Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I still remember that first night on call. The “experienced intern” — smug with his newfound freedom and perhaps a touch of schadenfreude — handed me the pager with a grin that said, Good luck, kid. I didn’t yet understand the weight of what I was holding, but I would soon enough.

The hospital, during the day, was a bustling safety net. Attendings, fellows, upper-level residents—there were lifelines everywhere. But at 6 p.m., the safety net vanished. Those same seasoned doctors evaporated, replaced by us—the interns. Green, terrified, and in my case, female in a very male world.

I sat in the call room that night, white coat folded beside me, clutching my pillow like it might absorb my fear. Across from me, Sherrie, another female surgical intern—an anomaly like myself. We didn’t need to speak. Our mirrored posture, rigid shoulders, and tight-lipped expressions said it all. We were terrified. And we were alone.

The pages began rolling in. Slowly, I found footing. I could answer questions. I could assess patients. I could… do this. But there was a caveat: I could do it, if I also navigated the unspoken hierarchy of gender.

The nurses—often women themselves—were kind, capable, and invaluable. But I quickly noticed a pattern. My male co-interns were welcomed into the fold with ready-made procedure trays and subtle support. When I arrived, I had to beg for supplies, assemble my own trays, perform the procedure alone, and clean up afterward. If I dared leave behind a sharp or a soiled drape, I was called back with a glare that burned.

While the male residents walked in and walked out, rested and unbothered, I was left scrubbing until dawn, half the rest and twice the pressure.

In the operating room, the inequities sharpened. The iconic image of the male surgeon, arms up, being gowned and gloved by a nurse—that was real. For them. For me? My gown and gloves sat untouched on a tray. The scrub nurses turned their backs. My hands shook as I struggled alone, self-gowning under the weight of judgment, until finally—mercifully—an attending noticed and intervened.

But the worst was subtle. Passive-aggressive. Calculated.

I remember operating with the Chair of the Urology Department. His scrub nurse—infamous among us—never missed a chance to assert her dominance. She would nudge me subtly down the bed, shifting my angle just enough to make assisting a contorted ordeal. She handed me blunt scissors. Removed essential instruments from the tray. Made me feel, in every possible way, like I didn’t belong.

It wasn’t just physical. It was psychological warfare. And it was silent.

I learned to plant my feet, engage my core—literally and metaphorically. I fought invisible battles that my male colleagues didn’t even know existed.

I tried kindness. I tried deference. I tried excellence. Nothing softened her. My attending never said a word, though I knew he saw it all. Perhaps it was a rite of passage. But what a price we paid.

Years later, when I became a leader myself, I carried those memories with me. Not with bitterness—but with intention. I vowed that no intern would ever feel invisible in my presence. That no young doctor would ever have to grovel for a lesson. That every procedural misstep would be met with mentorship, not mockery.

Because leadership is not about how much you know or how far you’ve come—it’s about who you lift along the way.

In the early days, I longed to be accepted. To be one of the guys. To not feel like an imposter every time I walked into a room. Now, I realize that my strength was forged in the struggle. And that the quiet resilience of that first night—the pillow-hugging, pager-checking, trembling determination—is what turned me into the kind of leader I wish I’d had.

You cannot control how others treat you—but you can choose how you show up.

I also learned that the best leaders don’t overlook the silent struggles of their teams. They notice who’s fumbling with gloves while everyone else looks away. They step in—not to save, but to support.

Now, when I lead teams, I remember the trembling intern with the blunted scissors being mistreated by other females. And I ask myself: Am I creating an environment where someone like her would thrive? Or just survive?

Because real leadership isn’t just about the outcome of the surgery—it’s about who you become in the process.