When Khadija Mastur Chaudhry scanned matrimonial ‘rishtas’ for her businessman son, she had a very clear — and very status-driven — wish. She wanted a ‘doctor bahoo’. Among all prospective matches, she found a young woman: a fresh MBBS graduate from a public medical college, then doing her house job at a government hospital. Exactly the kind of ‘rishta’ to parade before relatives — a doctor in the family.
But once the match was made, and her son’s bride had formally entered their home, Khadija’s tune changed. She told her daughter-in-law: “There is no need to give such long hours for only seventy or eighty thousand rupees. Your husband is already earning over a million monthly through his garments business — so better you give maximum time to your husband and your house.”
The woman, still new to married life and the hospital’s wards, protested at first. She argued that her medical degree was the product of years of rigorous study. She had trained hard. She felt a professional — and moral — responsibility to use her skills to serve people in need.
Yet ultimately, under pressure from her husband and mother-in-law, she gave up. Her stethoscope gathers dust. Her white coat now lies folded. A once-promising young physician has quietly exited the profession.
Her story is far from unique. In Lahore, Karachi, Islamabad — across Pakistan — countless women have completed MBBS, engineering, law, or other professional degrees, only to abandon their fields after marrying.
“The phenomenon of ‘doctor brides’ is no longer anecdotal; it is structural,” says Dr Khalid Masood Gondal, Vice Chancellor of King Edward Medical University (KEMU). Speaking at Sahiwal Medical College’s first convocation, he warned that while around 80 per cent of medical graduates today are women, only about 20 per cent of them go on to serve as practicing doctors. “In most cases, their family members or in-laws forbid them from doing jobs.”
This ‘attrition’ not only damages the healthcare system — but also represents a massive waste of public resources. Each doctor trained at a public medical college represents an investment of millions of rupees by the state, funds that yield no return when the graduate leaves practice.
A more recent study confirms the troubling trend: a nationwide survey by Gallup Pakistan and PRIDE, based on the 2020-21 Labour Force data, found that roughly 35 per cent of female medical graduates in Pakistan are unemployed, while another 20 per cent are out of the labour force entirely. That means more than a third of all qualified women doctors are not working.
Dr Bilal Gilani of Gallup Pakistan remarked, “Pakistan has a dearth of trained medical doctors,” even though tens of thousands of female graduates remain idle. Why does this happen? The reasons are many — but often, deeply rooted in gender norms, family expectations, and structural barriers.
A recent letter published in a national daily pointed out that although over 70pc of medical students are now female (thanks to open-merit admissions), the majority do not enter the workforce. This is not because of lack of ambition or ability — rather, factors such as cultural norms, workplace harassment, lack of maternity leave or childcare, inflexible hours, and unsupportive in-laws push many to withdraw.
One academic study of female physicians — house officers and postgraduate residents — found that 88pc cited work-home imbalance as a major reason to quit. Long and erratic hours, on-call duties, physical exhaustion, inflexible scheduling, and difficulties obtaining leave were all cited as key factors.
As Dr Faryal Khan, a working doctor, once told a journalist: “It’s not easy to keep a balance between family and kids and work.” Even women who want to continue working often face subtle — or overt — pressures. Some husbands frown on night shifts; some in-laws see working women as unnecessary security risks or simply too busy to be good wives and mothers.
The young woman from Khadija Chaudhry’s home is only one name among many, but her story captures the essence of a widespread paradox: a society that congratulates itself when young women “become doctors,” yet politely — or not so politely — nudges them into the kitchen once the wedding bells ring.
What does this mean for Pakistan’s health sector? At a time when the country faces a chronic shortage of qualified doctors, especially female ones who can serve in conservative and rural areas, this attrition is alarming.
By allowing — or even encouraging — medical graduates to drop out after marriage, we are squandering decades of public investment, eroding healthcare capacity, and denying patients care. As Dr Khalid Gondal argued, “This needs to be addressed.” Yet reversing the trend will require more than statistics. It will demand a shift in social attitudes, and structural reforms. Policies such as maternity leave, flexible shifts, on-site childcare, safe transport, harassment-free workplaces, and support for female doctors returning from career breaks are urgently needed.
Some digital health platforms — like Sehat Kahani and DoctHERs — are already experimenting with telemedicine, allowing women to practice from home or on flexible schedules. Such innovations hold real promise, particularly for those who leave formal clinical roles because of marriage, motherhood, or social pressure.
But ultimately, the problem is not just institutional — it is cultural. Until we recognise that a doctor — whether male or female — does not lose value after marriage, or simply become a “status symbol”, the white coat will continue to hang unused in many wardrobes across the country.
Meanwhile, fresh patients will wait, public health will suffer, and countless women professional will remain confined to being “doctor brides”, not doctors at work.