Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I continued to push myself during medical school, always striving to be the best I could be. That meant countless hours buried in textbooks, many sleepless nights, and a constant hum of pressure that settled in my chest like a second heartbeat. By third year—when clinical rotations began—I was ready for the part I’d been waiting for: real patients, real medicine.

My plan had always been to go into internal medicine or pediatrics. So I started with surgery, thinking it would be a good warm-up—a way to get my hands dirty before settling into the specialties I believed were a better fit. I expected to feel out of place, maybe even intimidated. But something unexpected happened during those six weeks.

I fell in love.

I fell in love with the rhythm of the operating room, the choreography of the team, the way precision and purpose flowed from every movement. I loved how problems revealed themselves through the anatomy, how treatment came through skilled hands, and how healing could be immediate, tangible. Each case had a clear arc: a beginning, a middle, and an end. And then we moved on to the next. It was clean. Controlled. Hopeful.

By the time the rotation ended, I was buzzing with excitement—until I started internal medicine.

Suddenly, everything that had felt electric in the OR disappeared. Clinic felt like a loop that never ended. Chronic disease management wasn’t just repetitive—it was disheartening. So much of the outcome was outside of my control. Could patients afford their medications? Would they change their diets, stop smoking, come to follow-ups? I found myself feeling powerless. And that’s when I knew: I wasn’t meant to be an internist. I was meant to be a surgeon.

But what kind?

I tried different surgical specialties, searching for that same feeling I had in the OR during my general surgery rotation. Still, nothing quite fit—until someone suggested I do a rotation in urologic oncology. I didn’t know much about urology, but I did know that the attending was legendary: a masterful surgeon with sky-high expectations. A letter from him could open any door. I figured, at the very least, I’d learn something.

What I didn’t expect was to find my calling.

He was the most brilliant surgeon I had ever seen. Each movement in the OR was deliberate and elegant, performed to the swell of a classical music playlist. The crescendo of the music often matched the most complex moments of the case. It was breathtaking—like watching a symphony unfold in real time.

He demanded everything from me. Quizzed me until I didn’t know the answer. Pushed me to think faster, prepare better, and be sharper. Then left me to fill in the gaps on my own. It wasn’t just a test of what I knew—it was a test of who I was. Would I come back ready to rise? Or would I break under the pressure?

I came back. And I thrived.

Before that rotation, I hadn’t known exactly what a urologic oncologist did. Afterward, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I wanted to move through the body with the kind of grace he did. I wanted my hands to restore function, relieve pain, cure disease. I wanted my OR to hum with music and focus, every person attuned to the shared goal of healing.

And yes, I was a woman entering a field where few women had gone before. At the time, female urologists were rare and female urologic oncologists even rarer. But I had long since learned how to walk into spaces not built for me and find a way to belong.

Because when something stirs your soul—when your purpose aligns with your passion—you don’t wait for permission.

You step into the light.

And you stay.