Tag Archives: My life

Intention: Humanity

I’ve heard that at the beginning of a yoga session, people may set an intention to guide that period of time and help it translate into life as a whole.  While I haven’t formally done yoga before, I really like the idea of setting intentions.

In past years, I’ve picked a word or phrase to help guide the year in lieu of writing out a list of January resolutions (which I never seem to look at again anyways).  This year, I set an intention to be curious about life and each new experience it brings.  I was in the tentative first few weeks of a new relationship as 2016 rolled in, and my goal of embracing curiosity helped me to keep my heart open to the day-by-day unfolding of what has now become a beautiful part of my life.


I’m finding that sometimes life can knock the wind out of you, and other times it can give you wings to fly.  The relationship that started with curiosity has been an incredibly wonderful instance of the latter.

Time has been moving quickly, and now I’m exactly 30 days away from starting my first clinical rotation.  The idea of setting an intention is coming up again, this time because I’ve spent a portion of the past two days thinking about what it means to be a compassionate medical caregiver.  I’ve also been spending a good deal of time pondering how on earth I’m going to manage being a clinical student.  I’m 26 now, and I can see that I’ve grown a lot (especially in the past year), but I’m still trying to figure out who I am.  So perhaps part of this is a cry from my soul to reaffirm who I am, to reconnect with the reasons I am in medicine.


I’ve decided I want to set an official intention for my clinical years.  I already have one (hopefully) realistic goal for clinics: walk into my rotation on Day 1 with my head up, get along well with my team, learn from the mistakes I make, connect with the patients I’m assigned to follow, and walk out the door at the end of the day with my head still up.

As the lyrics go, chin up buttercup.

I also want to have a broader intention for my full 16 months of clerkships.  I think I’m starting to sort that out as I try to chart the courses of the rivers draining into the cognitive and emotional depths of who I am.  What are the reasons at the core of why I want to be a physician?  Why am I doing this?  What is going to get me out of bed every day for the next several decades?

It reminds me of when I was in the throes of applying to medical school several years ago, asking the same question–why medicine?–as I agonized over my AMCAS application form and the ensuing secondary essay questions. I actually went back to some of those essays today, blowing dust from the computer files.  It was like opening a time capsule and reliving the tense anticipation of applying to medical school: waiting for a secondary application invitation…waiting for an interview…waiting on pins-and-needles for an acceptance.


Are my reasons still the same as they were when I was a 22-year old student fresh out of undergrad?  I believe they are, at their core, although they’ve evolved and grown with the passage of time.

Sitting down with my journal, I parsed out four reasons why I am in medicine:

  1. When I’m able to bring a moment of compassionate connection into a hospital room or patient interaction, I feel like my soul has been nourished (and hope the feeling is mutual with the person I’ve connected with).
  2. I enjoy being able to share information; it’s gratifying and gives me the sense that I’m contributing something to other’s lives.
  3. Medicine is full of stories if I stop to pay attention and listen to them.  I want to learn people’s stories and give them the space to share them, if they want to.  This ties in to reason #1.
  4. Learning engages my mind and makes me feel incredibly happy and alive.  The medical field is one of lifelong learning.  This leads to reason #2.

Ultimately, I found that everything can be reduced to the following: (1) I find compassionate connection with other humans to be deeply satisfying and meaningful and (2) I enjoy the personal growth and sense of contribution to society that comes from learning new information, thinking critically, and teaching others.

So these are the bare-bones reasons of why I am in medicine.  Medicine is an environment where compassion and information-sharing can be practiced on a daily basis, and it positions me at a time point in peoples’ lives where this is especially needed.  I personally found, when undergoing a minor (but painful) medical procedure recently, the only two things I cared about were whether I trusted my provider (i.e. whether I felt he cared about and respected me as a person) and whether he was competent (i.e. could do everything efficiency and effectively).  I know everyone has unique priorities when interacting with the medical team, but I feel that trust and competency would likely show up as common themes.  And those are words I’d like to be able to be applied to me.

