why I'm not going to medical school

a eulogy and an autopsy

The following is a letter formally announcing my departure from the field of medicine.

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For the last few years, I've been serving two masters.

The first, noble and composed, urged me to devote my life to service, care for the sick, and value intelligence and kindness above all. In return, he promised financial stability, a clear path to follow, and a sense of personal pride.

The other, luminous but flighty, had me unearth inner truths and express them with beauty and honesty. She made no promise of security but doused me in daydreams of creation, performance, and public adoration.

My two masters - medicine and music - could not coexist. They each demanded complete devotion and fought bitterly for my attention. And though I tried to split my time, over the years it became clear that I could not sustain two careers. I had to choose:

Doctor or artist. Service or creation. The head or the heart.

I agonized over the dilemma — both fulfilled me in different ways. But after careful deliberation, I had to admit that I loved one more than the other.

So I came to a decision: I'm not going to medical school.

I’m letting go of the years I spent in classrooms and clinics, obsessively studying and carefully crafting a medical career. I'm leaving this world of white coats and patients’ notes; IV lines and vital signs; EKGs and soiled sheets; intubation and inflammation.

I’m giving up my future as a physician.

This is a eulogy for the life I could have lived.

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The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, Rembrandt

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We are gathered here today to lay my medical career to rest.

But first, while the body’s still warm, let’s take a scalpel to it and determine the cause of death.

I’d originally chosen medicine for its intellectual challenge and inherent sense of purpose. As a graduating economics student, I was desperate to escape finance and fascinated by the molecular systems of the human body. As the child of a cancer survivor, I felt that giving back to the profession would give my life meaning. Plus, I could work with people, solve their problems, and earn their respect. Medicine seemed like a perfect fit.

So I applied to premedical post-baccalaureate programs and lucked into my dream school. At Johns Hopkins, I worked with some of the greatest physicians in the world, developed a fervent love for neurobiology, and joined a research lab where I was encouraged to dive into niche scientific obsessions. It was all very new and exciting, and I pictured a future in oncology or neurology.

But something went wrong. As I spent more time in the clinic, I realized that I just… did not enjoy clinical work. At all. I found it emotionally draining, hated the endless paperwork, and felt a visceral aversion to all kinds of bodily fluids. And being thanked by patients, while rewarding, felt like a milligram of joy for each kilogram of pain. Meanwhile, all my peers seemed so dedicated and passionate, and I felt like I was only pretending.

So post-Hopkins, I delayed medical school to attend music school, which I’d framed as a temporary detour. However, by this time, my distaste for clinical work had festered into a full-blown loathing. I dreaded my weekly shifts at the cancer clinic. I began to doubt my commitment to medicine.

But I applied to medical school anyway, for all the wrong reasons. I was no longer driven by curiosity and altruism but by status, prestige, and obligation. I craved the intellectual validation of attending medical school. I wanted to impress by succeeding in two simultaneous careers. And I felt that I owed it to mentors, family, and my younger self to keep going. It was a mistake.

My application was a self-sabotaging train wreck, a passionless, performative, pretentious attempt to convince an admissions committee (and myself) that I really, really wanted this. But there was no genuine desire. I submitted it late and did not even finish half of my secondary essays — the ones I did submit, I wrote about music. I had glaring holes in my clinical history that I attempted to cover up by inflating my reported clinical hours - a cardinal sin and an obvious lie to anyone with a sharp eye and a brain.¹

So despite my near-perfect stats and elite education, I was not offered a single interview. My application cycle ended as an abject, humiliating failure.

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Brianna Wiest, Read This If You Don’t Know What You’re Doing With Your Life

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Now that my motivations have been thoroughly dissected, and the great stinking innards exposed, it’s been determined — the cause of death was lack of love.

I beg forgiveness for the mistakes I’ve made and the promises I’ve broken. I cannot go through it again. I will not reapply.

Still, I won’t forget what medicine has given me. I started my YouTube channel making music neuroscience videos. I wrote my first EP between clinical shifts in Baltimore. I rediscovered reading through the MCAT and writing through the medical application. Medicine is etched into my art, my skin, and my very being.

But now that it’s behind me, I can finally ask: what do I really want, right now?

I want to live a boundless life. A creative life. I want to choose my own work and set my own hours. I want to follow my passions wherever they lead. I want to sow my seeds, let them grow at their own pace, and taste the sweet fruit of life at the exact moment of ripeness. In other words, I want to be an artist.

The master I’ve chosen to serve is unpredictable, unreliable, and plays favorites. But she promises virility and excitement and adventure.

By choosing her, I choose life itself.

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👻 what I’ve been up to:

• How can I not talk about the NYC substack writer’s meetup? It was so cool meeting so many of you, talking about your work and getting to know each other. Feels like the beginning of a real community :’)

  

• Went to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens for some inspiration. It was a little early in the season and most of the flowers hadn’t bloomed yet — I’d recommend waiting about a month to check it out, around late April/early May

  

  

  

1. And by admitting this publicly, on the internet, I effectively burn all my bridges. There’s really no going back.