Pike Place Market

I sat and ate a biscuit with a high cheese-to-dough ratio and a heavy pad of butter soaking into flaky perfection. It was my first true meal of the day. I was hungry and still having trouble believing I was on the US West Coast, having started my day on the US East Coast. The time change was confusing – the journey across the country was space and time travel. This biscuit shop was on the ocean edge of Pike Place Market in Seattle. Before arriving, I hadn’t known biscuits were popular in Seattle, but I was glad to find several biscuit shops as I wandered about the city.

The last time I’d been to Pike Place Market was in high school on a family trip. But, as all the places of family lore are, the market was familiar because my mother had told me about it many times. My parents met in Seattle. I’d lived there for several years before our family moved East, back to the coast of my grandparents. Pike Place Market is a place of fish stands and cute cafes. It’s full of people.

As I experienced the market for the first time on my own and as an adult, I was most struck by the maze that was the market and the perfect, stunning flower bouquets wrapped in parchment paper. I also liked the mosaic mural of North American birds. The mosaic bird mural reminded me of the bird murals in Harlem (where my sister lives). Per my sister, the bird murals in Harlem depict all the birds that will go extinct sometime sooner than I’d like. I wondered about the mosaic mural birds, would a day come when those birds (too) would only be found in murals?

I liked that Pike Place Market unfolded as a maze. It reminded me of Mercado Cuatro in Asunción, Paraguay. The markets share a maze layout, haphazard vendor stands, a huge range of goods, and people-filled walkways. Pike Place Market lacked the feral kittens that Mercado Cuatro had, but it had its own large bronze pigs with bronze pig hoofprints throughout the market. I followed the hoofprints for a bit. I decided the pigs were a good addition to the market.

I would later learn that the Starbucks in Pike Place Market was so busy because it was the founding Starbucks and people visited it for that reason. I was familiar with Starbucks because I’d worked there when I lived in Washington, DC. The Starbucks in Pike Place Market was much fancier than the one where I’d worked. However, I wasn’t inspired to stop at the first, ever, Starbucks. There were too many other places to choose from for me to pick a place I already knew.  I found a tea shop that sold crumpets (which I didn’t know existed outside of fairytales) and got an earl gray tea.

I was mildly disconcerted by the neon lights in Pike Place Market; they seemed a little aggressive for an enclosed space with so little wiggle room. I did like the nooks with tables and chairs and the scattered sculptures I stumbled upon when I rounded sharp hallway corners. I followed the hallways, stairwells, and odd steps until I thought I’d explored the whole market. I found the public bathrooms on both sides of the street. They were not striking, except that their stall doors were very short. A tall person could easily see over them.

I spent time looking out over the construction next to the market at the ocean. It was drizzling and cold, so I was glad I had worn my puffy coat. The waterfront was in flux. I’d later learn from a family friend that there used to be a highway between the market and the ocean. But, for many years now, they’d been slowly working toward reclaiming the waterfront. It’s funny how we call progress building roads and buildings, only to realize years later that beautiful park spaces are more important. I was glad that someday I’d be able to walk from the market to the ocean, but not today. This visit, there was no direct way because of the construction.

Once I felt that I had a good mental map of the market and had seen enough, I turned back to the city to explore its streets. Seattle was a home to me, but not a familiar one. It was a home of my distant past and the setting of early family stories. I wouldn’t have time to return to the market in the morning to watch them throw fish during this Seattle visit, but I knew I’d be back again. And I was grateful to have my own memory of the market. Lore-made memory to re-lived experience.

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Joy

I most remember his rosy cheeks. The humidity and mosquitos hummed around us. We held hands under the shade of widely spaced trees in ferns as tall as our waists beside a beaver pond. There would be many moments I’d attempt to remember from our wedding day – etching them into my memory, writing them down play-by-play in my Spanish journal, and waiting giddily for our photographer to finally send us our photos. But, in those moments between words, I thought about how warm my cheeks felt and how rosy his cheeks were and how it was likely that my cheeks were rosy too.

