The following are 5 things I wish my younger self in medicine knew.

1. Residency (and med school) are where you learn by stumbling.

Medical school and residency together add up to seven, sometimes eight or more years. At the time, they feel endless—measured in sleepless calls, unrelenting exams, and the constant hum of anxiety. You will find yourself counting the hours until the next shift ends, only to realize the next one begins again before you’ve even exhaled.

Here’s what I wish I had known: these are the years you are supposed to stumble. You will make mistakes—not because you’re careless, but because you’re human. And those mistakes, the ones you replay in your head for years, are often the lessons that sharpen your judgment more than any lecture ever will.

So double-check. Triple-check. Ask for help. Read until your eyes blur. And don’t get trapped by the culture of silence and competition. Medicine wants you to feel alone, but you aren’t. Lean on your classmates, your co-residents, your seniors. Learn to collaborate, not just on rounds but in codes, in consults, in the moments where life and death hang on the thread of teamwork. You will never again have this much structured learning and camaraderie. Don’t miss it, even when you’re too tired to see straight.

2. Medicine isn’t a straight line.

Your first job will almost certainly not be your last. It might not even be close to your last. That’s not failure. It’s the shape of the profession.

You may begin convinced you’ll spend your life in one specialty, only to discover research calls to you. Or that medical-legal consulting, utilization review, or public health policy feel like home. You may find yourself drawn to locums, relishing two weeks on and two weeks entirely off. You may want the freedom of telemedicine, or the radical independence of Direct Primary Care.

There’s a myth that medicine is a single path: one specialty, one job, one role, for life. The truth is that medicine is vast, and your path through it will twist and change. Don’t fear that. Lean into it. Every pivot expands your skill set and your sense of self.

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3. Protect yourself, because no one else will.

Medicine will take everything if you let it. Your degree, your license, your time, your empathy, your data, your body. The system wasn’t rebuilt with physicians in mind—it was rebuilt to profit from them.

Don’t forget: you are the backbone. If every doctor in a hospital walked out, that hospital would grind to a halt. That’s your power. Guard it.

Say no when you need to. Guard your hours. Guard your sanity. And most importantly, stop mistaking endurance for identity. Survival through sleepless nights, endless calls, and unreasonable demands is not strength—it’s conditioning. Don’t wear burnout like a badge of honor. Don’t let people tell you exhaustion proves you belong.

Listen to your body. If your nervous system is screaming, it’s not weakness—it’s wisdom. Medicine trains us to run toward danger, but not all danger deserves your sacrifice. Sometimes the bravest act is stepping back before the system chews you up.

And don’t let the profession turn us against one another. We fought like cats and dogs to get into med school, then tore at each other in training, as if medicine were a zero-sum game. It’s not. Collaboration is the only antidote to burnout. The system profits from our division; our survival depends on solidarity.

4. Medicine shouldn’t be your whole life.

You are not just a doctor. Explore your hobbies. Travel if you can. Build relationships that remind you who you are outside a hospital badge. Create joy outside the clinic walls, because medicine will always demand more—but it should never demand all.

We are told, explicitly and implicitly, that if we can endure, we are worthy. That if we outlast the grind, we belong. But no eulogy will ever celebrate the number of charts you signed or the shifts you picked up. And when you look back at your own life, you won’t either.

The war zone of medicine—trauma, death, miracles, blood—cannot be your only story. Build a narrative outside of it. A life you would want to live even if medicine vanished tomorrow.

5. The promises we were given are breaking.

We entered this field on two promises: job stability and the power to save lives. Both are under assault.

Insurance denials handcuff our care. Prior authorizations stall life-saving drugs. Neurosurgeons perform brain surgery only to have insurers deny coverage. Patients suffer; physicians rage.

We are replaced, devalued, and shackled: by AI that reduces us to algorithms, by non-physician practitioners slotted in to save costs, by debt that chains us well into middle age. The public doubts us, administrators exploit us, and yet—we remain indispensable.

Without physicians, the system collapses. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t let the world strip you of your value, your voice, or your vision.

To my younger self: medicine will whisper “never” in a thousand ways — never enough, never ready, never strong enough. Attendings will doubt you, administrators will use you, and your own mind will turn on you at 3 a.m. after a brutal call. But “never” is a lie. One failed exam, one bad rotation, one dismissive supervisor — none of that means you are a failure. It means you are human, learning inside an inhumane system. The truth is that survival itself is defiance. Every step forward proves them wrong. You belong here, and the version of yourself you’re becoming is bigger than their limits, stronger than their judgments, and braver than you yet known.