Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

There are unspoken hierarchies in medicine—silent codes etched into the walls of every hospital. Where I trained, the surgeons were gods. Internists were the quiet thinkers, sure, but we were the ones who saved lives with our hands. We cut, we fixed, we strutted through the halls with an air of precision and purpose. We were respected, revered—sometimes even feared. And I wore that identity like a tailored white coat.

Later, during a stint at a hospital on the East Coast, I walked into a culture shock. There, the internists sat on pedestals. They were the intellectual giants, the diagnosticians with diagnostic acumen sharpened to a fine point. Surgeons, by contrast, were viewed as blunt instruments—technicians with knives, lacking finesse in the art of thought. It offended me deeply. I found myself defending the honor of my craft with increasing fervor—and, if I’m honest, arrogance.

I had become cocky. Proud. Judgmental.

One late evening, during an exhausting call shift, my pager screamed: STAT to the medicine floor. A central line had been attempted by a medical resident—and it had gone wrong. Tension pneumothorax. Life-threatening. The lung had collapsed, and the clock was ticking.

I stomped down the hallway, muttering to myself. Why was a resident attempting a procedure he clearly wasn’t equipped to handle? What was the point of medical knowledge if you couldn’t manage your own complications? My every footstep echoed indignation.

I entered the room, and the scene was what you might expect in an ER drama: the patient gasping for breath, the monitors beeping urgently, and a young resident, wide-eyed, frozen in panic. He looked like a child caught in a storm. My instinct was to unleash a scathing lecture, to remind him and everyone else in the room who the real savior was.

But something stopped me.

Maybe it was the fear in his eyes. Maybe it was the patient’s shallow breathing. Or maybe—finally—it was the awareness that leadership doesn’t always come with a scalpel. Sometimes, it comes with grace.

Instead of scolding him, I took a breath. In a tone still gruff from exhaustion—but gentled with intent—I told him, “Glove up. Get sterile. You’re going to fix this.”

He looked at me, terrified.

“I’ll guide you,” I said. “Second intercostal space. Midclavicular line. Go.”

Step by step, I coached him through it. His hands trembled, but he followed. The needle slipped in, the pressure released, and the patient began to breathe again. Relief washed over the room. He had done it.

I placed the chest tube afterward, quietly. The resident thanked me, profusely, with tears in his voice. And every time he saw me in the hallway for weeks after, he would shake my hand like I’d saved his life, not just the patient’s.

That moment changed me.

I saw how powerfully humility could live within skill. How kindness didn’t undermine competence—it elevated it. From that day on, I started showing up differently. No more rolled eyes, no more under-the-breath criticisms. I began leading with a smile. Teaching instead of judging.

Whether it was helping a nurse navigate a tricky foley in a patient with a large prostate, showing a resident how to properly prep a sterile tray, or gently guiding someone on how to gown up, I leaned into teaching. And I realized that by doing so, I wasn’t just easing my own future workload—I was planting seeds. Seeds that would grow into better care, better clinicians, and maybe even better teachers down the line.

And with each interaction, I shed a little more of that old, sharp-edged pride—and replaced it with something softer, something stronger.

Humility.