An Uncomfortable Reality—I Needed Those Depressions

I made it 28 years before my first depression. It was a good run.

Darkness descended spring semester of my third year of medical school, the hardest year by my count.

Timing-wise, it was paradoxical. I had just aced our first board exam (Step 1)—scoring in the 90^th percentile—meaning I had a chance at landing a residency coast to coast. My grades were beaming, recording more honors designations than not. During the fall, I’d even appeared on the Dr. Oz show discussing teen mental health based on my work in HealthCorps. I was “on my way”.

None of that held sway internally, where a divergent narrative took shape: I was losing who I was.