Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I was halfway through my third year of surgical residency when a little girl in a pink dress reminded me how I wanted to show up—not just as a physician, but as a human being.

My training took place in a large county hospital where I was on call every other night. Sleep was a luxury; exhaustion was the norm. Like most surgical trainees, I lived in scrubs. I barely had time to change clothes between shifts, and the OR felt like home. Amid this chaos, one image always stayed with me: a senior female general surgery resident—elegant and poised—wearing the same blue scrubs as the rest of us, but always adorned with a single strand of pearls. It struck me as odd at the time. We were barely surviving. Why would anyone make the effort?

Years later, the answer came to me in an overcrowded clinic filled with patients who’d traveled hours—often on multiple buses—just to be seen for five minutes. Most of them were uninsured or on public assistance. Many didn’t speak English. And yet, they arrived in their Sunday best. Men in pressed shirts, women in colorful skirts, children wearing their finest outfits. Some carried bags of fruit, small tokens of gratitude for care they had fought to access. I started to realize: they weren’t just coming for medical care. They were entrusting me with their dignity.

One day, a man arrived with his wife and young daughter. He needed care, but it was the little girl I remember most. She held her father’s hand, beaming, dressed in a frilly pink dress, proud to be there. In that moment, my exhaustion fell away and was replaced by something else—humility.

I thought back to the woman in pearls. Maybe she wasn’t just making a fashion statement. Maybe she, too, understood that how we present ourselves speaks volumes. That day, I made a decision. No matter how tired I was, no matter how much easier it would be to stay in scrubs, I would show up in a dress or skirt—clean, polished, and intentional. Not for appearances, but for respect. For them.

It became my quiet ritual. My way of signaling that my patients mattered, that their time and presence were seen and honored. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about showing up—fully, as myself, a woman, a surgeon, someone who chose to bring grace into a place where it was too often lost.

In medicine, we talk a lot about burnout and resilience. We don’t talk enough about grace. We don’t talk enough about what patients teach us when we are too tired to teach ourselves. We don’t talk about the small, human gestures that say: I see you. You are worthy of care. You are not just a number.

That little girl in the pink dress reminded me of that. And to this day, I still get dressed for my patients.

Moral: In a system that often strips both patients and providers of their humanity, sometimes the smallest gestures—like putting on a dress—can help restore it.