In the last semester of my residency, I was chatting with an attending over lunch about one of my patient’s depressions. He was an insightful, smooth, and efficient psychiatrist, in his mid-fifties, and a valuable problem solver in most clinical situations I stumbled into. Yet, other than what I’d observed through our patient interactions, I knew little of his personal life. Until, unprompted, he shared something that I can’t stop pondering this week.
He alluded to having a strict father, one with high standards for behavior and achievement. Then, he told me, “It’s funny; the older I get, the more it seems I do better when I care less what I look like. If I’m a little disheveled at baseline, clothes a little wrinkly, hair awry, I’m usually in a happier place. I worry about myself when I come to work looking dapper too often.”
We laughed together. I understood immediately, having been one to howl at the moon of appearances.
This week—actually, for the last two weeks—I haven’t gone to gym. I’ve slept in more each day. I haven’t been as productive. It’s a summer swoon of grace. And in a foreign, surprising turn of events, I’ve been a lot happier for it.
Sure, the insecurity of productivity gnaws. The hum for growth thrums like the season’s first secadas. But unlike previous seasons, I’ll be trusting in fidelity this summer and readying for the next right choice for me, whether it be grind, work, or rest.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
