The Five Stages of Grief Every Med Student Faces on OB/GYN Rotation

Introduction: Welcome to the Rollercoaster

There’s a moment in every med student’s life when they hear their clinical rotation schedule—and then it hits them. OB/GYN. You try to hide the panic in your smile as your stomach drops like you’re on a malfunctioning elevator. Whether you’re scared of deliveries, overwhelmed by the emotional intensity, or just not a fan of pre-dawn call shifts, you’re not alone. In fact, what follows closely resembles the famous Five Stages of Grief.

Let’s unpack what it’s really like to face the OB/GYN rotation, stage by soul-crushing stage.

Stage 1: Denial – “This Can’t Be Right”

You read the rotation list again. And again. Maybe the Excel sheet glitched. Maybe you got someone else’s schedule. OB/GYN? You, who almost fainted during your reproductive system OSCE? No, this can’t be happening.

You spend the next few hours double-checking your email, trying to remember if there’s a mistake, a swap, or divine intervention that can spare you. You frantically text your friends: “Did you get OB/GYN too? No? Just me? Cool cool cool.”

You tell yourself it won’t be that bad. Maybe you’ll get an easy preceptor. Maybe you won’t have to see a delivery. Maybe.

Stage 2: Anger – “Why Would They Do This to Me?”

Once the denial fades, rage sets in. Why did they schedule you on this rotation first thing in the semester? Why does your hospital have 24-hour labor and delivery call shifts?

You curse the admin who made the schedule. You curse the ACOG for making this a core rotation. You even curse your past self for choosing medical school in the first place.

Your group chat becomes a war room. You’re not just mad—you’re fired up. Fueled by caffeine and resentment, you swear to fight for every post-call day and bathroom break like it’s a human right (because, honestly, it is).

Stage 3: Bargaining – “If I Survive This, I’ll Never Complain Again”

Your alarm goes off at 4:30 AM. You bargain with the universe: If you can just make it through this morning, you’ll stop complaining about medicine. Forever. You’ll never roll your eyes at another SOAP note. You’ll gladly write ten more discharge summaries if it means you can skip just one more vaginal delivery.

You try to get out of call shifts by trading with the eager student who actually likes OB. You even consider faking laryngitis to avoid presenting patients. But deep down, you know there’s no escape.

So you do what any desperate med student would—you promise yourself that if you just make it to the end, you’ll buy yourself a very expensive, totally unnecessary Littmann stethoscope as a reward.

Stage 4: Depression – “This Is My Life Now”

By week two, you’ve stopped setting an alarm. Your body wakes you up out of sheer dread. You walk into the hospital like a zombie. No amount of caffeine makes you feel alive anymore. You’ve seen things you can’t unsee—emergency C-sections, 4th-degree tears, people giving birth in triage.

You start to feel the existential weight of it all. You envy the OB residents who seem unfazed, even cheerful. You begin to question whether you’re cut out for clinical medicine at all. Maybe you should’ve gone into pathology. Or dentistry. Or interior design.

You scroll through job listings for pharmaceutical reps in Bali during your lunch break.

Stage 5: Acceptance – “This Isn’t So Bad (Kind Of)”

Around week four, something unexpected happens. You catch a baby—and don’t drop it. You manage to insert a speculum correctly without sweating buckets. You actually help someone feel more comfortable during a difficult consult.

You start recognizing fetal heart tracings. You know how to page the attending without sounding like a terrified squirrel.

Then, it hits you: You’re surviving. You’re learning. You’re actually… decent at this. Maybe OB/GYN isn’t your dream specialty, but you start to appreciate its rhythm, its raw intensity, its unique humanity.

You still won’t miss the call room couch or the smell of amniotic fluid. But you’ll carry these lessons—about compassion, communication, and courage—with you forever.

Tips for Surviving OB/GYN (Without Losing Your Sanity)

1. Get Comfortable Being Uncomfortable – You’ll be in intimate spaces, seeing people at their most vulnerable. Respect and empathy go a long way.
2. Wear the Right Shoes – 14-hour L&D shifts mean your crocs better have arch support.
3. Hydrate Strategically – Not so much that you need to pee every hour, but enough to avoid shriveling into a medical raisin.
4. Don’t Be Afraid to Ask – Whether it’s about inserting a Foley or catching a baby, ask questions. This is your time to learn.
5. Keep a Mini Survival Kit – Snacks, lip balm, hair ties, a penlight, and coffee pods are clinical currency.
6. Celebrate Small Wins – Got through a speculum exam without apologizing? Win. Didn’t flinch at a C-section? Win.
7. Take Mental Health Breaks – The rotation is intense. Step outside. Call a friend. Eat something that didn’t come from a vending machine.

Conclusion: From Dread to Deadlifting Confidence

The OB/GYN rotation has a reputation—and for good reason. It’s physically demanding, emotionally intense, and unpredictably messy. But it’s also eye-opening, transformative, and deeply human. You’ll learn to function in high-stakes environments. You’ll see life begin (and sometimes heartbreakingly, end). You’ll leave with stronger clinical skills—and maybe, a bit more grit.

So embrace the grief, laugh at the chaos, and give yourself grace. If you can survive OB/GYN, you can survive anything.