Before she looked me in the eye, she looked at my numbers. GPA. MCAT. Credit hours.
In that advising meeting, I watched someone sum up my worth without ever asking who I was or how I got here. I am a nontraditional medical student, not because I lacked direction, but because life asked more of me before medicine ever did. And while that kind of journey is often treated like a red flag, I have come to realize it is my greatest strength.
I remember studying for the MCAT during overnight shifts at a nonprofit housing facility for families of hospitalized children. Most nights were quiet and deeply meaningful, filled with laughter, late-night snacks, and the quiet strength of families doing their best in impossible situations. But not every night was like that. I remember each child who lost their battle to prematurity or cancer. I remember the parents who whispered “goodnight” to their child and never got to say “good morning.” Supporting grieving families was a skill I never wanted to develop, not because I resisted the pain, but because no amount of presence or empathy could ever fill the void left behind. Still, I showed up. I sat with them. I learned how to be still in the face of unspeakable loss, a lesson no textbook could have taught me.
These are the kinds of experiences that shaped me long before medical school. They gave me a kind of preparation that does not fit neatly into an application portal but lives at the core of who I am becoming as a physician. Being nontraditional often means time spent working, supporting family, earning extra degrees, or simply figuring things out. Yet those detours are too often seen as indecision or weakness, based on an unspoken bias that nonlinear paths reflect lesser capability. In reality, these experiences bring exactly what medicine needs: deep perspective, resilience, and empathy.
It is time we push back on the narrow definition of merit that still dominates medical education, one that privileges perfect timelines and pristine transcripts over character, growth, and lived experience. Medicine is not just a test of memorization or efficiency, it is a profession grounded in humanity. And yet, too often, the admissions process, and even advising, fails to see the full person behind the application. It rewards the straight path, not the strength it takes to find your way back after life takes you off course.
Over four gap years, I earned two master’s degrees, supported families navigating serious illness, worked closely with oncology patients, and contributed to clinical research. I also participated in mission work in Honduras, where I saw how medicine functions when resources are limited but compassion never is. These experiences didn’t just prepare me academically, they shaped how I show up, grounded and committed to understanding patients as full people.
In 2023, 73.2% of U.S. medical school matriculants reported taking at least one gap year, up from 66.3% in 2020. Nearly half of applicants now delay matriculation by two or more years, often for clinical work, research, or service. Harvard’s prehealth advising office confirms that 75%–80% of its alumni applicants take at least one gap year, with many taking two or more. These data underscore a growing recognition that experiences before medical school are not detours, but qualifications.
The evidence also affirms that diversity and lived experience improve care. A landmark study from the National Bureau of Economic Research found that Black patients treated by Black physicians were more likely to engage in preventive care and had significantly lower mortality rates compared to those treated by non-Black physicians.
Another study published in JAMA Internal Medicine found that hospitalized patients treated by female internists had a 0.43 absolute reduction in 30-day mortality and 0.55% fewer readmissions compared with patients treated by male internists. While these studies do not directly examine nontraditional paths, they show that when we expand who gets to become a physician, outcomes improve. Many of the traits that contribute to those outcomes are often found in students who took the long way here.
Beyond measurable outcomes, nontechnical skills, like empathy, communication, situational awareness, and leadership, are also critical. A study of acute-care simulations found that students with stronger nontechnical skill scores performed significantly better clinically, with communication alone contributing to a 12%–32% variance in performance. Empathy, too, may be key. An integrative review of medical students found no correlation between empathy and academic achievement, but a clear positive link to clinical competence and communication quality. These soft skills are precisely what life experience, like overnight shifts with sick children or guiding grieving families, cultivates, and they are exactly what our patients benefit from.
Still, the nontraditional narrative persists, often met with hesitation, misunderstanding, or outdated assumptions. Despite the value we bring, these paths are too often seen as liabilities rather than strengths. If we truly want a health care system that reflects the complexity of the people it serves, we must redefine both potential and merit, moving beyond timelines and test scores to recognize persistence, character, and lived experience.
My path to medicine was not direct, but it was deliberate, and it matters. So do all the others like it.
How has your own nontraditional path or life experience outside medicine made you a better physician? Share in the comments.
Timberly is a fourth-year medical student at UAB Heersink School of Medicine, with a background in nonprofit work, clinical research, and global health outreach. She is passionate about patient advocacy, health equity, and redefining what it means to prepare for a career in medicine.
Illustration by Diana Connolly
