The next train always comes.
This I remind myself… a lot, and by its constant accompaniment, my relationship to the maxim has changed. At the start of medical school, it was as abdication. I’d think, “Okay, I didn’t take the chance I wanted before medical school, but there’s another one coming and I’ll board that one instead.” I sat around, twiddling my thumbs on a bench, staring down the tracks, waiting. When a train would arrive, I’d examine it, check its destination, look at the unpunched ticket in my pocket, and not board, because it wasn’t the same train as before. Looking to catch that exact same train, I missed others. Eventually I had to move on, mourn, let go of old trains, and board the next.
When making decisions in my life I’ve realized that here, now, we get this opportunity once.
Monday’s What Surfing Couldn’t Cure (Me) was an expression of love at a bridging relationship. It was one of those next trains. Originally a means of finding myself outside the hospital, it eventually led me right to what I had to confront, because in itself, surfing would never satisfy the soul (my wish). It was the last in a series of attempts to meet satisfaction halfway through hedging. Surfing was a good enough friend to not stand for that.
Eight years is enough remove to offer a valuable perspective to younger versions of you. At 22, I could offer river-panned nuggets of superficial wisdom to my 18 year old self, but at 26, I could offer diamonds. It was from my thirty-third year perspective I penned A Letter to My 25-Year-Old Self on Thursday. The process was fun and by the end, I could almost hug that guy. I’d recommend the exercise to anyone looking for amends with life ghosts inspired by missed trains.
As I look around at life now, standing on real estate I own, I get excited by the trains coming and going. My discernment better calibrated by experience, I feel more refined with each train missed and caught, not afraid to get on or off.
To the next train,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD