The hijabi doctor who transformed the Mayo Clinic

For a long time, Dr. Nusheen Ameenuddin was the only hijab-wearing staff physician at the Mayo Clinic. 

Today, she is one of six. 

That simple number belies the years of persistence it took to get there. It happened because Dr. Ameenuddin made a conscious choice: to stay and shoulder the weight of being the first and, for years, the only one in the halls of one of America's most prestigious medical institutions.

It was a position she knew well, long before she ever wore a white coat.

“I’m used to being the only one in spaces,” Dr. Ameenuddin says.

To understand how she claimed her space at Mayo, you must go back to where she first learned to find it: in the quiet lessons of her own childhood.

Dr. Ameenuddin’s calling to medicine was a personal one. As the daughter of Indian Muslim immigrants, she grew up moving around the rural Midwest, following her father’s academic career. After he finished his degree, her family found themselves without health insurance and no social safety net to fall back on.

“I felt even at a young age that it wasn’t just, that it wasn’t acceptable to not have access to healthcare,” she recalls.

A world away, her grandfather in India had modeled a different path. He was a family physician who treated the poor, often for free. That example, combined with her family’s struggle, instilled a sense of purpose. 

“The idea of service was always instilled in me,” she says. 

The goal became clear in her mind: Dr. Ameenuddin would become a physician for those left behind by the system.

That drive for service became her North Star. 

But navigating the path to get there meant grappling with a sense of being different, an experience forged by a nomadic childhood. Dr. Ameenuddin’s family moved nine times before she finished high school, constantly shifting between vibrant Muslim communities and total isolation. This gave her a uniquely broad view of her faith.

“To me, Muslims were always everybody because we met Muslims from all over the world and learned to distill Islam from cultural practice,” she says. “I didn't have one sort of identity.”

That changed when she started wearing a hijab in high school. Suddenly, her American identity was a puzzle to others. “There were other girls in my high school who wore hijab, but they were the children of international graduate students,” Dr. Ameenuddin explains. “It was acceptable, like they were foreign. I was American. It was like, ‘Wait. Why are YOU doing this?’”

That question echoed into her college years. At Kansas State University, she found a lifeline in the burgeoning internet, connecting with Muslim students across the country for the first time. 

“It was finally like I had Muslim friends,” she says. “I had Muslims my own age with a shared experience of what it was like to grow up here.” 

That sense of belonging was transformative. Dr. Ameenuddin became a national leader in the Muslim Student Association and began writing for an international Muslim publication and joined its editorial staff.

But as she began to ascend professionally, she quickly discovered that her leadership was seen as a liability.

When she started applying for prestigious national scholarships, her well-meaning advisers suggested she downplay her involvement in Muslim organizations.

“It was so embedded in the consciousness,” she recalls, “that if I say I’m into Muslim things, it doesn’t count as much and could even suggest something negative.”

The most searing lesson in navigating professional America, however, was yet to come.

It was an early lesson in the professional world's unwritten rules, but she refused to let it define her path. 

She completed medical school and the first of two master's degrees before securing a prestigious residency at the Mayo Clinic. The timing of her initial visit there was fraught: just two weeks after 9/11. But instead of hostility, she was welcomed by the sight of Rochester’s large Somali community, a vision that made her feel unexpectedly at home.

With her residency complete, she began her job search, planning to return to a small town in Kansas. She sent her resume to numerous practices.

Silence.

Months went by. Her colleagues were getting jobs. She was getting nothing. Her father, an immigrant academic himself, offered a theory: “They’re looking at your name and assuming you are a foreign medical student who needs a visa.”

She didn’t want to believe it. But out of desperation, she took his advice. On her resume, right under her name, she added two words: Citizenship: United States.

“I literally got three calls back the next day,” she says, the disbelief still evident in her voice.

The bias was stark. A white male colleague with a similar elite training background was getting offers from all the places that were ignoring her. One practice that had ignored her for nine months was suddenly effusive and apologetic after she finally called them herself. Another interviewer told her flatly, “It doesn’t matter what’s on your CV, it’s whether or not you ‘fit in.’”

That painful “setback,” however, ultimately led her to a job in northwest Minnesota serving three Ojibwe reservations, and then, eventually, back to Mayo as a staff physician.

“We put our trust in Allah,” she reflects. “If not for that, I probably would not have stayed in Minnesota or had so many of the wonderful opportunities that I have.”

But returning to Mayo presented new challenges. The political climate had shifted, and people felt emboldened. A colleague told her a patient, upon seeing her name on the schedule, had asked, “Is that one of your foreign doctors?” and refused the appointment. 

It was then she began to understand the invisible weight she was carrying.

“I was like, how come it’s so much harder for me? Why am I more tired at the end of the day?” she says. “I’ve learned that we do carry an extra cognitive load. We do have to be above and beyond.”

Over the years, Dr. Ameenuddin has not just watched the institution evolve; she has helped lead the change. As the immediate past chair of equity, inclusion, and diversity for the Mayo Clinic Health System, she launched a monthly newsletter sharing her own experiences, a platform that helped decrease the turnover of staff of color.

This shift from surviving to leading was a conscious one. 

“Early in my career, I used to be worried about speaking out,” Dr. Ameenuddin says. “There’s a quiet, unspoken agreement among immigrants about not wanting to rock the boat. But I find I’m much happier and more relaxed when I speak up.”

That commitment extends beyond the clinic walls. Appalled by the genocide in Gaza, she uses her writing not just to share resources, but to bear witness to the human cost.

“All we’re saying is stop killing children. Stop killing journalists. Stop killing medical professionals,” she says. “I couldn’t stay silent.”

Her drive to create a better world for the next generation extends to her creative work. 

Nearly two decades into her practice, she’s authoring children’s books to provide the representation she never had. 

As a pediatrician, Dr. Ameenuddin has long seen how a lack of positive representation can harm a child's sense of self-worth. Her expertise in the field led her to chair the American Academy of Pediatrics' Communications and Media Council for two terms. But for her, this professional work was also deeply personal. Remembering what it was like to grow up without seeing herself in books, she decided to create the solution herself, authoring stories where young Muslims see their faith celebrated, not questioned.

She sees young Muslim professionals coming up, unafraid to speak, and they often look to her for advice.

“It’s still really hard for me to see myself as the leader that my position might suggest,” Dr. Ameenuddin says. “I still feel like I’m in the trenches fighting battles every day.”

But she has a message for those on the path behind her, one forged through years of navigating rooms as the only one. 

“The path is not always easy,” she says. “But you will be so much happier if you come as your full self. Find connections with people who are facing similar struggles. You’ll realize some of these experiences are much more universal. If we don’t speak up and make the way easier for those who come after us, what is even the point of being here?”

Her ultimate advice is simpler, a principle that has guided her through every setback and success. 

“Do everything for the sake of Allah,” she says. “Always come back to the why. We as Muslims are imperfect, but we’re always trying to improve ourselves. Focus on pleasing Allah and doing the right thing, and everything else will be okay, insha’Allah.”