I was joyful. Some cry when they’re overwhelmed with happiness, but that’s never been me. Happiness spreads across my skin like sinking into a warm swimming hole. The warmth then soaks into my core whereby settling my heart and obscuring all the things that normally zoom through my mind. Happiness is quiet. Contentment. Nothing but his rosy cheeks and my rosy cheeks on our wedding day.

The bright sunlight flickered through the canopy above alighting on my sister, who was our officiant, and our guests. The guests sat amongst the ferns as you might imagine in a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It seemed fitting that the cupcake shelves hanging from a birdfeeder hook and the brightly colored attire of the wedding guests would float across my mind like a scene from a play. As I gazed at the ferns, I realized that this was my midsummer dream. To make official what my partner and I already knew. These moments would give our relationship a label society understood. But despite the label, he and I knew that no one could truly understand what we meant because every relationship is its own unique product of its unique makers.

Which brings me back to his rosy cheeks. He was wearing his finest suit and the fanciest shoes you’ve possibly ever seen.  The paisley on his shoes and the paisley on his tie had nothing but their name in common, but they each worked well with the stripes of his suit. His tufty blond hair curled above his sparkling eyes and his cheeks were flushed because we were outside, because we had walked through the forest to get here, and because it was a hot midsummer day.

I thought briefly about our guests, the witnesses to the words we were saying. They were the people who had played the biggest roles in our lives since we became a couple. I listened to the words my sister said, then he said, and then I said. We had all thought about, written down, and practiced what we were going to say. Yet, it seemed more improv than rehearsed lines. How could any of us have imagined exactly how this moment would be? We couldn’t. There’s delight in comfortable spontaneity. As I replay those moments now, the rosiness returns. The memory is one of the clearest definitions I have of joy.

Home

And the last of three orchids I’d nurtured was sending up new flower shoots. It was the second of two my fiancé had given me when I finished my first medical board exam (about a year ago now). Ironically, I was sliding into studying for my second board exam as these orchids sent vigorous spikes forth with flowers that erupted like fireworks. It seemed my exam schedule was on orchid time.

The orchids weren’t the only plants I’d lugged from one state and town to the next. But, in that moment, their colors overshadowed the perfect leaves of the plants around them. Their colors were competing with the new rug I’d bought when I moved into my fourth (and hopefully last) home of medical school only a week or so ago.

I called it the sunny-side-up rug as it was bright yellow and white like a perfectly cooked egg. Somehow the plants looked greener next to the yellow. The yellow beside the purple African violets and remaining orange blossoms of the Christmas cactus and the orange-salmon ever-blooming crown of thorns was representative of the contrasts in my life. And the complementary colors of the yellow rug and purple flowers reminded me of my roots and my newest stethoscope which I’d decorated with colored zip ties representing the rainbow but paired by complementary color. The stethoscope decoration was an attempt to ward off stethoscope theft and, more importantly, a personal reminder of the same roots for which the contrasting colors in my apartment were a metaphor.

My roots are in the arts and carpentry and the outdoors which is a mix of dirt, water features, plants, trees, and rocks. And my new home reflected my foundation in these things. My time in the clinic and hospital often reminded me from where I’d come. Not so much because anyone I worked with or spoke to in these settings knew my history but because their ignorance of my history was so glaring and central to my relationship with them. It is easy to get lost in the world that is healthcare especially when that world is not even in the universe where you grew up. 

They say home is where the heart is. And when you’re a doctor in training you know that the heart is in the chest. Which complicates things when trying to find your home because your chest is wherever you happen to be. While I don’t think wherever I am is home, my idea of home is not so far off from knowing the heart is in the chest. I’ve had many homes. My tendency toward multiple homes may be a complication of split custody and two homes as a child – though, more likely, the shiftiness of where I call home stems from my personality-defining feature of being a wandering soul. Not wandering in the sense of a gypsy who is constantly moving, but in the sense that one place has never been the only place I called home. My life leading to medical school and through medical school has reflected that. Depending on what you count as moving, I’ve moved over 10 times in the past 10 years spanning two countries, three US states, and several towns in most of those regions and called each location to which I moved home.

