They say the hardest part of medical school is getting in. In 2017, my third straight year of applying to medical school, there were for 143 spots at the school I eventually got accepted to. That was a 1% chance that my application, filled with accomplishments and ambition, would lead to an acceptance. Now, as I prepare to graduate and I look back on my road to medicine, it feels like advisors undersold just how difficult it would really be to live my dream.
I'd wanted to be a doctor since I was attacked by a dog at age three and saw firsthand the incredible skill and compassion the surgeons possessed. Raised on the television show "ER" and with a chip on my shoulder -- well actually on my nose since that is where I have the only remaining scar from the dog incident -- I was determined to be the perfect applicant. However, life had other plans, and instead of taking time off before applying to medical school, I chose to barrel forward into emotional and academic free-fall. My passion to become a doctor had shifted into a single-minded pursuit of this goal at the expense of my happiness.
After college, I worked as an assistant at my undergraduate university medical center, preparing department budgets and stubbornly applying to medical school for the first time. I was upset by the rejection letters, but not the least surprised. My first attempt helped me realize that simply wanting to be a doctor wasn't going to be enough to get me there. I sought to improve my chances by moving to Washington, D.C. to earn my master's degree in the Georgetown Special Master's Program. It was the hardest I'd ever worked, but I gained invaluable advice and an incredible network of mentors who helped me understand that success comes only when passion works in tandem with perseverance. Despite the rigor, I was again unsuccessful at matriculating to medical school my second time applying. "Trust the process," they said. So, I tried again.
I approached my third application cycle with gusto that quickly turned to disappointment when there were only a small number of interview invitations. Trusting the process was fine in theory, but each email delivering more bad news chipped away at my self-worth. Medical education is a difficult balance of persistence and defeat -- you invest your time, energy, and personality into the pursuit of higher learning and training while your flaws stand out like a sore thumb. In finding the discipline to pursue medical school, I grew uncomfortable with the notion that I could be less than perfect. Each rejection email reflected my failures, and after more than 75 of them, it was hard to think highly of myself.
In April 2018, with only one application still pending, I decided I wouldn't do this again if this final opportunity didn't work out. Four years of maxing out my credit cards for applications, prep courses, flights, and hotels for interviews where I had the privilege of being told I wasn't "good enough" to be a doctor was all I could handle. Three rounds of medical school applications was enough. However, despite feeling like a failure, I decided to embrace the little power I had left: the power to quit.
Hours later, on a whim, I peeked at my email. A deluge of Financial Aid Office emails initially buried the acceptance letter, but I'd finally done it. Everything I had wanted had been sitting in my inbox for the last 10 hours. Just as I decided to turn my back on medicine, medicine was standing there with open arms.
What was different this time around? Perhaps it came down to a classic interview question: "Tell us about a time you overcame a hardship." This question requires the applicant to select the "right" kind of hardship -- it can't be too depressing, but it also can't be perceived as too simplistic as to not demonstrate adversity. Each time I was asked this question I wondered, how do I present my struggles as an applicant without giving an overdramatic performance? My own mental gymnastics was rooted in a fear that by simply admitting my setbacks, I would reveal the mess I thought I was. But looking back, the times I've been the most confident have been the times I'm most exhausted, when I'm too tired to create that false narrative of perfection. During my final interview session at my current medical school, worn out from travel and years of missed opportunities, I looked my interviewer in the eye and told her, "I can do this. I couldn't before, but I promise you I can do this now." Fortune favors the bold, I guess.
Medical school is full of many brilliant people with great grades, strong evaluations, and fantastic Step scores -- but this is all met with a quick smile before moving on to the next part of the evaluation. Meanwhile, struggles put cracks in the facade of the "ideal" medical student, so honesty about obstacles is often met with surprise from the interviewer. In reclaiming my narrative, I found that sharing my vulnerabilities didn't trigger warning alarms that I was damaged goods. Quite the contrary, in fact. By talking about it, I could convey empathy and hope to others. I am not the first person to reapply to medical school. I'm not even the first to apply three times. And I won't be the last. According to the Association of American Medical Colleges, in the 2021-22 application cycle there were (25.12% of applications). If we start normalizing this circuitous journey, think how many medical school hopefuls would be spared the anguish of feeling alone.
From the collective experience of not getting into medical school the first -- or second or third -- time, I've developed lifelong friendships. I realize we are so much more than our accomplishments, and the grit required to doggedly pursue our dream has made us stronger and more compassionate. I am profoundly grateful that I experienced my lowest points, and that I had the right people around me to pull me out. As I start my move to residency, I recognize -- and hope others will too -- that the cookie-cutter ideal of how to get into medical school isn't realistic. We need to strive to recruit those with richer life experiences.
In medicine, we stand on the shoulders of giants -- but think how much more we could achieve if those shoulders had a few chips in them.
Lisa Teixeira, MS, is an MD candidate at Albany Medical College, Class of 2022. This summer she will begin her urology residency training at the University of Wisconsin.