Two weeks after medical school started, I was at dinner with my parents and grandparents to celebrate receiving my white-coat. That night, there had been ceremony, pictures, and recognition. My family gushed; they were so proud of me. I felt their deep love and appreciation for me and my accomplishments. Toward the end our celebratory dinner, my grandpa met eyes with me and from across the table, mouthed, “I’m so proud of you.”
I whispered back, “Thank you Gramps.” But I was not proud of me; I hated myself for selling myself out.
For longer than I could’ve ever imagined, that pride would go unrequited.
Over the next eight years, there were accomplishments I was proud of. I was always proud of my effort. I was proud of earning that A on the general surgery clerkship. I was proud of my Step 1 board score. I was proud of my application to residency programs. I was proud of how I prepared for interviews.
But I was never proud of myself. I lost that somewhere between medical school acceptance and enrollment. Every time someone would say they were proud of me, it hurt in the truthful places.
One night, a drunken friend of mine told me, “The difference between me and you is that you still give a shit what people think about you.” At the time, I saw the assessment as a back-handed compliment. I actually thought it was a strength to care what people thought about me. I took pride in preserving my reputation. If people were prideful of me, I was prideful of me.
I didn’t fully grasp that his assessment was a slight. I didn’t begin to understand how sadly true it was. And I didn’t get the implications.
The main implication was regret. I knew, in the truthful places, that I was living inauthentically. No matter my attempts to talk this knowing out of myself, I always knew that if something were to happen to me, like death for example, I’d exit this world without having given it my best shot. Again, that ached in the truthful places. Toward the soul, I felt a lot of guilt. Toward myself, I felt a lot of hatred. I was not proud.
Like I’ve written about, my emotional reflexes have taken awhile to catch up to my new existence outside medicine, even after I’ve started making choices that align with who I am and want to be.
At the gym again, I was readying for a set of squats when an intrusive thought arrived. This intrusive thought was familiar. I’d heard its hateful, fearful message a thousand times before.
“If you get hurt today, it’ll all be your fault. You did this to yourself by not being who you are.”
You might be asking yourself why I’d have such a thought. If I knew that answer, I’d have stopped it a long time ago! Recently though, I’ve stopped worrying as much about my thoughts because I don’t really control them. I can watch them, sure, but control them? No. I’ve also come to see them as generated from the past, not necessarily a reflection of my present. They also tend to skew negative right as I’m approaching something I really care about.
When this particular thought arrived, I felt the customary constriction around my heart. I felt the pang of regret, just like I’d felt when I met eyes with my grandpa at that first celebratory dinner. But I also felt something else: peace.
I don’t know what it is about this particular squat rack, but under the weight of its bar, I felt everything become okay. I watched my fear die. I saw love grow, as I knew I was living a life I wouldn’t regret. I needed to go through medicine to find out who I really was. I needed it. And I did the best I could.
I knew it in the truthful places.
Last week, I was catching up with my grandma and grandpa on the phone, when we got to talking about my writing and furniture projects. I’d just finished a midcentury restoration of a 1960s dresser set and was excited to tell them about what I’d learned. They asked a few questions about the piece and the process, when my grandma shifted the subject, asking, “Ryan, do you think now it was worth going to medical school?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I think it was Grams. I think it was the best thing that could’ve happened to me.”
We kept talking, reviewing other familial subjects, when it was time to say goodbye. I told them I loved them and moments before we hung up, my grandpa said, “Hey Ryan, I’m proud of you.”
I said, “Thanks Gramps.”
Pride, finally, requited.
On Amazon and Kindle, get my first book for $2.99 (a limited-time sale). Thank you to everyone who’s supported the book’s launch. Let’s keep livin’ a life we love.
(Photo Caption: three days before I matched into residency at UC Irvine, looking at the ocean for answers, hoping to live again in the truthful places.)
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