When you’ve moved as much as I have, you develop a keen sense for what kinds of places can be called home. And you also learn that some places are easier to call home than others. My new apartment that contains the re-blossoming orchids and the sunny-side-up rug is one of those places that was instantly home. As soon as I opened the front door for the first time, I knew I was home. Home for now and home until I leave. The homy feeling might have something to do with the expansive windows. As a green thumb, the bigger question is not how or why I grow plants but rather if I seek places where my plants will thrive or if seek places where I will thrive. It’s easy growing plants when you need the same thing as they do. Sun. We need lots of sun and sunny days or else we get irritable and fade.

The new apartment was also home because I’d picked it from multiple options. I’d lived in the area for a while and surveyed the land. I’d used the knowledge gathered from my surveying to decide that this new town was the town in which I wanted to live. At least for now. The new apartment was also home because it was the first lease my soon-to-be-husband and I had signed together. It was a new place for us to both start new phases. He, his nursing career. I, my last year of medical school.

Seeing the flowers, the yellow rug, and the ñanduti (colorful Paraguayan lace) I’d placed on every empty surface in the apartment and thinking about the art that could fit on the broad walls made me feel happy in my new place. As I sat drinking my mate in the morning sun, I felt peaceful. As I looked out the windows; thought about how close I was to finishing the third year of medical school, a hard year to say it shortly; and considered all the wonderful things that would unfold in the coming months I felt at home. My literal heart was in my chest and my memories of past homes were in my metaphorical heart and both hearts were here in this apartment. Here, life followed the rhythm of the orchid flower cycle. Here was home because of the colors and sun and feelings that filled the place.

PS: it turns out I’ve written a post titled “Home” before…back in October 2014 when I lived in Paraguay. If you’re curious how my thoughts then compare to now check it out.

Ring Reflection

I held my wedding ring in my palm, feeling the weight of it. I put it on and took it off – making sure it didn’t get stuck and testing the feel of it. It was still months until I’d be able to wear it but, I liked having the opportunity to test it out. It had our favorite mountain range on it; an unassuming range that most overlook. Yet, we’d had many true adventures on that range. By happenchance his favorite mountain was on one end of the range and mine was on the opposite, with a slog of a ridge between them.

Someone asked us recently if we were serious hikers and we laughed. Serious? We’re day hikers who find trails whenever time and the fatigue of busy lives allows. Serious? We like showers, feasts, and fireplaces after miles climbed. Serious? We always seem to be bellowing Star Wars and Mighty Python quotes (between giggles) when those scarce other hikers unexpectedly find us on the trail.

My ring felt light and heavy at the same time. A simple band with so many stories behind it. I didn’t want or have an engagement ring, so the wedding ring was the first tangible reality that we were “getting hitched.” Engagement rings are not for me; though I realize for many they are a joyous aspect of their engagement. A thing I’ve enjoyed about not having an engagement ring is my interactions with people who don’t know me – what does it take for me to tell them I’m engaged? As a medical student I interact with numerous people every day, yet only some of them inspire me to share any part of my story with them. It’s an exercise in exploring exactly how humans create trust and connection during encounters the length of medical office visits. You might be amazed by the number of physicians with whom I worked for weeks yet did not tell I was engaged. Not for fear, but simply for lack of connection or reason to share that tidbit of myself.

