Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

Committing to that six-year program without a guarantee of matching into fellowship was a leap of faith—equal parts determination and desperation. I knew I had a long road ahead, and I was ready to prove myself. But I underestimated just how deeply the culture of surgical training would shape—and scar—me.

From day one, I was immersed in an environment that prized excellence but punished imperfection. Feedback came sharp and public. Encouragement was scarce. The message was clear: if you wanted to be here, you had to toughen up. Show no weakness. Endure.

There was the constant “pimping” on rounds—rapid-fire questioning: What’s the cause of this symptom? What antibiotic would you choose? What’s the correct dose? You had to know it all, and if you didn’t, the silence afterward could be just as cutting as the ridicule. In the OR, the questions kept coming: What instrument do you want? What size suture? What kind of needle? What comes next in the procedure? If the attending was frustrated, he might slam instruments on the table—or worse, throw them.

There were certain surgeons we all knew to avoid—just like we were taught to avoid handling the pancreas. The pancreas is unforgiving; even slight manipulation can lead to post-op pancreatitis, a dangerous and potentially fatal complication. These surgeons were just as volatile. They were quick to anger, with no patience for residents whose hands trembled, who hesitated, moved too slowly, or weren’t perfectly coordinated. Their operating rooms felt like tightropes—one wrong move, and the emotional fallout could be swift and scarring.

Then there were grand rounds. If you were a junior resident and had a patient with a complication, you were expected to present—succinctly and without emotion—the case history, key physical findings, hospital course, and a full literature review on the complication, complete with stats on frequency and strategies for prevention. Your performance wasn’t just academic; it was survival.

Basically, you were always on. Always being grilled, expected to know the answers, care for the patients, assist in the OR, and take call every third night. Your so-called “free time” was for studying—reading journal articles, reviewing board materials, watching surgical technique videos. I took part one of my urology boards just after the end of my fourth year of residency. I had just had my first child and, though I didn’t realize it then, was deep in the fog of postpartum depression. I remember sitting down to take that exam and staring at the paper—nothing made sense. Not a single question registered. I ultimately finished it, but failed. I had to sit across from my program chair and explain how that happened. Even I didn’t have an answer.

I retook the exam the following year and passed. But that failure hung over me like a scarlet letter.

For many, the culture bred grit. For me, it struck something deeper.

I had grown up under the weight of emotional neglect—where love was conditional, and worth had to be earned. I arrived in medicine already fluent in shame and self-blame. So when the operating room became another place where perfection was the price of belonging, I didn’t question it. I just worked harder. I took every criticism to heart. I let it shape me.

I woke up early, stayed late, took on the cases no one wanted. I memorized anatomy, rehearsed techniques, combed through surgical videos late into the night. I was driven not just by ambition—but by fear. Fear that I wasn’t good enough. Fear that I’d be exposed. Fear that I’d disappoint the attending who had taken a chance on me.

There were nights I went home and cried quietly in the shower, only to show up the next day smiling and composed. I told myself this was the price of greatness. But beneath the surface, I was unraveling. The very traits that had made me successful—my drive, my self-discipline, my sensitivity to feedback—were the same ones being weaponized against me.

And yet, I couldn’t stop. Because every tiny win—every rare word of praise, every successfully executed procedure—felt like oxygen. Like maybe I was finally enough.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t alone in that suffering. Many of us were silently breaking under the same weight, each of us convinced we were the only ones struggling. The system didn’t just test our skills—it exploited our vulnerabilities. It demanded resilience but offered no roadmap for healing.

But amid the pain, something else took root—a resolve to be different. To lead differently. To teach differently. To build a future where brilliance doesn’t have to come at the cost of humanity.

Years later, when I stepped into leadership roles, those memories came rushing back—not just the technical lessons, but the emotional ones. I knew what it felt like to question your worth behind a confident smile. I knew the power of a mentor’s belief—and the devastation of silence. So I made a quiet vow: that no one under my leadership would ever have to earn their humanity. I began to lead with the empathy I had once craved, creating spaces where people could learn without fear, grow without shame, and speak without trembling.

The scars of my training didn’t disappear—but they became something else.
They became a blueprint for change.