ETHER DIARIES

    I took a different route to work today. Drove past my old med school and saw myself again—walking those streets, hopeful and wide-eyed, thick glasses slipping down my nose, white uniform stained with blood and sweat, lugging around books and transcriptions I barely finished reading the night before. I didn’t dream of climbing to the top. I just wanted a life that felt full and happy after graduation. Anything more? Bonus.

I didn’t hustle to impress. I just did what I thought was needed. No grand gestures, no master plan. Maybe people still see the beauty in quiet intentions. Maybe that’s why I was offered this position.

I hesitated when they gave it to me. I’m not the social type. I work best in silence, in solitude. I take on too much, thinking optimism alone can carry me through. I rarely ask for help. I try to fix everything myself.

And that—well, that was my mistake. The work kept piling up. Optimism turned to ash. I was drowning in expectations I couldn’t meet. Fatigue led to missed duties, which led to more responsibilities, which led to hopelessness. I started hearing things: whispers that I wasn’t enough, that I didn’t deserve the role. But I kept the mask on. Calm. Strong. Reliable. I couldn’t be the weak one. Everyone was counting on me. Another mistake. You keep filling a dam, it’s bound to overflow. That’s when I hit my medlife crisis.

I was close to the edge. But then came the news—another well-known name lost to suicide. It shook me. It made me pause. I let the dam break. I remembered the life I have outside of work. The friends. The support. All within reach.

I’m still not okay. I still feel weak. Every day, I drag myself to work, counting down to the day I hand over this role. But I’m holding on to that insight: it’s the branch I cling to at the edge of the cliff. And with someone else’s hand reaching out, maybe I’ll climb back up.    For now, I drown in hugot songs and stare at my younger self. (Why do sad songs feel so good when you’re down?) If I could go back in time, what would I say to that med student walking home, dreaming big?

time travel

    25-year-old Macoy, walking home from the hospital, daydreaming of a bright future:“I just want a happy, satisfying life after med school. If I become someone big, that’d be great too.”

bright light flashes

    A 31-year-old man appears—better built, sleeves rolled up, khaki chinos, brown belt, leather shoes. You can smell his perfume, see the phones peeking from his pockets. Starbucks in one hand, white coat in the other. Stethoscope around his neck.

    “I want to be like him,” Macoy thinks. “But why do his eyes look so sad?”

    The older man speaks:

    “People think that once you’re on top, life’s easy. It’s not. Keep dreaming, young one. But take care of yourself. It gets tough up there. You’re not alone. Enjoy the simplicity while it lasts. Those memories—they’ll carry you when things get heavy.”

back to present

I parked my car and stared at the hospital’s name on the facade. I sighed. Whispered, “Another day…”

Stepped out, coffee in my left hand and white coat draped over my arm. I saw that young med student again—smiling at me. I smiled back. Wanted to pat his head and say, “You did great, please hold on.” But he faded.

My phone rang. One of my residents. “Hi sir, we have a problem…”