Snow was falling fluffy, but fast, lit orange by the streetlights outside the hospital room window. It was late and though I was tired, I was glad for the dim lighting of the room. L’s somber face barely hid her broken heart and spirit, her helplessness and hopelessness permeating the room. We had brought her baby guitar and my sister strummed as I sang sad songs from a Peter, Paul and Mary record we’d listened to as children.

I entered medical school with a strong sense of calling. Despite what I now recognize as good credentials, I had a tough time with applications and ended up applying twice, only to get in at the last possible moment after one of the latest-possible interviews. It was because of these pitfalls and my undeniable enjoyment of my medical school coursework that I felt my calling confirmed.