Veterinarian Mental Health: This Wasn’t Just One Veterinarian

You’ve probably seen the news. A veterinarian caught on video. A public apology. Then silence. Then a body found in Lake Mead, USA.

All news reports will tell you what happened. But almost none are talking about why.

This wasn’t just one man. It wasn’t just one mistake.

This was the cost of a system that wears people down and leaves them to carry it alone. A system that demands perfection, punishes mistakes, and still expects you to smile through it.

We don’t talk enough about veterinarian mental health. About what it’s really like to do this job day in, day out. The weight of every case. The pressure from every client. The reality of being the one who shows up when a horse is colicking in the middle of the night – and the one who has to say, “There’s nothing more we can do.”

And the truth is, for many veterinarians, especially those working alone in equine practice, there’s no one standing behind them when things get heavy.

That’s what this article is about.

The Hidden Cost of the Profession

Veterinarians are expected to be calm under pressure, sharp on diagnosis, gentle with patients, and endlessly patient with clients. That’s the job. But no one tells you about the cost of doing it day after day, year after year.

Especially in equine practice – where you’re often working alone, driving between properties, fielding emergencies after hours, and carrying the emotional and physical load by yourself.

And that load is heavy.

Burnout isn’t a buzzword. It’s real. So is compassion fatigue. So is moral distress—the guilt that comes from knowing what a horse needs but not being able to do it, whether because of money, timing, or clinic resources.

We’re trained to put animals first. To get the job done. To cope. But the toll this takes on veterinarian mental health is staggering.

Here’s the data (the facts!):

Veterinarians are 2–4 times more likely to die by suicide than the general population.
80% of vets experience clinical depression at some point.
Nearly 50% report feeling unhappy in their careers.
Among female vets, suicide risk is 3.5x higher than average. Among male vets, it’s 2.1x.

And yet, most of us keep going. We show up. We work harder. We swallow the stress. Because that’s what we were taught to do.

But let’s be clear: the stress isn’t just a personal failing or poor coping. It’s a product of how this profession is structured.

Long hours. Rising debt. High client expectations. Constant emotional load. Access to euthanasia drugs. Isolation. Perfectionism. A culture that glorifies being tough and shames you for being tired.

That’s the environment we’re working in. And it’s why equine veterinarian mental health needs to be something we talk about – openly, often, and without judgement.

What We Don’t Talk About Enough

There’s a story most veterinarians know by heart. It’s the one where you tough it out, keep your head down, and pretend you’re fine—even when you’re not.

No one trains you on how to manage grief after euthanising six horses in one week. Or how to hold it together when a client is yelling, or blaming, or demanding a miracle you can’t deliver.

No one prepares you for the emotional whiplash of going from saving a foal in the morning to explaining to a teenager that it’s time to put their horse down that afternoon.

And no one really tells you what it does to your mind when you carry that alone.

That silence – around burnout, depression, anxiety, trauma, is one of the most dangerous parts of this job. Not because we’re fragile. But because we’re human. And pretending we’re not is killing us.

We rarely talk about how our training in euthanasia changes the way we see suffering. Or how easy it is, for someone already struggling, to start thinking the same rules apply to themselves. And when that someone has access to barbiturates… it doesn’t take long.

Veterinarian mental health isn’t just about stress or sadness. It’s about how years of exposure to death and suffering, coupled with perfectionism and isolation, can chip away at your ability to cope – and eventually convince you that no one will understand.

But here’s the truth: they will. Because whether anyone’s said it or not, nearly every equine veterinarian I know has been on the edge at some point. And those who haven’t? They know someone who has.

It’s time we started saying these things out loud.

This Can’t Be Our Normal

We can’t keep calling this normal.

When 80% of veterinarians report depression… that’s not an individual issue. That’s a profession-wide crisis.

When the most common cause of death among veterinarians under 65 is suicide—not cancer, not heart disease—we don’t need more resilience training. We need to change the system.

Veterinarian mental health can’t be fixed by a wellness poster in the staff room. It won’t be solved by telling people to take deep breaths or take better care of themselves—when the workload, the pressure, and the isolation are what’s crushing them in the first place.

We need to stop pretending that endless availability, emotional self-erasure, and working until you break are markers of professional pride.

They’re not.