I looked at the range as it unfolded as I turned my ring carefully. Ranges represent a journey. My fiancé and I had been on many journeys but, overall, we were on life’s journey together. Our path had thus far been calm yet still varied by ups and downs and mud patches. School had been the overarching limitation, much like a heavy pack, of our life as a couple. I’d been in school our entire relationship, and he’d been in school for most of it. We were friends for years before we started dating. In those years, we weren’t in school and had had a more leisurely approach to hiking and feasting, without the pressure of tests and hard study schedules.

We had in common a love of healthcare, yet our approaches were quite different. To be honest our brains perfectly illustrate the difference between the nursing and physician approach to patients and health. He was the matter of fact, nurturing, and patient human you’d want at your bedside hours upon hours when you’re sick. I was the curious one, driven by a desire to understand and then solve problems. I was not the one you’d want to answer your call bell as you tried to live your life in a hospital. However, I was the one you wanted examining your labs and exploring your history to discover how we might wrestle your health to a stable place. Healthcare is a culture and a lifestyle. It is terrible and amazing at the same time. These days it is more of a tragedy than a comedy, yet there remains in those of us soon to enter the field as newly trained members of the team a sense of hope. Hope that we can help. That, somehow, despite the broken system and so many brands of red tape in our way, we can improve (and maybe even save) lives. Hope is powerful.

I put on my ring, again. I looked at it. It seemed to fit. It felt weird. I was excited. I was hopeful. I looked forward to discovering how the days would unfold after I started wearing it. Like all adventures there was fear in my heart as I stood on the threshold preparing to take the first step. But, also like all adventures, I knew that the first step had to be taken. While never a nomad I’ve always been a wanderer, which inherently means I have stepped from many thresholds. Every first step was filled with anticipation and worry about what would unfold. And, yet, I have never regretted where the road took me. I often reflect on the harsh and beautiful meanders I’ve undertaken. I’ve never wished for a different journey.

I guess there’s something significant about the fact that rings are circles which have no end. A symbol of eternity. I’m a staunch believer that nothing lasts forever. I also believe that the basis of life is change. These beliefs make me curious about what it’ll look like to take some wedding vows and say that this jubilant soul I’ve decided to marry is my forever adventure partner.

My ring felt heavy, but not too heavy. I looked at the mountains depicted there. I wondered what mountains we’d climb in the years to come. What valleys we’d rest in. What ranges we’d prance along taking unruly numbers of selfies because we could. Serious hikers? Perhaps not. We’re just two people who share a deep love of the wild places and exploring them together.

Grateful

I found myself lying on the floor. The sun had set but it was still early – a tragedy of New England once the summer fades. I was not tired or sad. My to-do list was as robust as ever and my goals circled high above my head, seemingly in the clouds. Yet, I was lying on the floor not even stretching. No music, podcast, book, or movie playing. To be fair, I spent a fair amount of time sitting on the floor (my preferred studying location is at my floor desk) so lying on the floor wasn’t that much of a change. It was the stillness and purposelessness of the activity that was unusual for me.

There was a period of my existence when I could not be still and had to always be actively engaged in something. However, the need for constant stimulation dissipated when I was in Paraguay and, I’ve often thought, “good riddance.” I recall my early 20s. I worked fulltime, studied in college fulltime, trained for marathons, went to parties, and built my first career. It was exhausting. It was the way of life I knew. The way of becoming successful. Of fulfilling the American dream. Then I moved to Paraguay where everything seemed so slow. Hours sitting and drinking terere in the shade. Hours spent sitting and sometimes chatting, often staring into space silently, sometimes cooking or napping. I came to enjoy rainy days where it is common for rural Paraguay to shut down. Rainy days were filled with lounging and drinking mate. I precisely remember the moment I realized that when the Paraguayans told me they were doing “nothing,” they meant it. What an odd thing nothing is.