I actually feel a bit vulnerable sharing all this on my blog, because it gets down to why I’m doing what I’m doing.  And of course, there’s always the question, is it enough?  Are my reasons good enough?  And am I?  I have to believe that I am, and that I can do this.  I may not become the absolute best at what I do, but I will try my absolute best.

So my intention for the next year and a half?  To be compassionate, to pay attention to people’s stories, to accept that I’ll make mistakes, and to do what I can to learn from them.

In a word?



Just One Step

Attempting a new endeavor sometimes leaves me feeling like I’m standing in my hiking boots at the base of a slope, debating whether there are enough handholds to scramble up without falling and breaking my leg.  Or my neck.  Whether it’s writing papers, doing research, or starting a new phase of medical school, it’s often daunting to summon the internal energy needed to begin.

I’m beginning to realize, however, that my ability to gauge the energy required to take a particular action is not always so accurate.  I enjoy meeting goals, and I have some long-term ones in place as guiding stars for my life journey.  It’s like picking a distant mountain peak and saying, I am going to trek from here to there.  Doing so may keep me from getting completely off-course, but if I think that I need to have enough energy to make the 100-mile hike in a single shot, I’m not likely to ever get out the door.


In reality, I would only need to have enough energy to make it to my first campsite.  I wouldn’t presume to have enough stamina to make it to the end without pausing, and if I felt beaten at the thought of doing so I wouldn’t blame myself.  But I certainly do that with less tangible journeys.  If need to start something and feel overwhelmed at the thought of carrying it to completion, I can respond to myself in any number of ways and they usually aren’t positive.  It’s something I’m trying to become more aware of, and perhaps this post is, in its own way, a part of sorting this out.

Being more realistic certainly would help.  If I realize that I only need enough internal power to get started–to create the ignition spark–it will help keep me keep the big picture in mind without feeling daunted by its implications.  One strategy I’ve used is committing to a first step that is so small, it would be ridiculous not to do it.  Need to write an email I’ve been putting off because it feels like too much to do?  Just log into my computer and open my inbox, and that is all.  No expectations beyond than that–if I get into my inbox, I’ve accomplished my goal.

By beginning with something small like that, I’m able to overcome the inertia of starting because I narrow my focus to what I need for the step right in front of me.  I’m no longer trying to bully myself into walking for miles; I’m just lifting one foot off the ground. I’m surprised each time I do this by how well it works–usually I end up getting far more accomplished than I had planned.

So far, I’ve applied this strategy mostly for writing-related things like papers or emails.  We all face more in life than emails, however.  I have a few landmark peaks in the distance, and the highest one would be realizing my dream to become a physician-writer.  That’s what I’m aiming for: to be someone who cares for the body without forgetting that it contains the human spirit.  It will be a lifelong journey, one that will hopefully include matching into residency, graduating from medical school, finishing my post-graduate training and finding my place in the world as an attending physician.  Right now, I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to make it through clinics.  It feels overwhelming to think about right now, but I’m going to try taking the one–step approach to starting my rotations this April.

Review how to take a medical history.  One step.

Find one video to practice the eye movements in the neurological exam.  One step.

Watch the video.  One step.

Sign up to volunteer again at one of Stanford’s free clinics.  One step.

They’re little steps, and they don’t seem like much, but they’ll keep me from postponing everything until I feel ready.  Because, honestly, I’ll never feel completely ready.

And one day near the end of April, I’ll take a deep breath and remember to keep my head up.  And I’ll take one step that will carry my over the threshold into my clinical years.



I think I’ve found a new favorite refuge, sitting here on a cold cement balustrade in the damp January twilight.  It is the only thing left from Meyer Library, which Stanford demolished last year in a project that morphed the seismically unsound structure into a verdant circle of greenery and flagstones.  Normally I walk right past the out-of-place block of concrete, but tonight I paused for a while as dusk faded to deep blue. Settling down in the driest area I could find, I watched as illuminated windows turned to gold and became the spines of books lined neatly on shelves, bursting with a thousand imagined worlds.


