How Your Tough Pre-Medical Experiences Will Serve You Well

istockphoto/ Witt Udomsilp

How Your Tough Pre-Medical Experiences Will Serve You Well For many students, the journey to medical school comes with a story of challenges and obstacles. But don’t think that the circumstances that arise are all for nothing. by Sheryl Recinos

The day that I received my medical school diploma in the mail, I cried. I held it up as a badge of honor; proof that people like me could overcome the impossible and become who we were meant to be. Not only was I the first physician in my family, but I was coming to understand the role that childhood trauma had paid in my unrelenting desire to pursue a ca reer in medicine and the impact it would have on patients during my training and my career. It was no easy feat; I entered a Caribbean medical school at 31 years old, tugging along my husband and three school-aged kids as we journeyed to a new country. I gave up my well-paying high school science teaching ca reer and placed my family in extreme poverty and uncertainty as the following four years unfolded. I was afraid throughout my studies that something would happen and my dream would dissolve. I developed an extreme test anxiety that rose up in waves of panic during exams, and almost cost me my chance. And I held many jobs while in school, in order to help keep a roof over our heads and food in my kid’s bellies. When I started medical school, I was afraid to speak my truth. I didn’t realize the power in whom I’d been and who I was becoming. I was too focused on just getting in, and I didn’t want to take risks. I was afraid to talk about my early experiences growing up in a severe ly dysfunctional household. I didn’t want to tell people that my mother had suffered from mental illness and that my father had raised me and my siblings after she left. I also didn’t want to talk about my own struggles, first as a runaway teen, then as a foster child, and later, as an incarcerated youth when my own father pressed charges against me at 13 for stealing money from him when I ran away. At 16, when I left for good and ended up on the streets of Hollywood for several years, I felt like I was solely responsible. I blamed myself for my erroneous mistakes in my teen years, and I had accepted the story that I’d been told throughout my upbringing and adult years. I had made those mistakes. I had shamed the family. I was lucky that they forgave me. Only, that’s not the whole story. I wasn’t allowed to discuss where I’d been or what challenges I’d encountered. In exchange,

my children had an extended family that really didn’t spend much time with them. But as I went through the rigorous training of medical school, certain truths became evident to me. I was different because of my experiences, and my difference was not inherently bad. Patients recognized my differences, even if I never said a word about where I’d been or what kind of life I’d lived, and they felt comfortable telling me their own frightening truths. This led to better health outcomes for numerous patients, and started to push me down a path I hadn’t expected. When I sat down to prepare my resi dency application as a fourth year student, my worldview had shifted. I was ready to speak up, and I wanted to train in a program that wanted to train someone like me. I was warned by kind physicians who wanted the very best for me; certain details don’t belong in a personal statement. They are too personal. But I decided to take a chance, and I was rewarded for it. Even though I had extreme test anxiety and my board scores weren’t stellar, even though I struggled in some of my basic science courses, I had made tremendous efforts in clinical sciences. My personal statement, letters of recommendation, and dean’s letter told the true story; I wanted to be a physician to serve people like me. I wanted to be a family physician to help people who needed second chances; people who had experienced severe childhood trauma. Looking back, I am so appre ciative of the fellow medical students, resident physicians, hospital staff, and attending physicians who saw and heard me. They gave me a chance to start de veloping my voice, and by the time that I finished residency, I was ready to speak up for people like me. I wrote a heart-wrench ing memoir about my teenage years called Hindsight: Coming of age on the streets of Hollywood. Many readers asked for more, and wanted to know what my medical school years were like, since it was appar ent to them that I must have had a unique medical school experience. They were right. I am proud to announce the publica tion of my second memoir, Beta Blockers

and Coffee: Stories I probably shouldn’t tell you from Medical School. When I’m not writing, I am eager ly seeking to build up my community. I mentor several medical students who have personally experienced homelessness. I volunteer at a youth homeless shelter in Hollywood, and I founded a scholarship fund there for youth who find their way of the streets and want to attend college. Additionally, I continue to encourage colleagues to stop being gatekeepers of medicine. When we make it, we have a very unique role. We aren’t meant to be the gatekeepers to continue medicine as it’s always been. We’re here to break down the gates. Just as my medical training gave me an opportunity to speak my truths in a very important way that allows me to advocate for the needs of homeless youth and people who experienced childhood trauma, we are all responsible for opening up this important field to people from all backgrounds, so that the future of medi cine will be diverse and representative of our patient populations. p.