I’ve reached that point in medical school where I’d rather it was over. That point when the hours of studying, sitting in the hospital, trying to learn everything I can, and testing to see if I know enough to care for my patients are quite tedious. I do NOT say this out of despair; I still know medicine is exactly what I want to do professionally. I still love patients and the puzzles they present, but I’m ready to be good at something again. I recall a similar feeling junior year of high school, junior year of college, 6 months into my first professional job after college, and 6 months into my life in Paraguay. There’s a time in all learning curves where it’s truly a terrible slog. That time when you’ve learned an unfathomable amount, still feel mediocre at managing what you know, realize you still have a ton left to understand, and know that it will still be a while before you’re “good at it.” Whatever the mysterious “it” is.

And that’s where the gratefulness comes in. I’m grateful these days because I’ve played this game before. I’m grateful because I know myself better than I did last time I played the game of learning something completely new. I’m grateful because I know already that I’m attracted to activities that seem impossible yet, at some point (after many days of struggle), I do wind up being excellent at them.

So, I found myself lying on the floor. It was junior year of medical school. It was the breaking point. It was about to be a landslide into graduation. In a couple of blinks, I’d start residency. I was closer to becoming a physician than I’d ever been. I lay on the floor contemplating the joy and misery of learning. I thought about some patients who had changed my worldview ever-so-slightly. I thought about the amazing teachings and mentors who I’d encountered while wandering about the hospital wards. I thought about the first day I showed up to work on an ambulance (my first clinical experience), years ago now. “I won’t let you kill anyone,” my chief had said then. I contemplated this. Soon, it would be I who had to prevent patients from dying if it could be done. That was kind of a big deal. I felt humbled. I had much to learn despite having learned so much. I was grateful for this moment of pause while lying on the floor. Life is quite a whirlwind when you seek out challenge. The secret, therefore, is to be grateful for the moments of calm when they come. Even the worst storms have eyes; I remind myself of to look for them.

Engaged

This year I got engaged. It wasn’t a surprise as it came about after countless dialogues while driving between mountains and feasting spots, while plodding along trails below tree line, while standing next to rivers, and while gazing out at the horizon from mountain tops. Like most aspects of my fiancé and my relationship, the timing of engagement was mutually agreed upon and, once decided, a joint undertaking of finding rings, figuring out the legality of things, and planning a wedding unfolded.

It’s funny to me that I’m planning my wedding as I also undertake my third year of medical school. I am a person of action, but usually my time is spent on professional endeavors. I’ve only chosen careers that are consuming, where even when the day is done the puzzles of work linger, tossing and turning in my mind as I go about the rest of my life. I’ve never considered relationships beyond friendship as required or even goals. I’ve always seen marriage as something I’d consider only if someone fell into my life who made me think of it. “Fell” being the key word. I’ve known for many years that happiness and loneliness come from within. The loneliest years of my life I was in a long-term relationship. My happiest times correlate only with my internal state. I fought hard on many occasions when I was single to be allowed to go about my business as I saw fit. And as I think about marriage, the annoyance of having to explain that I am whole without a partner remains somewhere in my skin. But, yet, as I undertake one of the hardest years of becoming a doctor, I am also signing away singleness.

My fiancé and I have discussed marriage and dreamed about growing old together since months after we started dating. There are people who bring out your happiness, who make you laugh more than most, and who force you to think about the world differently. My fiancé is that person for me. And in our short time together, we’ve weathered many storms. There was the first years of medical school – torturous as the hours of study dragged to the future. There was COVID. There were those times when we could have died in the mountains. Where we literally talked each down the cliffs, teetering on an all-to-real edge. There is this current stretch of doing the “long distance relationship thing.” There were the times we shared with family and friends, where it was so easy to feel connected. How seamlessly he fit in with my people (including when my sister and her partner lived with us for a month starting days after he and I moved in together) and how his people made me feel like family from the beginning (starting with the Thanksgiving dinner where I met his parents and everyone in the extended family all at once).

I knew it was time for us to finally start planning our wedding for two reasons. First, since our first marriage conversation we’ve wanted to get married before he follows me to residency and the clock is ticking until that time comes. Second, the realization popped into my head that I couldn’t imagine being happier with another person.