Above me, branches fringed with silver-green needles held back the ghosts of dissipating clouds. Lamps along the path floated like spheres, their posts fading into the dusk until the lights seemed suspended from the sky — the lures of stars fishing for dreams.  I watched the ebb and flow of people around me: a lady in high heels and a glittering dress, a toddler trailing behind his family, countless bicycles and their riders.  It was like being a drop of water, watching the ocean.

My brain has been a hundred whirring gears, ready to overheat with too many questions about life and not enough answers.  I had decided to go outside partly because I needed to mail a letter, and partly because the paced rhythm of walking has a calming effect on me.  Now, settled beneath the trees, I found it remarkably soothing to simply sit and focus on the illuminated geometry of rectangles and spheres before me.  A line from one of Coldplay’s songs echoed over the clamoring of my mind:

Lights will guide you home

I let my scattered fragments of attention converge on the rails leading down to the paved circle where Meyer Library once stood.  They were lit from below, and the gleaming lines looked like spiderwebs beaded with dew.  Lights guiding the way.

It felt amazing to just sit and notice the metaphors and similes around me.  It was like I used to do all the time as a kid, before college and adult life carried me away from my imaginary worlds.  Stopping to notice things with an open mind is so simple and yet so difficult — like trying to catch sunlight.  Conceptually, catching a sunbeam should be easy: to grasp something, you simply put your hand where it is and close your fingers snugly around it.  The execution is nearly impossible: no matter how many times I clench my fist in the light, I cannot hold it.

It is only when I place my hand into the light with an open palm, that finally, it rests there.


I survived boards!

To sum it up as concisely as possible, preparing for my Step 1 exam was like diving into the ocean, and I ended up going for a longer swim than I anticipated.  Long story short, I took boards in September instead of during the summer, which is partly why I’ve been away from blogging for so long.


I also wasn’t sure where to start writing again.  Which is why this post if being written in December, long past the reasonable timeframe for using my I’M-STUDYING-FOR-BOARDS-AND-CAN’T-WRITE excusplanation (my latest neologism: a cross between an excuse and an explanation.  I coined it specifically for this post). 🙂


Since I’ve taken time off for research before starting my clinical rotations, I had the flexibility to extend my study period, and that’s what I ultimately did.  For some reason, saying I took additional time almost feels like a confession.  I suppose part of me feels a little guilty for having the opportunity to study longer (other med students may not have schedules that are so accommodating), and part of me wonders if I should’ve felt ready sooner.  However, a friend passed on some advice from his sister (a medical resident) that helped to ease my decision: take the time you need, and take the exam when you feel ready.  It’s okay not to rush it.

I think it’s unlikely that any student ever feels completely ready for boards, but at least it’s possible to feel that we’ve done everything we can with the time and resources each of us have.  For me, this was the right choice even if it did mean doing a lot of swimming and diving (figuratively speaking, of course, since my real-life water skills fall into the category of barely-good-enough-to-not-drown).

I finally came up for air after my full day at the Prometric testing center, only to realize that life was waiting for me above water like a clamoring flock of seagulls.  To be honest, part of me wanted to just go back into the water and turn into a mermaid.  Over the last several years, the life of studying (for college, the MCAT, med school, and finally Step 1) has become a familiar ebb and flow around me, and it’s comfortable in its own odd way.

Well, I guess it’s time to get pushed out of that comfort zone.  I’m done with my preclinical years, and there will be no more quarters to define the pace of my life, or daily lectures and midterms, or labs where curiously-shaped cells make faces at me through the microscope lens.

Now I’m gearing up for my clinical years.  I still have a few months to prepare myself, but it’s daunting for me to think about functioning as part of the medical team.  I’ve had opportunities to participate with patients throughout the first two years of medical school, but it was always briefly, as if our interaction were a haiku of three lines instead of an essay of three hundred.  I’ll still have supervision and guidance, but my responsibilities and expectations will be greater, including the expectations I place upon myself.

