Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

Eventually, I rotated onto the urologic oncology service with the Chair himself. This was it—the rotation I had long anticipated. Not only would I continue my inpatient responsibilities and round with him daily, but I would now step into the operating room as his assistant.

For most third-year residents, first assist roles were typically limited to the less complex parts of cases. The more intricate oncologic procedures were reserved for fellows. But this rotation ignited something in me. I didn’t want to just follow orders—I wanted to understand the why and the how of every procedure. I dove headfirst into preparation—memorizing the anatomy, understanding every nuance of the operation, learning the precise sequence of steps, the instruments for each maneuver, the supplies required. It was overwhelming. And exhilarating. I thrived in that tension—driven to improve, determined to rise to the challenge.

Then came the moment I’ll never forget.

Toward the end of the rotation, the Chair gave me permission to perform a particularly delicate step of the surgery: reimplanting the ureter into the newly created bladder. It’s a precise, unforgiving part of the procedure—the ureter’s blood supply is fragile, and any mishandling could jeopardize the entire reconstruction.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of that moment. I didn’t know that this part of the case was typically reserved for the fellow—that no third-year resident had ever been entrusted with it before. I simply focused, steadied my hands, and did the work.

I didn’t know I was doing something extraordinary. I didn’t know that by being allowed to perform such a critical step, I had been given a rare opportunity—one that signaled my potential. It wasn’t until years later—long after I had finished residency—that someone approached me and asked if the story was true. If the rumor, the legend about me, had really happened.

I was stunned.

I hadn’t realized it was something worth talking about. I hadn’t known it was something people remembered. At the time, there had been no celebration, no recognition of how extraordinary it was for me to have been entrusted with that responsibility. I had never received that validation, never been told that what I had done was exceptional. It was a simple task in my mind—just another part of the surgery, just another moment in a long list of surgeries that made up my day.

I wish I had known then. Maybe I would have seen myself differently. Maybe I would have been able to recognize my own value, my own skill. Instead, I left that rotation with the same feeling I had when I started it—unsure, questioning whether I had truly earned the trust placed in me.

Even now, I look back on that moment with awe and a tinge of disbelief. I still struggle to believe that I was granted that opportunity—not out of luck, but because I had earned it. But in that silence, I never got the affirmation I needed. The validation I should have received.

As I reflect on this experience, I realize how crucial it is for resident training to change. The silence that surrounded my achievement—the lack of recognition, the lack of feedback—meant I left that rotation unaware of my true potential. It is not enough to quietly give residents responsibility. It’s not enough to let them figure it out on their own. We, as educators and leaders, need to affirm what they are doing well. We need to tell them when they’ve done something remarkable, when they’ve gone above and beyond.

And this is especially true for female residents, who may already struggle with self-doubt due to the pressures and biases of a male-dominated field. Gender inequity in medical training is real, and its impact is often compounded by the silence we place on women’s achievements. Women are often held to higher standards than their male counterparts, yet are less likely to receive the mentorship or affirmation needed to help them see their worth.

We need to foster a culture of recognition and support, one where accomplishments—big and small—are acknowledged. Residents, no matter their gender or background, need to hear that they are doing great work. They need to hear that they are good enough. They need to hear that they have earned their place in the room, in the OR, and in the future of medicine.

Looking back, I see how much that silence cost me. It robbed me of the ability to truly understand my strengths and embrace my identity as a skilled surgeon. It took years for me to internalize the recognition that I was, in fact, extraordinary at what I did. I wish I hadn’t had to wait so long.

For the future of medicine, let’s stop making residents guess their worth. Let’s stop leaving them to question whether they truly belong. Let’s create an environment where feedback is clear, mentorship is plentiful, and validation is part of the process. Every resident deserves to hear: You are enough.