Who Is This For?

June 16^th, 2014

“That’s a good beer”, I whispered after a first sip of hoppy, crisp foam.

Apparently audible enough for open reply, a girl, early thirties-appearing and down the bar, weighed in, “Yeah, that’s a good IPA. They host a fun game night on Wednesdays too… What brings you to town?”

When traveling, I always tried to fit in, look local. It never worked. On vacation, you’re always a poser. You’ve gotta live it, to be it. And I really wanted to live it.

“Just ran the Governor’s Cup Marathon with my dad over in Helena”, I said, gesturing toward my father sitting next to me as he raised a glass in acknowledgment. “We’re loving Montana. This place is beautiful and… I don’t know, Montana feels alive.”

Over two hours, traversing the entire United States and Ghana World Cup match, Annie and I, the thirty-or-so girl’s name, talked life and living, The Alchemist and Way of the Peaceful Warrior, and as you would expect, med school and soul.

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Two “good IPA”s into an empty stomach, I spilled the beans in search of a palm reading, because I desperately needed clarity. Sixty days stood between me and medical school, and the ambivalence was taut. Annie, a girl I’d just met an hour before, became my soothsayer. She was comfortable and assured with twenties at her back and was living what I wanted—a fully committed and purposeful life built on adventure. She worked seasonally on Big Sky ski lifts, mountain biked after work, and knew the local IPA scene. Was there more to life than that?

“I don’t think I’m ready for medical school. Like, I need to be all in, and I’m not.”, I admitted somewhere in the second half of the game. “And I don’t know what to do.”

The level of nonchalance in her answer hinted it was obvious: “Wait until you’re 30, then decide. You’ll know yourself better then.”  

I countered with an expiring MCAT score rationalization; 2014 was the last year I could apply and enroll with my score, before I had to retake it and reapply, a multi-year process. At this, she shrugged her shoulders, then gazed back at the bar’s television for the closing minutes of the match.

John Brooks’s delivered his ironic and iconic 86^th minute winner, another round was bought in celebration, and we exchanged goodbyes, but not before she taunted, with a glimmer of compassion in her eye, “Here’s my number if you ever make it out here. You’ll have someone to introduce you to Bozeman. Hope you figure out what’s the right choice.”  

Over the next two months, walls of expectation closed in, dreams slipped through my hands, and I enrolled in medical school.

And most days, I thought about that conversation.

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So, who am I doing this for?

I do it for those haunted by a daring dream, who believe there’s more to life than making money and building a reputation.

I do it for the 25-year-old sharing a dream he’s can’t yet live.

I do it for the 26-year-old convinced by the tribe he’s crazy.

I do it for the 28-year-old screaming in his car on the way home from work.

I do it for the 30-year-old doubting he’ll ever be happy again.

I do it for the 32-year-old about to pull the parachute off an eight-year, $200,000 speeding bullet.

I do it for the 33-year-old feeling proud of the life he’ll tell his kids about.

And I do it for me: who I’ve been, who I am, and who I want to be.

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(Photo Caption: Daring, dreaming, and vacationing it, in 2013, on the way to being it)