They’re signs that the job, as it currently stands for many, is unlivable.

And it’s not just the work hours. It’s what happens when mistakes are made. When outcomes don’t go to plan. When a horse dies, or a client is furious, or someone writes a cruel review that’s seen by thousands.

It’s the silence. The shame. The fear that one mistake will define you, ruin you, end your career.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Veterinarian mental health deserves the same seriousness and urgency as any other part of professional safety. You wouldn’t send someone into surgery without sterile equipment. So why are we sending them into 14-hour days, emotional trauma, and access to lethal drugs—without backup?

We have to stop calling this normal. Because it’s not. And deep down, we all know it.

What Can Change – Starting Now

We don’t need more awareness. We need action.

Veterinarian mental health won’t improve because we posted about it once a year. It’ll improve when we start changing what we do – at the individual level, the clinic level, and across the profession.

Here’s where to start:

Start talking.
Ask your colleagues how they’re really doing. Not just in passing. Not just “busy?” or “how was your weekend?” But, “How are you holding up?” And actually listen.

Normalize these conversations. Make space for them, especially with new grads who are still learning how to survive in this field.

Check in on the strong ones.
The ones who look like they’re fine. The ones always picking up the slack. The ones who don’t complain. They’re often the ones falling apart quietly.

Take burnout seriously.
Stop waiting until someone crashes. If a colleague’s exhausted, withdrawing, or losing their spark—don’t brush it off. Step in early.

Practice owners: this starts with you. Create a culture where people can ask for time off without guilt. Where someone can make a mistake without fearing their career is over. Where feedback includes support, not just pressure.

Don’t ignore the drug cabinet.
We need tighter controls on euthanasia solutions. If you have pentobarbital sitting in an unlocked box, and you think “not in my clinic” – think again.

Most veterinary suicides involving barbiturates happen outside of work. That means someone took the drug home.

It’s a hard truth, but it’s one we can do something about. Whether it’s two-person sign-offs, timed access logs, or secure storage – it’s not just policy. It’s prevention.

And finally—prioritise connection.
Veterinarian mental health improves when people feel seen, heard, and supported.

That starts with a single message. A conversation. A clinic-wide decision to stop pretending and start supporting.

Why Communities Like The Equine Practice Company Matter

When you’re running on empty, you need more than a crisis line.

You need a place where you can say, “I’m not okay,” and know that someone will understand. You need people who get it, not just the cases and the clients, but the pressure, the doubt, the fear of failure.

That’s why The Equine Practice Company exists.

We’re not just about continuing education. We’re about connection. About making sure you’re not the only one in the room who’s ever questioned whether they can keep doing this.

Because you’re not.

And when your mental health takes a hit – and it will, at some point – you shouldn’t have to figure it out alone. You should have someone you trust. Someone who’s been there. Someone who can say, “Yeah, I’ve felt that too.”

That’s what this community is. It’s a place to be honest. To ask for help. To reset your footing. To find direction when you’ve lost it.

Equine veterinarian mental health doesn’t get better in isolation. It gets better when we start showing up for each other – before things unravel.

So if you’ve been holding it together with duct tape and caffeine, or quietly wondering how long you can keep this up – come find us. You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re just human.

And you’re exactly who this community is for.

My Final Words

If you’re still reading this, maybe it’s because something in here feels familiar.

Maybe you’ve had a hard week. Or a hard year. Maybe you’ve cried in the truck, or questioned your career, or caught yourself thinking, I can’t do this anymore.

If that’s you – you’re not alone. And you don’t have to go through it in silence.

Veterinarian mental health is not a side issue. It’s not something to deal with later. It’s right here, in the middle of everything. And it deserves your attention. Not when you’ve burned out. Not when something goes wrong. Now.

So here’s what you can do today:

Text a colleague and ask how they’re really doing.
Share this article. Let it be a conversation starter.
Lock the drug box. Check your policies. Make it harder to act on a bad day.
Talk to someone. A friend. A therapist. A peer. EPC.

And if you’re struggling more than you’re willing to admit – please, just reach out. Not One More Vet. 988. A local mental health service. Someone you trust.

We need you here. Even if you don’t feel it today, your presence in this profession matters more than you know.

Because this wasn’t just one veterinarian. And it never is.