My parents are both surgeons, and in our house, that wasn’t just a career; it was the only acceptable future.
Medicine was the plan. It had always been the plan.
My father talked about the day I’d join his practice the way some dads talk about teaching their sons to drive.
Medicine was the plan. It had always been the plan.
I was 18 when I told him it wasn’t going to happen, and I watched the certainty leave his face and turn into something much colder.
I wanted music. I’d wanted it since I was nine years old and my uncle left an old acoustic guitar at our house over the holidays. I taught myself three chords that weekend and never really stopped.
Music wasn’t a hobby for me. It was my life. It was the only language I’d ever felt fluent in.
My parents didn’t see it that way.
Music wasn’t a hobby for me. It was my life.
“Pack your bags and get out,” Dad said, flat and final, like a door closing.
By sunset, my key didn’t work in the lock anymore.
I stood on the porch of the house I’d grown up in with a duffel bag and a guitar case, and understood for the first time what it feels like to be completely on your own.
I found a spot under the bridge on the east side of town — a patch of flat ground set back from the path where most people didn’t notice it. I set up the cheap tent I’d bought with the last of my birthday money and told myself it was temporary.
“Pack your bags and get out.”
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