One thing I’ve been thinking about is how to connect with people on a personal level, because that is important to me.  Sometimes medicine can feel very mechanized, and with the pressures of being a clinical student, I can see myself losing sight of the more ephemeral aspects–the very things that make this pursuit worthwhile.  I’m worried that in trying to navigate wards and find my way around, I’ll lose some of myself.

And maybe I will for a little while, as I try to orient to the life of a clinical student with its early hours (on some rotations) or intense schedules (on others).  But I also have faith that I’ll be able to find myself again if I do.  Beneath my white coat (which still feels like a costume when I wear it), I’m an artist and a writer.  That, I think, will help me find my way home to what I care about: the story, the healing art of listening, the release of telling, the feeling of having been seen and understood.  That’s my hope, at least.


I was surprised by a rain shower today as I left a meeting at the hospital.  I found some leaves with pearlescent water droplets reflecting the diffuse light, and the constellation of spheres made me think of a universe in miniature.  Maybe this is what souls look like, with droplets of memory and experience coalescing to reflect the light and shadow of who we are inside?

My imagination is getting the best of me.

But I like to think that if each droplet were a little world of its own, and if I were as small as an ant, I’d be able to see and appreciate each one.  And when we meet people, that’s really what we do, isn’t it?

Each of us has our oceans, and each of us is a universe of our own.


One Test to rule them all, One Test to define them; One Test to bring them all and into knowledge bind them

Like Bilbo and Frodo did in their times, I am about to embark on an adventure beyond the borders of all I have known.  (Did I actually just compare medical school to the Shire?)  This morning (since this post has taken me past midnight to write), I’ll begin my two-month journey of studying for the USMLE Step 1–an eight-hour long exam which will test all the medical knowledge I’ve learned in the past two years of medical school.  To speak with a bit of poetic license, it is the exam which will determine my destiny.  It is the One Test to rule all tests, the score to end all scores, for the grade I receive on it will influence how desirable of an applicant I am when applying for residency in a few years.


Thankfully, my future is (in reality) influenced by more than just the score I receive on this test.  Nevertheless, the Step 1 is a very important exam, and I’ll be devoting about 10 solid hours a day to studying for it.  Factor in time for meals, exercise, and the ebb and flow of natural life, and I’ll be starting my days around 6 AM and ending around 9 PM.  As intense as this will be, I’m excited about this block of time to study and really see how everything fits together.  I hope that I will be like a hawk soaring high above the landscape, taking in a panoramic view of everything that is going on so I can hone in on details and dive for deeper understanding.

I like to think of funny things like that.  It makes life more interesting to me. 🙂

Levity aside, it’s going to be an intense two months.  For me, a bright spot is that I’ll be studying with a very close friend, and we’ll be sharing the journey together.  As the old proverb says, “a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved; a joy shared is a joy doubled.”  I’m looking forward to teaming up with my friend to make deeper connections with the material as we grow into the doctors we dream of becoming.

That dream, however, is something I’ve been thinking about recently.

Very recently, for a few bleak weeks, I lost sight of who I wanted to be in medicine.  After nearly two years of studying and training, I felt that my path had led me into a seeping bank of fog.  I couldn’t see my way forward into the life-giving occupation I had imagined when I applied to medical school, and I began to feel increasingly lost.

For several agonizing days, I felt that I had lost my purpose.  After pushing myself in my studies for months while simultaneously struggling with the fact that life goes on even when you don’t feel like you have the reserves to deal with it, I was beginning to burn out.  It’s something that happens, and it’s a real thing.  I don’t think I burned out all the way, but reflecting on the past months, I see that I was beginning to.  I’m okay with admitting that because I know it happens to others too, and I hope that we can begin to dialogue about it more since doing so will help us, our colleagues and our future patients.  It will validate our own human experience.

It’s okay to be worn out sometimes.


