At first sight, medical school can be reduced to “drinking from a fire hydrant.” A never-ending array of Anki cards, notes in vibrant colors, iPads brimming with illustrations. Cramming and output, humorous mnemonics and clever acronyms. Rare conditions. Trendy terms. It appears as though one is memorizing countless conditions and swiftly navigating through the established protocols of diagnosis, treatment, management, clinical evaluations, and more — until they can recite them in their sleep. You’re inundated with biochemical pathways, pathophysiology, and pharmacology, later succeeded by best-practice protocols and clinical decision maps. Our self-esteem frequently relies on exam results, or on how effectively we make an impression on those teaching us — or how quickly we can compile our CV for the next phase of this ongoing journey. We romanticize the process, persuading ourselves that if we can just progress to the next stage, we’ll eventually become a “woman in medicine.”

Most of us entered the medical field with an enthusiasm — a yearning to serve, to heal, to bring purpose to suffering. As individuals, we have made significant sacrifices for this journey while also recognizing the privilege it is to care for others in such a manner. Our families have also made sacrifices for this dream that we have cherished for most of our lives.

Then you delve into actual medicine — and it bears no resemblance to textbook education. It embodies art, intuition, and reasoning. It relies on evidence-based research but also on experience-based instincts. It sometimes includes failure. We envisioned supporting others, not competing with flawed systems.

There exists a vast array of physicians. Some take on the role of educators. Some are quiet supporters. Some excel as listeners. Some do not. How can we feel so distinct and yet so alike? There’s room for a multitude of strengths — and space for vulnerabilities. That’s something I am still understanding. I find myself drawn to numerous women doctors — not solely for their clinical abilities, but for how they navigate life: with poise, simplicity, passion, intelligence, authority, and gentleness. I seek mentorship from women who “have it all,” aspiring to become that kind of mentor in the future. Yet, the illusion of “having it all” often appears to be the source of anxiety and sleepless nights in this life we’ve chosen. Can I liberate myself from that?

Women tend to be hard on themselves. The world tends to be, as well. Certain environments still hinder women from being fully acknowledged and heard. We are often first asked if we’re the nurse present. If a male doctor is present, he’s more likely to be addressed initially. And still — we persist. We show up while expecting. We show up after sleepless nights with a newborn. We show up even when our own personal lives are in disarray — the grief of losing a parent, or a struggling friend.

Some of us are mothers. Some of us are not. But all of us — at some moment — endure the solitude of this path. The experiences no one witnesses. The quiet pain of carrying so much and yet feeling like it’s never sufficient. We bear the burden of caring for others — while also attempting to care for ourselves. We possess what at times feels like an infinite well of empathy — but we are human, too. We cry and we laugh during late-night shifts. We feel intensely and sometimes numb for survival. We encounter our limits — and we push beyond them. At times, we do not appreciate the culture we are part of. Occasionally, egos and narcissism overshadow spaces that should focus on healing. Some pursue titles. Some opt for prestige. Some choose this path because they are the finest individuals I know — the kind of people I want caring for my loved ones. Who are we truly to judge?

And at times, we are simply uncertain — questioning if we measure up. When we witness injustice in the world, we may become cynical. But somehow, we consistently return to our gentleness. To the essence of why we chose this journey. There are days filled with documentation, politics, insurance hurdles, and the incessant clicking of orders that make us doubt it all. Then there are days when hours vanish — because the only thing that truly matters is the patient before us, or the issue awaiting resolution.

We are reservoirs of knowledge. Yet, many of us continually feel as though we lack sufficient knowledge. We persist in learning. We remain cognizant of the boundaries of our understanding — and of our specialty. We are attracted to a profession marked by uncertainty, forever advancing. Some of us might be perfectionists. We may be challenging partners at times. We may feel depleted on certain days — as if what we dedicate our lives to doesn’t always reciprocate. Our to-do lists seem unending. And we know, too,