ON NOT BEING QUITE ENOUGH
I can come up with a long list of things I don’t quite like about myself—and I bet you can too.
It’s surprisingly easy to spend a day picking apart everything we wish we could change: the shape of our nose, the way we speak when we’re nervous. Whether it’s our height, the color of our skin, the sound of our voice, or how we laugh too loudly—or not at all—there’s usually something. Something that makes it just a little harder to face our own reflection in the mirror.
For me, the thing that always comes top of the list is my weight.
Cue the cringe.
Add another cringe.
And another.
I’ve never quite been the size I wanted to be. Sometimes I come close. Other times, I miss the mark entirely. This has followed me from my first year of med school to my last. And while it’s gotten better, I remember how bad it once was.
You might wonder, why talk about weight and appearance? Because it’s something deeply vulnerable.
Something that makes us stay indoors.
That ruins connection.
That makes us shrink from life and retreat into ourselves.
Something many of us, in different ways, have quietly wrestled with.
MIRROR TALK
Most mornings, I look at myself in the mirror. Head-on. Then sideways. And feel… not enough.
Sometimes I’m surprised—like, Oh! There you are.
But most of the time, I don’t know how to feel.
Acne peppered across my forehead, chin, and cheeks. Humongous pores. The same turmeric masks, over and over. Hoping thirty minutes will change something. They never do. I always hope for magic. I always end up disappointed.
But it’s not just dirt on skin I want to wash away. It’s everything else, too.
All the words said to me.
Some well-intentioned.
Others careless.
All of them lingering.
“You’ve got a big nose.”
“Your pores are huge.”
“Your eyebrows are thinning.”
“Your posture’s bad.”
And then the personality stuff:
“You’re too quiet.”
“You’re not smart enough.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
“You should be more confident.”
We start to wear these words like clothes, layering them until they become our identity.
We obsess over what we aren’t, unable to become what we “should” be, no matter how hard we try.
Sometimes I imagine:
What if I were different? More confident? More talkative?
What if I were more disciplined? What if I were someone else?
Would he like me then?
Would people notice me more?
Would I have more friends?
Would I be less anxious?
THE CONTROL YEARS
In first year, I started skipping meals—Monday to Friday—from morning until after anatomy labs that sometimes ended at 7 p.m.
Anatomy terrified me. It became the symbol of everything I couldn’t control. So, I focused on what I could: eating. Or more accurately—not eating.
If I couldn’t pass anatomy, at least I could try to be thin. That felt more possible.
I skipped meals. Didn’t feel hungry. I felt so out-of-body. Out of touch with my emotions. Numb.
Why was I never the likeable one?
Why was I always anxious, unable to just chill like everyone else?
Then the weekend would come, and I’d binge. A whole loaf of bread—gone.
I’d have heartburn every weekend. That became a pattern I could count on.
I feel ashamed—of my gluttony, my ungratefulness. Of the self-absorption that made me a distant daughter, sister, and friend.
It continued into fourth year.
I’d get lightheaded. Tunnel vision. Near-fainting spells—during ward rounds, while presenting, in clinic, even while clerking.
I barely remember much from that time. Just flashes of this and that.
Some people drink too much. Some binge-watch shows. Some harm themselves. Some check out completely. Some can’t not be in a relationship.
We all try to escape when things get too much.
We all have different ways of making ourselves disappear.
VIRGIN MARY, BEAUTY, AND WHAT I’M LEARNING NOW
Now in sixth year, I’m just… tired.
Tired of fighting my body, thoughts, and emotions.
Tired of trying to be “better.”
Tired of worrying about food, appearance, and academic performance — all at the same time.
Tired of pretending.
Sometimes I miss the old patterns. The control. The numbness.
But mostly, I’m just too exhausted to go back.
I want peace with my body. With food. With being seen, and truly seeing others in return.
A priest once told me:
“We’re not beautiful in and of ourselves. God is. All beauty flows from Him.”
When I’m not feeling beautiful or worthy, I remember Mary mother of Jesus and I feel her beauty radiating: her humility, her mercy, her purity.
She is a lady of peace. The one who held all things gently.
I don’t think she compared herself to others.
I don’t think she obsessed over numbers or mirrors.
I don’t think she dressed for anyone’s gaze.
Her beauty is different. Not filtered. Not desperate. Not self-obsessed.
It’s a beauty that loves without restraint.
And I wonder, what would it be like to model a beauty like that?
WHAT I’D TELL MY FIRST-YEAR SELF
I don’t have great advice. But this is what I’d say:
You are so, so lovely just as you are.
God will send people who will cherish you.
Who will truly see you.
Who won’t care how you look.
You’ll feel safe around them, and you’ll want them to feel safe too.
You don’t need to be cool. Or impressive. Or fun.
Just honest.
Just you.
Please, please, please try to enjoy med school. Not just numb your way through it.
Let yourself rest.
Let yourself feel.
Let yourself love and be loved.
This year, someone asked me:
“Are you actually enjoying med school?”
Make sure you are.
I may not be tall. Or fair. Or light. Or the smartest—even now.
But I’m trying.
To be myself.
Love,
A sixth year, just trying