What helped me re-engage with my purpose was a recent encounter where I didn’t feel listened to.  It was a situation when I wanted the comfort of being heard, and I instead felt more like an avatar for my electronic medical record.  The interaction was relatively brief, but served as the wind to blow away the fog I had been muddling through.  I realized at a visceral level that, as a medical professional, I want to help my patients feel heard.  Even if they don’t always want to open up to me, I want each person to know they have had the opportunity to talk and be heard.

Yesterday, I watched a fantastic TED Talk by Dave Isay called “Everyone around you has a story the world needs to hear.”  Dave Isay is the founder of StoryCorps, which started as a recording booth at the Grand Central Terminal in New York to allow anyone to record an interview with another person.  In his talk, he discussed how empowering and validating it can be for people to tell their stories.

Of recording interviews as a radio broadcaster, he said “Over the next 15 years, I made many more radio documentaries, working to shine a light on people who are rarely heard from in the media. Over and over again, I’d see how this simple act of being interviewed could mean so much to people, particularly those who had been told that their stories didn’t matter. I could literally see people’s back straighten as they started to speak into the microphone.” (TED)

This was the other light that helped me begin reconnecting with my meaning in medicine.  I want something more than the technical skills and knowledge can give me; I want to be a healer through stories.  I want to be an artist who creates a space for people to speak themselves into existence.  Going back to the creation account in Genesis, words are what brought substance out of the void.  I think this is what can happen in our lives today when we pay attention to what people have to say–when we pay attention to their experience and their feelings and thoughts and what it means for them to be a human and a patient.




I’m finding my way again, one step at a time.  So as I study the names of medications like ticlopidine and ticagrelor or diseases like loa loa and acute sclerosing glomerulonephritis, I’m also paving the way for stories to be told.

Since I love words and neologisms, here’s a word I’ve crafted to describe what I want to be:

Halewright (noun)

From Old English hǣlu-whyrta, corresponding to hale (health) + wright (builder, creator)

Someone who aids in bringing healing and wholeness to other humans through the act of listening to their stories.

And so the journey continues…


How The Light Gets In

Sometimes in life, all you can do is brace yourself after the impact.  I believe in being prepared, but I’m beginning to realize that the hurricanes of life don’t always come with warnings.  At times, they just come.  I feel like I’ve gotten soaked through by a recent storm that I’m weathering, but I am also convinced that I am growing from it.  It still hurts.  But I don’t regret the growing.

I’ve been watching the ongoing demolition of Meyer Library here at Stanford, and it’s resonated with a place deep inside of me. I have only been inside this library twice (and I’ll admit the first time I was looking for a shortcut across campus; the second time I was looking for a bathroom) so I never really had sentimental feelings towards it.  However, in its destruction, the library has spoken to me in ways that all the books inside couldn’t have.


This hole opened up in Meyer just days after one opened up in me.

I’m realizing there are different types of people in life, and it’s hard to explain but all I can think of is the ocean shore.

Some people have brushed against my heart like sand, leaving shards that I feel I can do little with but slowly wrap with the nacre of my soul until they become pearls. These people are leaving me incrementally wiser and also more sensitive to others.  I am beginning to understand it now.  We’ve all gone through something that has changed us.

It is as the quote says: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

There are other people, too, though.  There are those beautiful hearts who have stood beside me on the shore when the storm surge drove me upon the rocks, shattering my shell into a dozen pieces and baring my soul to the burnished sky. There are those who have held the pieces with gentle hands.  Those who have listened.

Those who are healers.


Not long after the first gaping rend appeared in the library wall, I was walking past another corner of the building when a bit of light deep within caught my attention.


Sunlight was filtering into places it had never touched before.  Through the broken glass and twisted metal, the sun was streaming in.

To me, it was a perfect picture of the lyrics penned by Leonard Cohen in his song, “Anthem:”

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

Everything that has been happening has been teaching me more deeply about humanity–about what it means to live and breathe and trust, what it means to feel like a kite cut loose from its string.  What it means to know that we all have felt things deeply, things that have made us who we are.  To know that there are reasons and stories behind every person.

