Today I completed my studies at medical school. It should have been one of the most joyful days of my existence. And in certain respects, it was. I achieved this milestone through endless nights without sleep, years of dedication, and an unwavering determination to care for and heal others. I traversed the stage, received my diploma, beamed from ear to ear, and gazed straight into the camera. Yet beneath that grin, I bore something unseen.

I stood in solitude.

There were no relatives waiting to embrace me. No joyful photographs with elated parents. No heartfelt reunions. Just me — attempting to balance both the pride and the pain simultaneously.

What many overlook in such moments is that not every medical student has a nurturing support network. Some of us have had to forge our futures while concealing our pasts. I hail from a family characterized not by affection, but by disorder. My upbringing was marked by emotional strife, pervasive mental health issues, substance misuse, and an utter disregard for my own needs. A family that—far more frequently than I’d like to recount—pushed me to flee into the woods to sob uncontrollably. Or to drive alone into an empty lot, ready to give my tear ducts a thorough workout. Or to sit on the couch, blankly staring at the wall, completely dissociating from the fact that we are now in hour seven (and counting) of being yelled at that I am the root of all their problems, along with other persuasive arguments. There is more I could share about my formative years, but I trust you understand the essence.

When I expressed myself, I was muted. When I breached some invisible line, I faced humiliation. When I established boundaries, I was manipulated. When I distanced myself, I was labeled as cruel and ungrateful. Despicable. Damaged.

Severing ties was not an impulsive choice. It was the final, agonizing step in a lengthy saga of attempting — yearning — to be acknowledged, heard, and treated with fundamental respect. I didn’t distance myself from my family to be theatrical or defiant. I did it because remaining tied to them meant enduring further pain.

Even now, at a distance, the pattern persists. They monitor my life online, scrutinize public updates about my quest for success, and confront me for not including them in my journey — twisting the narrative to fit their version of reality. It’s not affection — it’s manipulation. It’s not regret — it’s control. The gaslighting, the rewriting of the past, the refusal to recognize their part — these are the very behaviors I walked away from initially, aren’t they?

And yet, on days such as this, the sorrow remains palpable. I don’t solely grieve for those who are absent — I grieve for the people they could have been. My ideal family. The family I visualize in my mind. The same one I observe surrounding me, embracing other graduates, presenting flowers, shedding tears of pride. The grief I experience isn’t a sign of weakness — it’s proof of how deeply I yearned to be seen in a manner that felt safe and unconditional. And how profoundly I continue to do so.

Yes, at times I experience envy. In fact — quite frequently. Occasionally, I feel as though I was given a life with missing pieces. And the voice seeps in — What if I’m mistaken? What if I’m the issue? But those aren’t indicators of guilt. They are scars. They are the persistent echoes of my past.

So indeed, today, I stood in solitude. But I stood truthful. I stood complete. I stood firm in my choices. I stood liberated.

Rarely do we address this in our journey through medicine — concerning the invisible emotional burdens that some of us bring into every lecture hall, every call shift, every white coat ceremony, every celebration. We find joy in resilience, yet seldom question the cost. We assume support from our peers, but overlook that for many of us, success occurred despite our families, not owing to them.

This letter is for you, who embarked on this profession, who is crossing that stage alone, who’s in call rooms, working holiday shifts, or returning to empty homes pondering why joy feels so complex. Pondering if this is all worthwhile.

You are not broken. You are not alone.

You are someone who experienced pain — and still chose to become a healer.

And that is undeniably worthy of pride.

*The author is an anonymous physician.*