Stanford Medicine Unplugged (formerly SMS Unplugged) is a forum for students to chronicle their experiences in medical school. The student-penned entries appear on Scope once a week during the academic year; the entire blog series can be found in the Stanford Medicine Unplugged category. This week we’re re-publishing a 2014 entry penned by then-contributor Jennifer DeCoste-Lopez, MD. The piece was one of our most-shared SMU posts of that year.
“Just so you know, I’ll probably start crying any moment,” I warned. I could already hear my voice cracking, a Pavlovian response to this sort of meeting. After all, this would be the sixth faculty member whose office I had cried in since starting med school less than a year before.
“That’s fine. You crying won’t stop us from talking.”
I had permission to cry, so I went ahead and started crying.
I had spent my entire adult life so far striving to succeed in pre-medical courses, clocking long hours in lab, and tirelessly volunteering – all because I felt called to become a doctor. I wasn’t just going through the motions: I loved my pre-med activities and I loved medicine, and my first year of med school only strengthened that passion.
But I was just beginning to fully grasp the commitment I had made. It was unbearable to think that a decade of training would pass before certain aspects of my personal life would be within reach. These worries grew, and I sought advice from faculty mentors – hence, my tearful tour of six professors’ offices. Some offered stress-reduction suggestions: “Have you tried yoga or meditation?” (Yep, this is definitely California.) Others thought I hadn’t found my true passion yet and tried to help me tease it out. I was incredibly appreciative of the time they spent strategizing to make my path more bearable, but none of it got to the root of my anxieties.
In Faculty Office Number Six, my heart raced as I built up the nerve to confess the extent of my treason against the medical profession.
“I just worry I won’t have time for other things. Like my garden…”
But of course, I could bear not growing vegetables for a few years.
“…And getting exercise…”
This is not a plausible problem to cry over. She wasn’t buying it. ‘Just say it,’ I thought.
“…And actually… I think I want to have a baby. ”
Typing these words three years later, my heart is in my throat remembering how it felt to confess to a department chair at the School of Medicine that I wanted to have a baby. Having a baby in med school is Just Not How It’s Done. It is irresponsible, presumptuous, and especially inexcusable for someone in her mid-twenties who could easily wait until after residency. I braced myself for her reply.
“Then why on Earth don’t you have a baby?”
Not the answer I expected.
It goes without saying that med students are under a lot of pressure. Some of it is unavoidable: We all have to memorize biochemical pathways and arrive at the hospital at 4 AM to round on surgical patients. But some pressures are more perceived expectations than actual ones.
The idea that any career aspiration other than the high-powered academic track is automatically inferior, the idea that I must forge ahead to complete my training quickly rather than slowing down to enjoy the process, and of course the idea that one shouldn’t start a family until being “established” professionally: These are notions that perhaps I originally picked up from other people, but that in the end became rules imposed only by myself. I’m so grateful that this mentor (and many others along the way) helped me see the difference and give myself permission to pursue what was right for my career and my life.
Now I’ve completed my first clinical year of med school, and my daughter is four months old. My decision to become a doctor is affirmed hundreds of times over. Far from upending my priorities in life, medical training has enriched my personal life, and vice versa, in ever-surprising ways. Seeing the overflowing support I’ve received from the Stanford community in all these arenas, I can’t believe I ever thought that wanting to live a full life could be a source of shame.
Photo, of the author hugging her husband and young daughter on last year’s Match Day, by Norbert von der Groeben