Dr. Fatima Dollar is a pulmonary critical care physician at Temple University Hospital and a graduate of UT Health San Antonio. She is a member of the Philadelphia Dawoodi Bohra community. In this article, she speaks about working in healthcare, the importance of emotional intelligence, and exploring the growing role of AI in the field.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
A red light—a warning. Oxygen’s plummeting.
Little time. Can’t hesitate. No second chances.
This is pulmonary critical care, and the pressure is crushing.
The stakes? Life—or loss.
These are the stakes I live with daily as a pulmonary critical care doctor. It’s work that asks you to make split-second decisions that could save lives—and being fully present while there.
When people ask what it's like to work in an ICU, I tell them this: it’s not just medicine. It’s remaining calm under pressure. It’s being asked to think clearly, compassionately, and guide people through what might be the hardest moment of their lives.
What Drew Me to Pulmonary Critical Care—And What Keeps Me Here
Growing up in Houston, I was surrounded by a strong physician community—specialists in every field. Even as a child, I noticed how many patients ended up in the ICU. It’s a different world—ventilators, life-support machines, and decisions that can change a family’s life in an instant. To be brought into that is terrifying for patients and even more so for their families, who are often left to juggle anxiety with anticipation.
I saw a need—not just for skilled doctors, but for compassionate ones and I wanted to be that person.
When I applied to medical school, I was waitlisted and had already started looking into alternative career paths. Then, just a week before classes started, I got the call from an administrator of UT Health San Antonio:
“A spot opened up, and we want you—come.”
Similarly, for my fellowship, I hadn’t originally planned to train at Temple University, but that’s where I landed. What helped me through and has become one of my greatest assets in the ICU—is the ability to remain calm under pressure. While composure is certainly a core part of ICU training, I discovered a deeper, more internal stillness that’s guided me through the most intense moments.
The Night Everything Changed
I remember one night in the ICU when an older woman—someone who had been stable just hours earlier—suddenly crashed. Her heart rate spiked, then plummeted. The monitors exploded with alarms. Nurses flooded the room. A family member who had been sitting quietly at her bedside gasped, staggered, and fainted right there in the corner.
In that instant, the room split in two: one team rushed to catch the collapsing family member, and the other turned to me. That’s the moment where instinct, training, and calm have to take over. Because if your hands are shaking or your thoughts are scrambled, you miss something—and in the ICU, that margin for error doesn’t exist.
The only way to make the right decision—the one that could mean life or death—is to think clearly. That’s not something you're born with. You build it. And you rely on it.
The Hardest Part No One Sees
What most people don’t see is what happens after the beeping stops. The hardest part of this job isn’t the medicine—it’s the conversations.
I’ve had to make those calls in the middle of the night—the kind that carry news no one is ready for. Sometimes no one picks up. I sit there, heart heavy, trying again… and again. Each time the call goes unanswered, the weight of what I have to say grows heavier.
When someone finally answers, there's a pause—a moment of silence before I speak. No matter how many times I’ve done it, it never feels routine. Because I know that, for them, everything is about to change.
The best physicians, my greatest teachers, have been those with emotional intelligence. You have to read the room. Know what not to say. Know how to say what needs to be said. Know how to just sit with someone’s pain without rushing to fix it.
Balancing the Weight
I won’t lie—this job is heavy.
The only way to keep going is to find balance.
For me, that comes from my faith. Reading the Quran gives me clarity and purpose. I have a friend who runs eight miles a day to clear her mind. Everyone has their way of processing the weight of this work, and I’ve learned that if you don’t actively cultivate that balance, this field will break you.
New generations of medical students face so much pressure—everything is about scoring high enough, fitting into rigid timelines, and achieving perfection. But the truth is, medicine isn’t about perfection.
If you are stable in your personal life, if you have a sense of balance, you will be a better doctor.
AI in Medicine: A Tool, Not a Replacement
In my research, I work with AI tools that analyze lung scans, measuring tiny blood vessels to track disease progression. This technology allows me to detect early signs of pulmonary hypertension without invasive procedures.
But here’s what matters: AI isn’t making decisions for me. It’s offering information—powerful, precise data—that helps me make more informed decisions. It’s pulling out papers for me, saving me 25 hours of work for every two. That’s its strength.
But medicine is more than data—it’s judgment, emotional intelligence, and creativity. It’s knowing how to speak to a family at 2 a.m., how to read between the lines of what a patient isn’t saying, and how to adjust when the unexpected happens.
AI can guide, assist, even outperform in certain technical tasks—but it can’t build trust. It can’t hold someone’s hand. It can’t replace the instinct and compassion that come only from years at the bedside.
I don’t see AI as a threat. I see it as a tool. And like any tool, it’s how we use it that matters. Used wisely, it has the potential to free us from routine tasks—so we can focus more on what only humans can do: care deeply, think critically, and be fully present for the people who need us most.
What the ICU has Taught Me
This work has taught me that control is never absolute. I can stay calm to retain control in the moment, but I also have to stay calm in what I cannot control. Because even when we do everything right, outcomes are never guaranteed.
What is always within reach is the way we show up: with humility and gratitude.
For the moments when a life is helped. For the lessons when one is not. And for the privilege of being there—no matter the outcome.
If You Take One Thing From This
Whether you're in medicine or not, here’s what I hope you’ll take away:
You don’t have to feel ready. You don’t have to be perfect. Just try.
There were so many moments when I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Times when I was convinced I had failed. But what carried me through was my faith, my drive, and my willingness to learn from whatever came next.
The worst that can happen is failure. And even failure will teach you something. It might teach you who you are. It might lead you somewhere better. Or it might simply remind you that you’re stronger than you think.
In life—just like in the ICU—you can’t always control the outcome. But you can control your presence.
And when you keep showing up, again and again, you’ll end up exactly where you’re meant to be.
