I didn’t expect a storytelling workshop to change how I practice medicine—or how I live my life—but that’s exactly what happened through my experience with ACOFP and The Moth. What began as a creative exercise quickly became something far more personal: a space where I could finally make sense of my own story.
As osteopathic family physicians, we talk often about resilience. We live it, teach it, and encourage it in our patients. But I’ll be honest—I used to think resilience meant pushing through at all costs. I was the person always running on empty, always squeezing in one more task, one more goal, one more achievement. If you had asked my friends how I was doing, they wouldn’t have answered with my mood or energy level—they would have asked if I had remembered my phone charger. Most of the time, I hadn’t.
That pattern started early. I carried with me the expectations and sacrifices of my family, especially the memory of my grandfather, who reminded me that education was a privilege I should never waste. So I didn’t. I worked relentlessly—through school, through medical training, and into residency. I said yes to everything. Leadership roles, research, community projects. I became academic chief resident with a head full of ideas and a calendar to match.
And then, everything stopped.
On a routine drive home from clinic, I was hit by a car. In an instant, the momentum I had built my identity around disappeared. Recovery wasn’t just physical—it was deeply psychological. I struggled with headaches, balance issues, and cognitive fog. But more than that, I struggled with stillness. I didn’t know who I was without productivity.
Even during medical leave, I treated recovery like another goal to conquer. Physical therapy, appointments, exercises—I approached healing with the same intensity I had applied to everything else. But somewhere in that forced pause, something shifted.
I realized that I had built a life centered on achievement, but not always on presence.
For the first time, I truly saw what had been there all along: the unwavering support of my family, the quiet strength of my relationships, the fullness of a life that didn’t depend on constant output. I began to understand something I had told patients countless times but never fully applied to myself—wellness isn’t something we earn after burnout; it’s something we must actively protect.
That realization changed how I practice medicine.
Family medicine is rooted in prevention, in caring for the whole person. As osteopathic physicians, we emphasize balance—mind, body, and spirit. Yet so many of us struggle to extend that same philosophy inward. My experience reminded me that we cannot sustainably care for others if we are chronically depleted ourselves.
Now, I carry a charger. Literally, yes—but also metaphorically.
When I meet patients, students, or colleagues who are clearly running on 5%, I see myself. And I try to offer what I once needed: permission to pause, to reflect, to recharge before reaching a breaking point. Because the truth is, many of us don’t recognize how close we are to burnout until something forces us to stop.
My journey isn’t about abandoning ambition. I still believe deeply in growth, in education, and in striving for excellence. But now, I understand that those pursuits must coexist with rest, self-awareness, and connection.
If there’s one thing I hope others take from my story, it’s this: don’t wait for a collision—literal or otherwise—to recognize that your life is already meaningful.
Sometimes, the most important thing we can do—for ourselves and for our patients—is simply to plug in.
