Life didn’t pause or slow down to accommodate my grief or fear. Life just kept moving forward relentlessly, pulling me along whether I was emotionally ready or not.
I moved to Munich with my parents. I started medical school, which immediately became the most overwhelming experience of my life.
The language barrier alone nearly destroyed me those first few months. Trying to learn complex medical terminology in German while keeping up with coursework felt impossible.
The academic pressure was absolutely relentless. Long nights studying until my eyes burned and I could barely focus.
Even longer days of clinical rotations where I was constantly terrified of making a mistake that could hurt someone.
The constant, gnawing doubt about whether I was actually good enough to be there. Whether I deserved this opportunity.
Whether I’d made a terrible mistake leaving everything I knew behind.
I told myself I didn’t have time to think about the past. That looking backward would only make it harder to move forward.
That dwelling on what I’d left behind would sabotage my ability to succeed. That the only way to survive was to focus exclusively on the future.
I built a new life one painful, difficult brick at a time. I learned German fluently.
I made friends with other international students who understood the unique challenge of studying medicine in a second language.
I excelled in my classes through sheer determination and countless sleepless nights. I completed my residency successfully.
I became a doctor, exactly as I’d always dreamed.
But somewhere along the way, without my even noticing it happening, something fundamental went missing from my life.
Relationships That Never Felt Complete
Of course I dated during those years. I tried my best.
I made genuine efforts to connect with people, to build something meaningful. I met wonderful women who should have been more than enough.
Intelligent, accomplished, kind, beautiful in every way.
Sarah was a medical student I met during my residency. Someone who shared my passion for emergency medicine and understood the insane demands.
We dated for nearly two years.
Elena was an artist I met at a gallery opening. Someone who made me laugh on my worst days and saw the world in fascinating ways.
We were together for eighteen months.
Katie was an elementary school teacher with the kindest heart of anyone I’d ever met. Someone who would have made an incredible partner for the right person.
We dated for a year.
But with all of them, something crucial was always missing. There was always this distance I couldn’t explain or bridge.
This sense that part of me wasn’t fully present or available.
Like my heart had learned how to stay partially closed. Like it had forgotten how to open all the way again.
Like some essential piece of me was permanently reserved for something I’d left behind. Or someone.
I blamed my demanding schedule. The exhaustion that comes with practicing emergency medicine.
The emotional toll of the job. The stress of building a career in a competitive field.
It was easier than admitting the real truth. That I’d left part of myself in a high school parking lot in upstate New York.
And I had absolutely no idea how to get it back.
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