Editor’s Note: This account was personally written by Lattisha Bilbrew, MD, orthopaedic surgeon and best-selling author, and is posted with her permission. It is an informative and inspiring piece.
“Yes, I Am The Surgeon.”
I’ve said it three times before noon today. Once, to the nurse who called me “honey” while looking past me for the “real doctor.” Once to the patient who asked when he’d arrive. Once to myself in the bathroom mirror, practicing the smile that doesn’t crack.
The nurse’s dismissive “honey” wasn’t meant to wound. She was busy, distracted, expecting someone else. Someone who fits the image of orthopaedic surgeon that 0.6% of us disrupt just by existing.
But that moment taught me something my surgical residency never could.
Without the white coat, without “Dr. Bilbrew” on my badge, I’m just another Black woman in the hallway. Easy to overlook. Easy to dismiss. Easy to call “honey” wile searching for authority in someone else’s face.
I’ve collected these moments like surgical instruments. Each one is precise in what it reveals.
When the patient who relaxes when I mention my credentials—then tenses again, needing more proof. The colleague who assumes I’m “one of the nurses” at conferences. The security guard who stops me at the physician’s entrance has been the same for five years.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Bilbrew. Yes, I am the surgeon.”
My introduction has grown longer to make space for their surprise.
But here’s what those moments give me: I know exactly how this hospital treats people without MD after their names. I’ve lived it between the OR and the elevator. Felt the casual dismissal. The absent acknowledgment. The assumption that I’m here to serve, not lead.
That perspective is a gift wrapped in exhaustion.
Because when my patients tell me they feel invisible, I believe them. When they say the staff talked over them, I know that rhythm. When they describe being dismissed before being heard—I’ve worn those shoes.
Every “Yes, I am the surgeon” is a small revolution. Not just for me. For the medical student who needs to see it’s possible. For the patient who needs care from someone who understands invisibility. For my daughter, who won’t have to say it quite as often.
Some colleagues think I’m too sensitive. That I should be grateful for my position, that constantly correcting assumptions is the price of breaking barriers.
But what if it’s not the price? What if it’s data?
Every correction is a chance to shift the paradigm. To expand what a “surgeon” looks like. To make the following introduction easier for someone else.
The nurse who called me “honey” this morning? She’ll remember. Not from embarrassment—I made sure of that. But from the gentle disruption of her assumptions.
Tomorrow I’ll repeat it. “Yes, I am the surgeon.”
Until it becomes as natural as expecting me to be.
That’s how we rebuild medicine Beyond The Clinic.
(originally posted on LinkedIn, 2025).
