more to life than the work I do. It reconnects me with a part of myself that does not depend upon a professional title, a successful outcome, or someone else’s expectations.
Every person needs something like that.
It may be music. It may be working in the garden, saddling a horse, walking through the mountains, painting, fishing, reading, cooking, or sitting on the porch with someone you love. The activity itself matters less than what it helps us remember: before we are professionals, we are people.
Our profession deserves our dedication, but it should never require the surrender of our entire identity.
In fact, the things we love outside veterinary medicine may be among the very things that allow us to remain in it. They give our minds a place to rest, our hearts room to breathe, and our lives a broader foundation. When one difficult case shakes us, we are reminded that our entire worth was never resting upon that case alone.
We do not become less committed veterinarians when we make room for the other parts of ourselves. We become healthier people and we are better able to serve, lead, listen, and care.
The piano does not take me away from veterinary medicine.
It helps me return to it renewed.
And that is My Take.
N. Isaac Bott, DVM