Engagement is neat in the sense that it brings people together. Our families and friends have offered advice and help as my fiancé and I embark on wedding planning. It’s such a fun thing to have a joyous project to work on. Engagement is as odd as it is neat. There are many norms about engagement and marriage which have stood out to me because I rejected them. I didn’t want an engagement ring. My wedding dress will be red. I prefer small, intimate gatherings. My ceremony must be outside. There will be no registry. There will be no escorting down an aisle.

And as I often do for my career, I’ve spent some time reflecting on marriage. I like to ponder why things are important and worth doing. My younger self often thought marriage was giving up something of yourself for someone else. I’m glad to report that that isn’t the case. Marriage is about two very different people taking on a shared adventure, where there are lots of side adventures together and apart. Marriage is just a formal way of saying “I trust you and want you to be my life-long co-hiker no matter how boggy the trail or how craggy the mountainside.”

And as he said when I read him this post, “’Fiancé’ is a weird word, let’s get married already.”

On Love

When from out of the blanket burrito you’ve created, like extra salsa, your blue eyes emerge, blinking and dazed as if they’ve never seen light. You seem stunned as if you didn’t expect the sun to rise as it has every other day. I’m glad you’re here.

When we each sit, heads bent over our studies, the sun dancing across your hair and alighting on our plants—we created quite a jungle house when we moved in together—I smile before diving back into the world of medicine.

When you scamper away, a mountain goat of a human, taking off when you see a steep incline with rocks on the trail ahead, I chuckle. I’ll find you at the top of the pitch, eyes glistening, waiting. Maybe a kiss before we forge onward. And when we get to the summit we see the world unfold before us. Each of us thinking our own thoughts, but knowing somehow our thoughts fit together like the parts of an ice cream sundae—dazzling all on their own but grander together.

When I’m sitting on the couch, studying or writing, and you ask “Are you hungry darling?” As I light the candle for the dinner table I’m already full.

It’s those times when love seems like such an obvious thing. And, as happy as I am alone, I’m glad you decided to journey with me.

Goodbye 20s

Today I turn 30. I find myself in a place I didn’t dream of when I was 20. I live in a world I couldn’t have imagined when I was 10.

I’m in the throes of my first year of medical school. A whirlwind of biochemistry, anatomy, patient evaluation techniques, nerd jokes, and discussions of ethics and why access to health care is a right. But, that’s not all. This morning, I woke to the smell of cinnamon rolls and a bouquet of flowers. Since August, I didn’t just fall down the rabbit hole of medicine, but I might have fallen in love.

October last year, the last October of my 20s, I was forging through medical school applications. Diving into interviews. Wondering if any school would take me. If I was good enough. If I was going to ever be a doctor. I think the feelings I had while applying to medical school aptly summarize my 20s. The 10 years between 19 and 30, I spent self-doubting, reflecting, and growing. The doubt is largely gone now—for that, I’m stoked. My personality won’t allow me to stop reflecting and attempting to be a better, even as I race toward being old, and I think that’s good.

This October comes with its own challenges and misgivings, but there is something surprisingly settling about 30. It helps that a weight lifted when I started school. And though I spend hours daily learning 3-4 letter acronyms that stand for proteins that stand for whole signaling pathways that keep you alive when they work and make you sick when they go wrong, I’m happy underneath it all. I’m happy because I’m exactly where I hoped I would be last year. I’m happy because where I am feels right. It is not often that life follows the course of my plan, so this birthday I’d like to take a moment to celebrate just being here.

Today, I’m grateful for all the people who make me feel loved. I’m grateful for the friends who are there when I need them and who share my joyous moments, who share my love for jokes only a health science dweeb can begin to find funny, and who listen patiently to the latest episode in the chronicles of kombucha making. I’m grateful for the people who have supported me, helped me learn, and pushed me to think differently and be better.