Every one.


The afternoon sunlight caught the dust and turned it into an auburn mist as I walked by the library today.  The demolition is progressing at a remarkable pace, and a whole swath of sky is now open, no longer blocked by the roof and walls.  The library was opened in 1966, which means that I am one of the first people to see the sky from this perspective in 49 years.

It’s been nearly half a century since the sky has been open here.

That tells me a story, too.  Sometimes when things are broken, that’s when you really see.


Yesterday, I performed my first rectal exam.

We began our Project Prepare sessions this week, which is a training program to teach us how to perform the male and female genitourinary exams in a sensitive and skilled manner. This was a big milestone for me, as I’ve been anticipating this day with some apprehension for about a year now. I remember one of my Practice of Medicine TA’s telling me about Project Prepare when he was a student in it last fall, and although I knew I would have my own turn in the program this year, time flew by faster than I expected.

So here I was on a Wednesday afternoon, about to learn how to perform the male breast, GU and rectal exam.

I had been told that the educators in the program are fantastic teachers, but I hadn’t realized just how amazing they would be until I met my trainer. The Project Prepare educators are people who have dedicated themselves to teaching these exams on their own bodies, and they are truly incredible. Because of them, what could have been a very discomforting experience ended up being one of the most amazing educational moments I’ve had yet. (Here is a San Francisco Chronicle article from 2003 on Project Prepare.)

I entered the simulated exam room with my three classmates, feeling as on-edge as if I was the one about to get a GU exam instead of the one learning to give it. Our instructor quickly set me at ease with his warm and genuine manner, though, as he explained that he would be modeling for us the same sort of communication we would be using with our future patients.

It really was a whole-hearted experience for me.  Here, I was the vulnerable one, uncertain about what was about to happen, while he was the calm one with years of experience. The dynamics were immediately appreciable; his approach to the encounter made all the difference.

That afternoon, I felt that I was the patient seeing a doctor, rather than a medical student seeing a patient. Now that I’ve been in medical school for a year, I’ve begun seeing more distinction between the identities within me—I am both patient and physician-student. At times, I feel a tension between these pieces of myself.   I believe this tension is not a bad thing, for it reveals an effort to maintain multiple perspectives, but it makes me think. In some sense, we all have this tension within us, although it may be defined by different parameters for different people. It is the same tension within the mother who is also an employee, the son who is also a husband, and the sister who is also a student.

This multifaceted dynamic within me is something that I have to accept as part of living within two worlds—or rather, within multiple hemispheres of the sphere of humanity. Even as I write this, I am a bit hesitant to admit this. This isn’t a struggle that I wanted to have, but it is one that I expected. Our Project Prepare session threw it into new light for me, and it has made me think of it again.

As I sat across from the one who was both my patient and teacher, I keenly felt the importance of bringing compassion and warmth into an encounter. If I can be as help my patients relax as well as my teacher helped me to, I will be very satisfied.

Over the course of the following three hours, we learned how to examine the breast tissue and the surrounding lymph nodes (although breast cancer is rare in males, it can still occur and is essential to screen for). Step by step, we practiced the genital examination and learned how to properly word our dialogue to minimize unease or apprehension. We checked for inguinal hernias and learned how to properly set up for the rectal exam.

As we neared the end of the session, it was my turn to do the digital rectal exam. I had already filed the nail on my dominant index finger to a down hairline crescent of white (we were provided with nail clippers and emery boards earlier in the session to get our nails as short and smooth as possible), and so I coated my gloved finger with lubricant up to the main knuckle.

The rectal exam was actually the most amazing part of the experience for me. Using the pad of my fingertip, I defined the contours of the prostate gland as I swept my finger across it, feeling for any abnormal textures or lumps. I had a sense of awe at examining that which I could not see, like trying to read Braille written within our bodies.

