Winner — Sarah Gray
PGY7, SA
Redefining strength and resilience in Orthopaedics: “Breaking Surgical Norms Without Breaking Myself.”
Orthopaedics has long conjured images of brute strength, muscles, endurance, and a certain stoicism — usually male, usually silent, and rarely questioned. But I’ve come to believe strength doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes, it walks vivaciously into theatre in a pink unicorn scrub cap, visibly pregnant.
Sometimes, it wears high heels down the hospital corridor or speaks softly but with conviction in a room full of louder male voices. Sometimes, it stays late for a patient while texting the nanny as a single parent. And sometimes, it shows up — tattoos uncovered, coloured hair and piercings on show, unapologetically vibrant — in a space that whispers, You don’t quite belong.
I’m a 36-year-old orthopaedic registrar, currently pregnant, and inching closer to my long-held dream of becoming a consultant surgeon. I didn’t take the well-trodden path.
I was raised in a small country town and made my way to medicine through a rural pathway as a mature aged entry — open access learning, public schooling, no shortcuts. I didn’t inherit a legacy name that opened doors. I earned my place through late nights, relentless study, and a quiet, stubborn belief
that the juice would be worth the squeeze.
Four years into my role as a service registrar, I’ve seen glimpses of progress — but orthopaedics still clings tightly to tradition.
I know I stand out. My appearance doesn’t fit the usual surgical silhouette.
I’ve had comments, looks, and dismissals. But I wear who I am on the outside because I’ve spent too long hiding it. Every tattoo, every piercing, every shade of my hair is a piece of my story
– and when I scrub in, I do so knowing my difference doesn’t weaken my skill. It deepens it.
Some of the strongest parts of me were forged far from the hospital. I left a marriage scarred by domestic violence and addiction. I became a single mother, holding my son with one arm and surgical textbooks in the other. I passed my primaries alone — no partner cheering me on, no mentor guiding me, just the quiet echo of resolve at 2 a.m., coffee cold, pounding heart. Those years carved me open — but they also filled me with something unbreakable.
For too long, orthopaedic strength has been measured by physicality, detachment, and the ability to go without rest. But what about the strength it takes to keep your humanity intact? To be vulnerable in a field that sees that as weakness?
I believe we need a new definition — one that celebrates empathy, adaptability, and the courage to be different. One that makes room for mothers, for dreamers, for those who dare to show up fully as themselves.
Pregnancy, too, has taught me a new kind of grit. It’s one thing to hold a retractor through a six- hour case; it’s another to do it while managing carpal tunnel from pregnancy, swollen legs, and a baby thumping against your ribs.
There are moments — standing for hours, scrubbed in, sweat running down my back — when I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of an overhead light and think: This is what strength looks like, too. Anything you can do, I can do — pregnant, and yes, still in heels.
Resilience, to me, isn’t just survival. It’s not becoming bitter when you’ve earned the right to be.
It’s staying soft in a system that rewards hardness. It’s letting your story shine, rather than
burying it for the comfort of others. It’s knowing that you are not less because you are different
– you are more, and that difference is deeply, urgently needed.
I’ve seen change begin to ripple through the ranks, like a pebble in a pond. More women entering surgery. Open conversations about burnout, identity, and sexism. But the work isn’t done.
For those of us building space in a world not designed for us, every small act of presence is a rebellion — and much needed seed of change.
To the orthopaedic hopefuls who feel like they don’t fit: maybe that’s your power. Maybe you’re here to shift the shape of things. Bring your scars, your laughter, your lipstick, your child in tow
– and know that you are not alone. You can be a domestic violence survivor, a mother, a misfit
– and still be extraordinary. You don’t need to hide your story to belong. You just need to own it.
Orthopaedics needs more stories like mine. Not because they’re rare — but because they’ve been kept quiet for too long. It’s time to expand what strength means. What resilience looks like. And who belongs in theatre.
Size 6.5 hands. Open and caring hearts. Swollen feet. We are here. First one in, last to leave. We will not be silenced, and we’re not going anywhere.
Highly commended — Charlotte Collier
Medical student, ACT
Her Own Tempo: A Symphony of Strength and Resilience
Prelude (preparation): The Quiet Before the Cut
In the stillness of morning, she arrives unseen,
Her hands steady, her mind tuned to the score ahead.
She lays out her instruments, checks the lights,
Not for the applause, not for the glory,
But because every note matters to the music yet to come.
Strength lives here,
In quiet preparation, in relentless practice,
In choosing to run her own race.
Even when the whispers question if she belongs,
And the XXL gowns don’t fit her,
She shows up anyway,
Because she knows the stage is as much hers as theirs.
Allegro (incision): Choosing Her Own Path
The blade meets skin and all eyes turn,
But she stays at her post, calm, composed,
Guiding the rhythm, holding the tempo steady.
Others wield the hammer and saw,
Too often assuming strength is only muscle and noise,
But she, she wields resolve.
She cuts through the theatre’s boys’ club bravado,
Refusing to let old myths about brute force and swagger
Drown out her quiet power.
Strength is not the loudest strike or the boldest move,
But the quiet certainty of a conductor who knows the piece by heart,
And refuses to let it falter.
Andante (exploration and dissection): Adapting to the Unexpected
Once inside, the anatomy reveals its challenges.
Tendons tight where they should glide,
Bones fragile where they should be strong.
Her path is no different:
Colleagues who underestimate her,
Pay gaps she must cross,
And ambitions that jostle against family,
In a system that wasn’t built for her.
She adjusts, reorients and guides her team through discord.
Like an orchestra meeting an unexpected key change,
She adapts and endures.
Her strength lies in not clinging to the old score,
But rewriting it with grace.
Scherzo (fixation and repair): Mending More Than Bone
Plates and screws lock fractured bones,
While wires and rods restore the frame.
But her true craft lies beyond the table,
In mending the culture’s rigid scaffolding.
She builds more than bone:
Spaces where voices rise, not falter,
Where gowns fit every shape,
And conversations include all stories.
Strength is choosing to challenge the familiar,
To rewrite the rules of who belongs here,
To steady hands not only with tools,
But with empathy, courage, and humility.
She fixes and repairs not just bodies, but barriers,
Laying foundations where resilience grows.
Finale (closure): Threads of Strength, Woven Together
At the end, the suture pulls tight,
A single thread joining flesh, fragile but sure.
But true strength comes in numbers,
Many sutures working in harmony,
People from every corner of healthcare,
Nurses, doctors, mentors, allies,
Joining hands to weave change.
Her fingers move like a conductor’s baton,
Guiding, steadying, creating strength.
Together they mend more than skin and bone,
Building resilience that outlasts the theatre’s light,
So the next girl with a scalpel,
Can rise supported, whole and unencumbered.
Encore (post-op): Leaving a Quiet Legacy
When the case is over, her work is not yet done,
Teaching and guiding, lifting others to their potential.
Her strength endures beyond the theatre walls:
In the dancer who now dares to leap,
In the young surgeon who feels she belongs,
In the patient who walks again.
She redefines strength:
Not by wielding the hammer,
Not by standing in the spotlight,
But by being the steady hand,
The quiet symphony behind every curtain call.
Give her the stage, the baton, the cue,
And watch strength and resilience take form.
Not as a solo, but as a chorus of many,
As a symphony of grace.