I can’t go back, but I remember.
I do not wish to be 25 again—changing the past is a drug I’ve kicked—but I wish to make amends with that part of me that lost what I again hold now: hope. I write this letter for delivery during the summer of 2014.
Fresh off two years of meaningful work at HealthCorps—where I built a health program at an OKC high school—I was firmly on the fence. Having applied to medical school, received acceptance, and deferred two years for HealthCorps (a job that could only be held for two years like Teach for America), the road forked: go forth with medical school or go after something else. I knew not what “something else” was, but I suspected there was soul in discovering it. Without a tangible, rational plan for comparison against medical school’s merits (approval, money, social capital, etc.), I left the “something else” pursuit and embarked on the medicine highway because I was “supposed to”. The rest is history.
Here, at 33 years old, I have traversed terrain foreign to my mid-twenties eyes. I have also changed.
From this current destination, I address myself:
Ryan Fightmaster
Oklahoma City, OK
February 8th, 2023
Dear Ryan,
I hope this finds you well. If you’re reading this, knowing you as I do, you’re atop the picnic table Dad built beside the firepit I dug in the clay. My apologies for interrupting any contemplations, consternations, or IPA-induced backyard revelations. I trust you’ll find the interruption warranted.
I have many updates, but foremost, I’d like to give you a hug. Man, I wish I could give you a hug. You know not what’s ahead—nor is life as unforgiving or simple as you’ve imagined—but you’re gonna be alright. Let’s get that settled at the outset; you’re going to be okay.
As demonstrated in the signature line, you do indeed go to medical school and graduate. Hard to believe right? Especially given your current ambivalence! I’m laughing now as I write it, but you become a board-certified psychiatrist. That’s some wild shit huh? You don’t know where Santa Barbara is, but that’s where I live now with my wife and best friend.
Updates aside, I write this letter not so you’ll change or do a thing differently, but so that you rest assured it’s all been worth it. File it away for when you need it. Use it as a reminder to be present.
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You have a dream, I know it. Dream isn’t quite the right word… how about yearning? That’s better. There’s a song you own and must sing from the heart. That desire will never go away. And, it never gets easier to do it. Each day will add interest to the difficulty. I’ll forward my last eight years of journal entries for proof. Know this, each time you put pen to paper or make the smallest choice from inner knowing, the yearning gets closer.
I know you’re scared. It feels like you’ll let everyone down if you don’t become a doctor. Soon you’ll understand that’s not your job. Your job is to be the best version of yourself, so you may love from wholeness. For now, just do your best.
Even though you don’t want to be a doctor, you believe you should because you can. Cans and wants deserve distinction. The magic is in understanding that difference, a blessing I can now provide. Cans are good for getting the dishes done. Wants move mountains.
I imagine you there, looking between blackjack oaks at the stars, thinking to yourself, “I’ve got time. I’m only 25! I can go after it later. It’s always worked out.” Your understanding of time will change. Trains—this train included—leave the station. Different trains come, fresh with opportunities, but this train will permanently depart. The pain in your bones, when pulling that unpunched ticket from your pocket, will ache without a thing you can do but grieve and board the next train. Regrets don’t help, try to leave them on the last train when you’re able. You’ll get better at it, just wait till you meet your wife, you won’t miss that train.
I’m sorry for the sober departure from an enjoyable evening fireside with your Hoptometrist. I bet you still think you can make it work, that you can subvert your wants and figure out a way to be happy, regardless. In a sense, you’ll be right… for a time, but eventually you’ll have to fight for your light. And you’ll be ready.
Writing to you got me in a reflective mood, best accompanied by an IPA as you well know, a love unceasing since we departed. Not sure you’ll find it in OKC but look for Firestone’s Union Jack IPA the next time you drop by Freeman’s liquor store. I’ve been digging it lately.
I’ve got a few other odds and ends. From hence forth, don’t eat dishes over $20 on a restaurant’s patio (Mexican excluded); it cheapens the experience. Also, for as long as you keep being vegan, eat some more protein. When you get to California, don’t take it personal when some people refuse to say hello back. Keep saying hello.
One more thing, love every single second of what’s ahead. It’s been so worth it, you need it, and I’d do it all again.
Sincerely,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
Santa Barbara, CA
(Photo Caption: Taken on Maui summer of 2015 between first and second year of medical school and very much the target of the letter’s aim.)
Here’s a challenge I have been pondering since I read this post a few days ago: write a letter from your future self addressed to you today. What advice would your future self give? Would he chide you for decisions you are making. Would he cut right through the cognitive dissonance we are currently blinding ourselves with and see clearly what is really important?
I love this! That cognitive dissonance you mention is hard to understand today, but with that future perspective, we can have a better vantage point. Thank you for sending this over. Future challenge accepted!