With the joy of being here in mind, bring it on 30. I’m ready for a new decade.

Last Day in the Emergency Department (for Now)

July 25 was my last shift at the emergency department (ED) as an EMT. It’s hard to believe in a few short weeks I’ll start medical school, and my time as an emergency medical technician will be filed away as part of history. Becoming an EMT challenged me and made me face personal fears. The uncertainty I had when I first embarked seems comical now that I have those years of patient care under my belt.

I couldn’t be more excited (and nervous) to start training to be a medical doctor. But, leaving the ED was bitter-sweet. I’ll miss my crew—the ED is filled with dedicated people focused on improving their patients’ lives. If every team I work on is like mine was in the ED, then my career as a doctor will pass quickly and happily. What also makes me sad to leave the job and start school is that I won’t have many opportunities to work directly with patients for a few years. The first two years of medical school emphasize learning all the facts you need to know to be a doctor and, in years 3 and 4, you start applying that knowledge in real health care settings. I got into healthcare because I want to help people. I find learning thrilling, but my motivation comes from the practical applications of the knowledge I gain. I can’t wait until I am back in the trenches seeing patients and trying to solve real health mysteries.

I became an EMT because it was the fastest certification that would allow me to work directly with patients in a way that required me to assess their signs and symptoms and then make clinical judgements. Becoming a doctor will give me a lot more knowledge and a much bigger toolkit to help my patients than I have now. But no matter where I end up in healthcare, I won’t forget from where I came. As an EMT, I learned to identify a sick human in a split second. I learned how to ask for people’s health stories and focus on the information I needed to help them. I saw firsthand how excellent patient outcomes are the result of teamwork (between all players not just the docs) and that poor communication leads to worse results. I hope these lessons stay fresh as I cram new ones into my brain.

Making It

The past couple of weeks have been challenging in the same way my first weeks after graduating high school and college or swearing out of the Peace Corps were. Starting a new chapter  because you achieved a goal after hours, days, months, and years fighting for it forces reflection as you hit the reset button. My distilled thought process follows this line, “Well, you’re here, now what?”

When I finished high school and college I was proud, but still unsure of who I’d be or what I wanted to do with my life. When I finished the Peace Corps, I was petrified that I wouldn’t be capable of learning science, getting into medical school, and (ultimately) becoming a doctor. There was so much uncertainty accompanying those transitions. My confidence, not without nervousness, as I get ready to embark on the next phase of the #DoctorhoodQuest is a new feeling for me. Finishing medical school is NOT a guarantee, nothing in life is a guarantee. However, the trust I have in myself to weather the quest unless derailed by forces beyond my control is new and I like it.

I never thought I’d get here, but as I race towards 30 I feel like I know who I am, the values I’ll fight for, and the battles I always avoid. For the first time in the midst of a major professional transition, I’ve focused on setting up all other aspects of my life more than the transition itself. The questions I’ve asked myself include: What do I want my living situation to be like in this phase? Who do I need to visit before school starts? What are my priorities when I have free time? What do I want my work-life balance to look like? What’s missing?

I’ve taken this calm before the storm to bask in the reality that I’m happy. I’ve taken time to think about the things that make me happier and do them or prioritize them. For the first time, I feel 100% content with my professional standing. For once, I have time to focus on every aspect of life. For once, I have a schedule and geographic location that allows me to go hiking multiple times a week and to walk, bike, and run every day if I want.

I find myself asking often, “what’s missing?” Things are always missing, but right now the answer to that question doesn’t include anything major. I have many goals that are years away from being realized. There are things I’d like to add to my life that aren’t even a spark yet. But, for once, I can say “I’ve made it.” I’ve made it to a point where I believe it when I say that life is pretty grand. These days before I take my quest for knowledge to a level I didn’t know existed when I graduated high school and college, I’m enjoying the sunny days and the starry nights of a fresh Vermont summer. I’ve made it to a happy phase and I’m grateful for that.