Like trying to find shapes in the spaces between the clouds when looking at the sky.

Morning clouds
Morning clouds
Afternoon sunlight and fall foliage at LKSC

I found it a bit funny how the day ended for me—I was participating in a poetry reading at the Cantor Center’s new Anderson Collection that evening, so I went almost straight from practicing the genitourinary exam to reading poetry at the event. It was a wonderful time; members of the Pegasus Physician Writers at Stanford shared original pieces of poetry inspired by the art collection, and the St. Lawrence String Quartet gave a stirring performance of Benjamin Britten’s Second String Quartet in Three Movements.

In a way, this odd juxtaposition of prostates and poetry seemed almost fitting to me. In Project Prepare, I looked again at my identity as a medical student within the greater world, which I relate to in part through writing. Creative writing is what helps me process the struggles of life, and I like to think that it will help me to better relate to my patients since it reminds me that everyone’s life is a story. We all have backstories, and we are all read as sentences and paragraphs, sometimes even as chapters.

Oftentimes, there are multiple storylines that run through our lives.

I am a patient.

I am a student-doctor.

I am human.

Grounding Moments

Late in the morning, I sat on a stone step near the Clark Center and planted my palm into the freshly-cut grass beside me.  The sunlight danced through the leaves of the slender tree to my right, scattering confetti of light across the vivid green patch of lawn.  I could almost feel the coming autumn in the air.  Since September has begun, some mornings carry a slight crispness that make me think of misty dawns, fire-colored leaves, pumpkins and home-baked joy.

I probably didn’t draw much attention sitting there with my hand in the grass, surrounded by the glass curvature of the Clark’s windowed walls.  On the outside, I was a student breathing in the sunlit air.  On the inside, though, I was struggling against a vague loneliness that had unexpectedly caught me in the middle of my day.  I think it had something to do with not sleeping quite enough this week, if my drowsiness earlier that morning was any indication.  After class, I wandered down the walkway and settled down on the step, feeling the beauty of the golden leaves against the clear blue sky even as I grappled to understand my own emotions.

photo 1

And I determinedly pressed my hand to the ground.

photo 2

Last week, a wonderful friend from my class shared with me what another classmate and friend had told her about experiencing the moment–about feeling the earth beneath your hand and the sunlight on your face, and realizing in that moment you are there, alive.  So here I was, my eyes closed and my face to the wind as I tried to regroup myself for the afternoon.

That’s why I was sitting there with my hand in the grass.  And I was reminded of the simple yet intricate beauty of a few willowy branches waving in the wind, painting the sky.

I was reminded just how good it is to be alive. 🙂

Leadership Session & My Credo

This evening, my classmates from the summer Leadership in Health Disparities Program and I came together for one of our leadership discussions with Dr. Jane Binger and Mark Gutierrez. It was so wonderful to be with my teammates from this past summer; although I don’t get to see everyone as often now because of our schedules, I treasure our times together. LHDP was, and continues to be, an incredible blessing, and I am so thankful to all the wonderful people who have made this program possible: Mark, Dr. Fernando Mendoza, Dr. Ronald Garcia, and so many others!

We talked tonight about “modeling the way,” which is an important component of leadership as described by James Kouzes and Barry Posner in their book The Leadership Challenge. Over the summer, we had read and talked our way through another book by Kouzes and Posner, The Truth about Leadership, and we’ve now continued to discuss practical aspects of leadership as medical students and future physician-leaders.

Part of leadership involves defining our values, which allows us to recognize what we share with those around us and empowers us to live authentic lives. As part of the preparation for our session, I wrote out a personal credo to outline some of my own personal beliefs and values. This isn’t something that I spent a long time writing and polishing; rather, it is a glimpse into what I value and who I hope to be. I haven’t arrived yet by any means, and I’m still learning how to live out some of these things, but I wanted to share them as a sketch of what I hold in my heart. It’s funny that they came out sounding a bit like an epitaph, but perhaps by looking back from the future, I can live my life moving forward.

