“I failed out of med school!” I cried to my new therapist.

“Okay,” she replied, “I wouldn’t say that. You were put on leave; doesn’t that mean you can go back?”

“Well yes…”

“Do you want to go back?”

“More than anything in the world,” I said, breathing deeply and trying to stop the moisture that kept filling up my eyes.

“So you’re taking a little extra time to finish med school, you aren’t giving up altogether.”

“You’re right.”

That is how my relationship with Dr. K began. As it turns out, I’m really good at spiraling. I can take a bad thought or experience and let my mind run away with it until suddenly I feel like I have hit bottom and the end of the world is near. (In case you were wondering, my world has yet to end.) However, that is not to say that life hasn’t punched me right in the face.

Going to medical school and ultimately becoming a doctor had been my goal for years. I spent what felt like every waking moment in college and the year after doing all I could to acquire a coveted spot in an MD program. Then, I got one. Actually, I got 4. Four medical school acceptances from schools around the country…talk about a confidence booster. I started at this school, which we’ll call UMed, with my hopes and dreams drifting just ahead of me, waiting for me to achieve them. Attending the white coat ceremony that first week of August was one of the proudest moments I had ever experienced, and I beamed wearing that coat.

The coat spent a lot of time sitting in my closet. Unworn.

The first semester of med school did not go well. To be fair, I did pass the first few weeks of school with flying colors. When mid-September hit, though, the molecular medicine unit began. I have never been particularly great at biochemistry or cell biology, but those lectures hit me like a ton of bricks. The first question on the first test had my head spinning, and it all went downhill from there. Six failed tests and a final later, I was looking at remediation over the summer at best, and being put on academic leave at worst. I appealed to the academic council, and was granted permission to remediate Molecular Medicine. With that roadblock weighing heavily on my mind, I moved on to the Cellular Medicine unit (thrilling, I know). By that time, my depression had come back in full force, and I was struggling to get myself out of bed and make it to lecture. I was more anxious than ever, and even sitting down at my computer to look at the material made me want to vomit.

I failed Cellular Medicine, in case you didn’t see where that was headed.

December break came, and my parents and I talked about how I didn’t have to be a doctor to be happy, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I had to reevaluate my career. I cried through the discussion, because at the end of the day, I knew I was meant to be a doctor. The first week of January rolled around, and I had to present my case to the academic council and ask to return as a new student in the next class in the fall. I walked into that room, and a chair was waiting for me, a box of tissues on the table. My first thought was, I don’t need those, I know what I need to do and I’m going to go at it full speed. I’m proud of the poise and determination I maintained as the council members fired questions at me, and I walked out of that meeting knowing I had done all I could to move my career forward. My advisor gave me an awkward side hug and told me (in a surprised tone, annoyingly) that I had done well. When the email came through that my request was approved, relief washed over me, and I set my resolve.

Today, I’m a third year. I pushed myself harder than I’ve ever had to, but starting clinical rotations has shown me that it is truly all worth it. I’m seeing the highs and lows of hospital life, and I’m just getting started.  Patients put their trust in me, and I work day in and day out to earn it. More on that to come. And that white coat? It has come out of my closet, and I am incredibly blessed with the opportunity to wear it again throughout the rest of this journey.