There is a red dress that I love dearly. I purchased it 14 years ago, when I was nearing the end of my medical training and the official start of my long-awaited career as an academic anesthesiologist. I loved this dress from the moment I saw it. The fabric was soft but sturdy, the color a commanding yet feminine red that paired well with black shoes. In that dress, I presented research at national meetings, stood at a podium to deliver the defining lecture of my fellowship, received awards, and strode with confidence into my first attending job interviews. The red dress accompanied me through some of my most memorable, hopeful, and rewarding early-career moments, and in it, I always felt beautiful and competent, ready to chase my dreams.
With time, pregnancies, family circumstances and job changes, I found that while I still worked in the OR, I no longer stood at podiums nor delivered lectures, nor wore the dress. At times, I longed to return to that part of my life. Other times, I felt at peace with focusing solely on clinical work. Yet, I could not bear to let the red dress go.
As the years passed and my career slowly morphed into something completely different from what my younger self had imagined, the dress continued on as a symbol of my ambitions, all that I had accomplished. How could I possibly give it away to someone else? It was as if letting it go would be bidding a final goodbye to that part of myself that, despite the years, still longed for career pursuits outside of the OR. And so it hung in my closet next to my wedding dress, untouched for years, as a reminder of all that I had worked for and had once hoped to achieve. As with my wedding dress, periodically I would pull the red dress out of the closet and admire it. Remember. Sometimes, I would feel sad. Never did I attempt to try it on again.
Recently, I came across an opportunity that, while very different from my initial career plans, nonetheless sparked my ambition. I immediately thought, “I should wear the red dress!” Remembering how I had felt when wearing it in the past, I felt a thrill at the prospect of putting it on again.
After much scavenging, I found the dress hanging in the back of my closet, in a garment bag along with an even older suit that had also once represented ambition and optimism. My heart smiled with joy upon finding it. Quickly, I pulled it out of the garment bag and held it in my hands. I pressed the soft wooly fabric between my fingers and felt a twinge of nostalgia, then concern. What if it doesn't fit anymore?
I couldn’t bear not knowing so I threw off my scrubs and stepped into the dress. No trouble with the hips or the midsection. “Wonderful!” I thought. “It still fits.” As I continued, however, it became blatantly apparent to me that while it still fit, it no longer fit in the same way. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and at first I felt an overwhelming sadness; the dress hung loose and hugged tight in all the wrong places, and try as I might, I could not make it look flattering. It was still my dress, and it wasn't. After several moments of twisting, tugging, I admitted defeat.
I sat on the floor of my closet, disappointed, holding the dress. I thought of all the times over the years I had worn the dress; how I had felt in those moments, moments that represented the height of my career. Now, the promises of those moments were gone; my career did not become what I had envisioned when I first wore that dress. For a short time, I let myself grieve for those moments, for that former version of myself, so hopeful and determined in her favorite red dress.
And then, out of sadness emerged a moment of clarity: things change. Of course it doesn't fit. Over 12 years, as expected, my body changed. My career changed. Medicine changed, too. Just as the red dress no longer fit me well, perhaps the dreams I had hoped to chase while wearing it were also no longer the best fit. Perhaps it is time to wear a different dress and to pursue different dreams.
In a way, this sudden and simple realization was comforting. For the first time in years, when looking at the red dress, I felt something new alongside the usual sorrow — relief. Sorrow for the years and dreams gone by, but relief for the permission — finally, after all those years — to step away from those dreams, to peacefully allow some dreams to remain unfulfilled, and to confidently make way for new ones.
I took a deep breath, put the dress back on its hanger, and admired it one last time. With a bittersweet smile, I hung it back inside the garment bag. I understood that I would never wear that dress again. I thought once more of who I had been when I wore that dress, who I am now, and who I still want to become in the second half of my career, without the red dress. Then, imagining what could be ahead, I went to find a new dress for my future self to love.
What personal items, clothing or otherwise have come to represent a part of your career, and why? Share in the comments!