She was not afraid to live her life out loud. She did not hide who she truly was, yet she still found common ground with all those around her and listened to their points of view, remembering that all humanity shares the joys and sorrows and struggles of life.

She valued people above things. She remembered to dance in the rain, to share her umbrella, and to run through puddles with children.

She knew her limits but did not fear them, and she always gave her work her best attempt. When she fell down, she never failed to get back up and try again.

She lived for more than just the praise of those around her, and in her own quiet way, she was courageous.

I want to live an authentic life. I think often about how I fit in…although as a general rule, I think a lot. This is a question I imagine a lot of us have, and being a medical student has a way of amplifying this. I feel that we don’t talk about it all that often, though. It makes sense; if someone is wondering how they fit in, they probably won’t mention it to everyone.

Well, if you’ve had that question, you’re not alone. I’ve wondered it too. Even something as wonderful as being a medical student at Stanford (and that’s saying a lot!) isn’t enough to dispel the uncertainties that seem inherent in my life as a med student. I’m learning that it’s okay to ask the question.

It was remarkably timely that during our session this evening, we talked about how fitting in is now what we’re not about any more. We can’t just define ourselves by our roles and degrees; we need to know what we truly believe and live it out. In order to effectively lead, we must live our lives as examples.

For me, some of the key points I took from this is that it is important to find my voice and recognize that I don’t have to change who I am just to be accepted. There is balance to this, of course, and it must be done with respect, but I cannot be an effective leader if I am always trying to reshape myself into what I think people want or expect. It’s okay to be unique. That’s the heart of diversity; we all bring something valuable to the table, even when we don’t see it at the moment.

Your life story is unique, and no matter what has happened in your journey, there is something you can take from it to inspire others. Your story doesn’t have to be like anyone else’s in order to be valid; I know that when applying to medical school (and even now, as a medical student), it is so easy to be continually comparing ourselves to others.

I’m reminded of what a UC Davis medical student told me when I was still a pre-med. His advice to me was this: Don’t lose what makes you special.

So I package these words up into a gift and pass them on to you. Don’t be afraid to sing with your face to the falling rain or to dance barefoot in the puddles, even when the world is wearing boots and bustling past with its eyes on the sidewalk.

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

This Moment

I’ve been feeling a bit worn out today.  Nothing in particular happened, although I’m guessing it may be influenced by the knowledge that I have my first block exam for Human Health and Disease at the start of next week, and I still have lots of information that I need to wrap my mind around.  Antibiotic and antifungal names, actions, and uses are presenting a particular challenge for me at the moment, although I’ve bought some nifty blank flashcards and plan to do all I can to drill these antimicrobial names n’ natures into my mind this week.

Sometimes, on days like today when I’m tired and would rather be doing something other than studying, I lose sight of the unique beauty of the day.  Just now, I was looking out my window while going through some online modules for an elective I’m taking.  The wind has been blowing all day, and the way it scatters the sunlight and shadows across the ground reminds me of autumn breezes.  I love autumn because it means that Thanksgiving and Christmas and family time are coming, and for a moment I found myself wishing it was November.  After all, the holiday season only comes once a year, and for me, the weeks leading up to it are so ripe with anticipation that you could almost juice them for cider.

But then a though struck me—spring only comes once a year also.  Today, April 22, is a single day, just like Thanksgiving or Christmas Day.  In fact, each day only comes once a year, and this particular moment only comes once a lifetime.  I’ll never have the afternoon of April 22, 2014 again.  Doesn’t that make it something to be treasured?

From this perspective, the very air is alive with possibility.  The next breath I take is as fresh, fleeting and beautiful as a shooting star tracing the arc of the midnight sky, or as a hawk catching the currents of the heavens and spiraling up into the blue.

This moment is a gift.  In truth, the fact that I can study right now is a gift.

So I shall get back to studying.

And if you’re feeling a bit tired too, I hope you find refreshment in this moment, this very moment of life.