06/25/2026
Part 1: I entered this world fighting to breathe.
I was born by C-section because the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck. Before I had taken my first breath, life had already placed an obstacle around me. In many ways, that moment foreshadowed a journey in which I would repeatedly have to fight for the space to breathe, remain awake, lead, and become who I was called to be.
After seven years, I can finally say: I have completed psychiatry residency.
Seven years.
There is a temptation to tell stories like mine by skipping from hardship directly to triumph—to turn suffering into a polished testimony without acknowledging what it cost. But this moment deserves honesty.
Residency can be a place of extraordinary learning, mentorship, and transformation. It can also be toxic. Behind hospital walls, trainees can experience discrimination, retaliation, humiliation, isolation, and the quiet pressure to endure mistreatment because speaking up may threaten the careers they have sacrificed so much to build.
Every day, I have to fight to remain awake. What others experience as an ordinary morning can require a deliberate battle for me. My disability does not disappear because the day is busy, because patients need me, or because medicine often expects physicians to function as though their bodies have no limits. I had to learn medicine while simultaneously fighting my own physiology just to stay alert and present.
Too often, that struggle was not met with curiosity or compassion. It was met with judgment.
I endured shame from people who did not know me and from colleagues who believed proximity gave them permission to define me. People saw symptoms but constructed character flaws. They saw exhaustion and called it laziness. They saw a request for support and called it weakness. They saw a disability and treated it as evidence that I did not belong.
There is a particular cruelty in being forced to defend the reality of a condition that already requires so much energy to manage.