Being Pre-Med is What I Do, Not Who I am

I recently reconnected with my third grade teacher, Mrs. Garrett. She brought the scrapbook she assembled when I was a student in her class. She had ten students that year and each of us had our own page in the book. I turned to mine.


In the center, there was a picture of me wearing a crisply ironed collared shirt with perfectly straightened hair and a string of pearls I surely begged my mom to wear for that picture. Arranged rather creatively around my picture was a newspaper clipping about the award I won for being the only kid who wore a seat belt on the bus, my straight A report card, and a piece of paper on which I wrote in incredibly neat handwriting: “I want to be a doctor.”


Mrs. Garrett reminded me that the assignment was to write something about myself. Out of curiosity, I flipped through the pages in her scrapbook and read what my classmates wrote about themselves. One of my friends wrote “Pink is my favorite color” and another wrote, “I love to dance.” Most others wrote about their hobbies or interests and all the other pages included pictures of my classmates making silly faces, having fun, and playing outside. There were just two other pictures of me in the scrapbook, both showing me sitting at my desk with a sharpened Ticonderoga in hand.


We scanned the rest of the scrapbook together and reminisced. Mrs. Garrett thought my studiousness was adorable. Adorable? I was a nerdy girl with dark-rimmed frames who sat in the front row with her hand raised, eager to spew out all the answers. Banal. Mrs. Garret reminded me that I was the most disciplined student and extremely poised for a third grader.


Over a cup of coffee, we chatted some more and I caught her up to the present. I studied at an Ivy League school, I told her, and graduated at the top of my class. I still want to become a doctor, but also a journalist. This did not surprise her because, as she recalled, I cared deeply for others and I was, after all, the best writer in her class. She wanted to know more about me. I had nothing left to share, so she began to probe into my life.


“Are you in a relationship?” I shrugged.


She continued. “Do you travel?” I just stared back at her.


“I’m pre-med,” I reminded her, hoping that would clarify why my life still revolves around my professional pursuits.


“Why are you so serious? Do something!” she ordered. “You haven’t changed at all.”


I smiled politely, but, in that very moment, I started to feel terribly sad. I think I was experiencing a quarter-life crisis and existential crisis all at once. Am I really not living? What is the meaning of my life? Who am I?


I gave her a quizzical look. I did not think it was possible to remain unchanged after a decade. I desperately tried to think of something about myself that was different, but I could not. I hated to admit she was right. I was still striving, achieving, pushing. In high school and in college, the dark-rimmed frames, good grades and high, stiff collared shirts did not escape me. I was nothing if not a workhorse. Moments like these, opportunities for self-discovery, came often throughout my academic career, but never pierced my heart this sharply.


In college, I was a volunteer in a busy ER. During one of my shifts, I spoon fed chocolate pudding to a patient. He was curious and asked what I did for fun. I had no answer. I’m sure I did fun things! Sometimes. Right? Maybe. At that time, I was severely exhausted from little sleep the night before. I didn’t even have enough energy to utter a good lie. He reminded me that life was not a marathon, but a leisure walk. “Don’t go too fast, kid,” he advised. I had known this man for all of fifteen minutes and he had me figured out. He was right, too. I was going too fast. Despite a pristine transcript and an impressive resume, I felt lifeless and unfulfilled.


I don’t want to be remembered solely for my studiousness. It finally occurred to me when I saw my younger self that I had to change. I stared at my third grade self in that scrapbook again, this time with glassy eyes, and tried to find myself. Who am I?


I am still trying to figure it out and, for the first time in a long time, I am not in a rush. I know now that my dogged persistence and resilience – that my struggle to become a doctor – does not define me as a person. Being pre-med is what I do, not who I am.

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