“I’m a living stereotype,” I sighed as I took a seat in the clinic waiting room. I pulled out my anatomy lectures and scrolled down to the slide that led me to make this appointment. I didn’t need to see it again — by now, it was seared into memory — but felt I had to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake. Underneath the title “SLAP” was an X-ray of a shoulder joint and a description of a superior labral tear. Was that what my shoulder looked like?
When I heard the clinical presentation for the first time, I felt a chill down my spine. “Can result from repetitive shoulder motion … such as overhead sports … presents with pain upon shoulder movements … if severe, can limit shoulder mobility.”
After years of brushing off persistent shoulder discomfort, this description cut through the mental noise. The click when kneeling into downward dog. The twinge during my tennis serve. The unconscious habit of rubbing my shoulder between badminton rallies. For a long time, I had the nagging feeling something wasn’t right.
Still, I wasn’t sure it was worth a doctor’s visit. I had never been one to stretch before workouts, even as a student athlete in high school, naively trusting in the mobility afforded to me by my youth. It was easy to assume my joints had just grown stiffer with age and neglect. I wasn’t the only one who felt their body was withering under the strain of medical school’s sedentary grind. My classmates often joked about their posture and back pain, yet none of them seemed to be making appointments with ortho.
The timing made me even more hesitant. We were well into our musculoskeletal block and at the point where symptoms start to leap off the page and into our bodies. It was not unusual to hear comments about creaky knees and jokes of early-onset arthritis during lunch. We all knew about medical student syndrome, the tendency to diagnose ourselves with whatever we were studying, and I worried I was only furthering the stereotype.
Being a first-generation American equipped me with neither the wherewithal nor confidence to advocate for myself in a health care setting. Once I aged out of my pediatrician’s office, I was unsure of which symptoms warranted a few extra minutes of conversation, let alone further evaluation. My annual physical felt more like checking a box rather than an opportunity to dive into subtle changes in my health. Shoulder aches faded into the background, unnoticed outside of a few specific settings that were easy to dismiss.
But I couldn’t unsee that lecture slide. That lingering feeling finally pushed me to see an orthopaedic surgeon. In the exam room, I ran through a mental checklist as the doctor moved my arm through various positions, trying to recall which maneuvers I needed to know for my upcoming standardized patient exam. A few maneuvers elicited a sudden discomfort, which didn’t seem to be a great sign. This felt different from doctors’ visits in the past. It was surreal to have a rough sense of what he was testing and a hunch for what might come next.
“You have what we call a SLAP tear,” he said.
To confirm, he explained, I’d need further imaging: an MRI arthrogram involving an injection of contrast dye. If I preferred to avoid that, I could start with physical therapy to strengthen surrounding muscles and reduce joint strain. I had options. Finally, I had a plan.
I am not sure how long I would have remained in a limbo of indecision, but one thing is clear: I was lucky to have recognized my symptoms on that lecture slide, and even luckier that my condition was not made worse by delay. I thought of my grandmother, who waited far too long to see a gastroenterologist, only to be diagnosed with late-stage colon cancer. Immigrants are more likely to delay medical care due to language, financial, and systemic barriers. I had far fewer obstacles than she did, yet I still hesitated.
It was a humbling reminder to check my judgment when helping patients who had waited before seeking care. I had every opportunity — medical training, time, a hospital within walking distance — to do the best thing for my health, and I almost talked myself out of it.
When a medical student’s symptoms align with their curriculum, “medical student syndrome” is always on the differential. But sometimes, it turns out, the diagnosis is real.
How do you decide when it’s time to see a doctor for your own health concerns? Share in the comments.
Sara Temelkova is a first-year medical student at Rush Medical College in Chicago, where she is involved in her school’s Lifestyle Medicine student organization and Health Equity and Social Justice Leadership program. She is passionate about food justice, the gut microbiome, and the role of nutrition in health. She loves spending time in small bookstores, being on the badminton court, and admiring Lake Michigan. Sara was a 2024-2025 Doximity Op-Med Fellow.
Animation by Diana Connolly
