Unravel your problems or they will unravel you.
I spoke with my daddy today. He asked me the hard question I’d not yet put to words: do I still want to be a doctor?
Last month, the answer was a resounding yes. Yes, I want to work with athletes. Yes, I want to be really great at something difficult. Yes, I want to relieve pain and cultivate superior health. Yes, I want my mind and my motor skills to be taxed to their limit. Yes I want to make big bucks and save it all except for building A’s gym.
Dad asked if it was a calling, or if it was just another thing to do; am I doing it for the money? Read that last sentence above.
It’s true: I want to make a lot of money. Why? Because I want to be secure. I miss that feeling of not worrying about money, and somehow it seems that if I have more of it it will cease to bother me. I tasted financial fear first as a senior in high school and have been avoiding it ever since: with a scholarship for time, with an eventual decline of my physics fantasies, with a salty attitude toward my very own wedding, with stinginess that keeps me from building and fostering relationships, and now my lack of salary paralyzes me.
What’s bothering me is it’s all a promise. I know what I don’t like doing: what I was doing at my well-paying job. But I don’t actually know what I want to do. I want to do something that is stimulating. I want to do something that pays well. I want to do something that is just my life, not my work life, not those dreaded nine hours, but a part of life that I want to live. I think being a doctor will do all that. But I don’t know.
All the risk is for a promise; a promise that could be broken. A promise that could fizzle and fade.
I’ve been here before; I remember my decision and its consequences. I know I was miserable. Would it happen just this way again?