soopastryheart

If there ever need be a proven case of absence making the heart grow fonder, I would be a perfect example. If this were a relationship, I would’ve been the underappreciative boyfriend who has seen the error of his ways, returning, begging to be taken back, flowers in hand and a pathetic puppy dog face for complete effect. And Seattle would be the merciful girlfriend, taking me back without reprimand, because she always knew I’d return once I got my shit together.

Still though, even after three weeks of being back in Seattle’s loving arms, there’s an air of hesitance, a certain uncertainty I cannot grasp. It’s an oscillation of conflicting emotions, some that I fear if I don’t conquer soon, I will find myself in a dark grey room of second-guessing.

I never saw this move back to Seattle as the ultimate solution. I am not so naïve to believe that it works that way: I know that change, significant change, takes time. And when you’ve decided that after nearly two decades of taping postcards of Johns Hopkins and Stanford on your walls, suffering crazy sleep depravation in college, and bordering all sorts of suicidal thoughts during the week of your MCAT’s, that you want to walk away from the only life you’ve envisioned for yourself, there’s bound to be repercussions of the soul.

And that expected wave of doubt came crashing down on me with unrivaled fury while I was stuck in traffic on Montlake, shortly after my move. The UW Hospital seemed more conspicuous than ever, even when I turned my head to deliberately focus on the license plate ahead of me. The campus it seemed, despite the beautifully sunny day, was haunting – a ghost of a life forfeited. On the corner, waiting for the light to turn was a girl in powder blue scrubs, a backpack strapped behind her, chatting away on her cell phone. I wondered if we were the same age, and if she had been in any of my biochem classes. My eyes flooded with tears as I imagined that she had just gotten off an overnight shift, and the person she was talking to so excitedly was her mom, telling her about her first successful attempt at an IV drip. I’ve never prayed harder for traffic to move as much as I did at that moment.

I can’t pinpoint when it happened. I don’t think it was one event, because a decision like this never comes to one suddenly or without resistance. I have always loved medicine. I have always loved the workings of the human body. And I have always loved the prospect of being someone who could do something about it when it went haywire. I have always been good about watching surgeries; I never felt squeamish or light-headed at blood or exposed organs, but rather, exhilarated by the efficiency and knowledge of what medical professionals could do. And with the right training, I believed I’d make the type of surgeon my parents would read about in the Korean Daily, where they had clipped profiles of world-renown Korean-American doctors for me since middle school. I would live a noble life, one with purpose and honor, and one that I could be happy with for the rest of my life.

Maybe one day, when my head is a little clearer, I will take time to analyze when and where I started to deviate from the life I had dreamt for myself since I was little. But the only rationalization I can conjure up at this moment is that, in many ways, I think I’ve always known that this wasn’t for me. When you were as invested as I was, denial can come in many deceiving forms. It can be mistaken by weariness and insecurity, that it is typical doubt clouding every other ambitious future MD. You find yourself chalking it all up to stress, and convince yourself that it would roll away on its own. After all, I can be astonishingly hardheaded, and each time I felt a hint of ambiguity, I reinforced my consciousness with positive affirmations.

As expected, my decision caught my parents in a tailspin, and the only real regret I will always have is how I chose to handle my announcement. Such jarring decisions require a bit more finesse in their delivery, but mine was blunt and unexpected. I had not thought it through. I had not made a bullet-point list. I had not known those initial words were going to come out of my mouth in that 30-minute drive from Monroe to Seattle. And things did not get much better once we were back in Florida, seated around the breakfast table. Blame it on miscommunication, blame it on our characteristics and tendencies to be stubborn, blame it on our passionate nature – but in that hour, that terrible hour where emotions and words ran without censor, my parents and I had the worst conversation we’ve ever had. There were plenty of things said that never should have been spoken – both parties were left feeling betrayed for vastly different reasons: I had blindsided them, I had never given any reason for them to doubt. And in return, despite a level of heartbreak I knew I had caused, I felt terribly disappointed by how they chose to react.

But like I said before, my family and I are nothing if not passionate; we often employ the spit it out now, figure it out later philosophy. After a couple more rounds, we called a truce. The initial shock and resistance had worn off, and my parents returned to being the amazing people I recognized. Sure they were disappointed; I had all but promised them a certain life – but above all else, they wanted the same thing all parents want for their kids: a happy life.

Their only concern now is that I find something for the void that medicine failed to fill. I understand their worrisome faces: their daughter is now looking at an unstable future, an uncertain career, where she will undoubtedly struggle more than they ever wanted for her. I honestly have no idea what the future holds for me. With becoming a doctor, the road is paved for you in a nice little package: you go to med school, you go through residency, fellowship, and then you finally start feeling like a professional. There’s little room to deviate because there’s strict set of guidelines and procedures to follow. And now, to throw out that book, I feel an undeniable liberation as well as a compulsion to crap my pants.

At the beginning of college, I would have told you that by 25, I would be in my third year of medical school. I would be looking at residency programs around the country, and just to keep my mother from turning into a hot mess, I’d be dating a classmate, a future neurologist or orthopedic surgeon. If you would have told me that instead, I would be starting over, or simply, anything but going to medical school, I would have thought you were legitimately insane. But here I am, not doing all those things. Here I am, working on what is my first real resume, a pathetic list that leaves me feeling utterly unqualified for anything not in the medical field.

My parents see my current situation as being unclear and unfocused, a step back from where I should be at this age. But to me, it’s the opposite. For the first time in years, I feel like I’m taking a step towards progression. I wish I could comfort my parents, reassure them that despite this sudden pivot in my life, I will be just fine. That I am still who I am, who I’ve always been, someone no less determined to succeed than I’ve always been. And maybe I will spend the rest of my life worrying about the mortgage and the bills. Maybe I won’t have a closet full of Louboutins or a BMW 7-series sitting in my driveway. But at least I won’t hate myself at the end of the day.

Life is too short to not live it the way you feel you should.

I think I can expect a feeling of uncertainty and doubt regarding my decision will linger for a good while longer, especially when the ground I’m standing on feels this wobbly. It’s hard to say goodbye to such a significant portion of your life without feeling nostalgia and regret whenever you see reminders of what you’ve left behind. I think it’ll be awhile before I can see med school students without feeling a lump in my throat and tug on my heart. There’s a difference between giving up a certain life and walking away from a certain life. And hopefully, with a little time, I will feel the latter.

When trying to repair and reconnect with an old relationship or bond, there has to be time for the trust to rebuild. And that’s exactly what I need from myself right now; that no matter how unsettled I feel, it will not last forever. And no matter how scared shitless I may be, I will follow my instincts, and trust that I will figure myself out.

It’s good to see you again Seattle. I can’t wait to see what life has in store for us.