Wallflower. Observer. Shy. Reserved. These are all words that myself and others have used to describe my personality. They are not encompassing; people are multifaceted and four words do not summarize all that I am, but medical school has brought specific traits to the forefront. Before medicine, this never seemed like a limitation to me. I was an introvert who still managed to make meaningful relationships and opportunities in whatever city I was in, with whoever I met, and no one ever seemed to mind. Some of my best friends and mentors are the loudest people in the room, and I love them for it. I could even be loud and assertive, too, once you got to know me, if it was a full moon, on the third Tuesday of the month ... you get it. In the years since medical school, a whole new feeling of self-doubt surrounding this part of myself had been introduced.
In medical school, everyone is a gunner: competitive, ambitious, an overachiever. It is this intrinsic drive that got us all here, and everyone in medical school owes part of their success to these features. When you corral 200 of these people into one class, into one institution of learning, there will be loud power moves made. This is not to say that these people do not deserve a seat at the table. Rather, it's to explain what it was like to feel as if I was a nameless face who could not quite make a name for herself in this large, loud world of medicine.
I completed an externship during medical school where I rotated in an outpatient clinic for a month, essentially working as an upperclassman while still early in my training. As the only student in clinic, the physicians and staff provided me valuable knowledge. While I ended up absolutely loving the work I was doing, I would be remiss not to mention the limiting factor my personality posed for me at the beginning of the rotation. I rotated between four different clinicians within the clinic throughout each week. There was one physician I immediately wanted to become; she was kind, funny, and empathetic while being down-to-earth and keeping medicine realistic. I worked with her on my second day and could not wait to work with her the following week. In my second week, I walked right up to her with a big smile and said, “Good morning!”
“Good morning,” she said. “I am Dr. So-And-So, why don’t you introduce yourself and how you would like to be addressed?”
You know in A Charlie Brown Christmas when he puts the ornament on the skeleton-of-a-tree, it loses all its pine needles and slumps over? That was actual video footage of me at that very moment. How could someone who made the biggest impact on me all but tell me that I did not make an impact on them? After explaining my background and interests, she still did not elicit any sign of knowing who I was. We finished the day with just as many nuggets of wisdom as the first, but I could not shake this feeling that no one would ever remember a single thing about me. I mean sure, I was too shy to ask questions, so I wrote them all down and sprinkled them in where I felt confident. And sure, I had to be told to speak up sometimes when I was presenting. And sure, my voice shook sometimes when I spoke in front of large crowds. And … maybe I was a background character. I was never the first to raise my hand or the first to initiate a greeting. I laughed at jokes, but was never deemed a comedian. Doubts that had bubbled up all year finally came to the surface. I truly doubted if anyone would ever look at me and confidently state, “Yes, that is the attending in charge.”
The next day I arrived back at the clinic with two lone pine needles holding me together. While going through this existential life crisis, I saw my first patient of the day: a middle-aged woman on her third battle with breast cancer. She was timid, scared, and skeptical about what we could do to help manage her neuropathy. I let her lead the discussion, and shared that my main priority was getting to know her. We talked about her favorite things to eat, what brought her joy, what scared her, and I just listened to anything and everything she wanted to tell me. At the end of the encounter, she said that I had spent more time listening to her than any clinician she had ever met, and thanked me for making her comfortable enough to speak about parts of herself she was scared to share. My preceptor echoed these sentiments, and told me that my willingness to be empathetic, open, and honest with patients was evident from the moment I sat down. In that moment, this little tree had the biggest star lit up, right on top, with bright sparkly tinsel to match.
That was the starting point of introspection and dialogue about what “emotional limitations” truly even meant. I realized that my emotions, strengths, and weaknesses were dynamic, and depending on the situation, they would bring to light what needed improvement and what benefited the patient at that moment. My clinical experiences allowed me to push my emotional intelligence more than I ever thought I could. I started asking questions with purpose, right when I had the question. I started stepping up, but my inherent nature still knew when to step back for others. I would even make the jokes, but still laugh at them, too. I am a proud, soft-spoken leader who knows when to speak up for my patients. My circles know me and know they can count on me. I am a soft guide for my patients and a rock for others to lean on; maybe even for myself, too. I have continued to grow and learn and figure out how to navigate myself, as well as the ever-changing medical landscape. I entered medical school at 26 years old, quite older than a lot of my friends here, and I really thought I was stuck in my ways with no room to grow. Clearly, you can teach an old dog new tricks, or even give a small tree new ornaments.
Are you an introvert? When did it help you in medicine? Share in the comments.
Kara Klinkebiel (she/her/hers) is a fourth-year medical student at The Ohio State University College of Medicine. She is an aspiring pediatrician with a passion for cardiology and LGBTQ+ health.
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