Floor technician.

Environmental technician.

Life coach.

Investment and retirement strategist.

Facility safety coordinator.

Interventional cardiologist.

Cardiothoracic and vascular surgeon.

Neurodevelopmental psychologist.

Are we hiding behind our words? Worse yet, are we afraid to be who we really are?

Maintenance man.

Trash man. 

Knowledgeable and experienced friend.


Security guard.



I see it every day. Someone comes to me for a run-of-the-mill mental health problem, absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, and asks for help. For whatever reason, when we get to the social history taking part of the interview, the part where I ask things like “How far did you go in school?” and “Who lives with you at home right now?” and “What kind of work do you do?”, there is a very strong need to embellish. To make the mundane and the normal and the usual and the expected look and sound like much more than it really is.

Personal flaw? Societal norm? You tell me.

Years ago, when I was a child, it was okay to be just a teacher. Just a garbage man. Just a fisherman. Just a factory shift worker. Just a  shift supervisor. Just a lawyer. Just a doctor.

I remember with great fondness those people in my life who were sure of who they were, what they did, what they knew (and didn’t know) and were quite comfortable and proud of those things. I remember wanting to be like those adults. I wanted to be as quietly confident as they were. I wanted to be as sure of who I was as they were. I wanted to be like them when I grew up.

Nowadays, I see kids who are afraid to excel, even when they most assuredly can. I see adults who think that just because they process widgets in a factory that they will never be on par with the local businesswoman who wears painfully high heels or the stock broker who drives the BMW and has an office on the town square.

I see people who are blessed beyond measure with titles and material things and degrees and high-powered jobs. I see those same people buried alive under layer upon layer of regulations, rules and policies, so constricted that they are stifled and can barely breathe. 

I see people diluted by the clear, killing acid of modern life, spotless and sparkling in their constraining and confining societal beakers, proudly propped on wire stands and bubbling over Bunsen burners of advancement and promotion.

The problem?

Once the heat has been applied for too long by peers and regulating bodies and governmental institutions, once the clear liquid in the beaker has burned off and the residue is swirled around in the bottom of the vessel, there is nothing left.

The distilling process is no longer purifying, no longer leaving only the essence and the basic substance that undergirds life and stability and happiness. 

It leaves the beaker burned and crusted, and the flask at the other end of the rig…



Mr. Smith Was My Father



I responded to a blog post comment the other day, and signed the response “Greg”. It was a heartfelt response, one that I felt needed to be from me as a person, not me as a doctor or writer or blogger or professional person. Just from me.

Another commenter noticed that and said something about what it must have been like to sign something with my name, and not “Dr. Smith”.

That made me think.

We sometimes use different parts of ourselves, different facets of our personalities, and even different names to interact with others as we move through the world.

We might put on the mother or father hat in the morning when getting our children ready for school, shouldering the respect due us as authorities in the early morning sunlight. By midmorning, kids long since gone out the door and us in our offices or cubicles somewhere across town or even in another city, we wear the professional mantle that marks us as bosses or partners or worker bees, slipping on those roles as easily as we don a familiar, slightly stretched knitted sweater.

By afternoon, we slide out of those warm garments and slip back out into the world, the easy weight of the workaday world behind us, and the coming dusk greying us and softening us around the edges. We are partner, friend, lover, and that takes us easily into the coming evening, deepening the world’s hold on us, drawing us back into the warm circles of light that begin to dot the landscape, as welcome as the blinking glow of fireflies on a summer’s night.

We are different then, somehow, with fewer connections, stronger, lasting or not, intense and white-hot as a welder’s flame, binding as a fetter and sharp as a steel blade.

Gregory E. Smith MD

Dr. Gregory E. Smith.

Dr. Gregory Smith.

Dr. Smith.

Dr. Gregory.




I am all of these.

They describe me clinically. They define me professionally. They mark me.  They allow others to connect with me, or to keep a safe professional distance.

Sometimes they choose.

Sometimes I choose.


Who are you?

What do people call you?