“It gets harder once you graduate.”
A resident told me once during clinical rotations. At the time, I assumed it meant that medicine would become more challenging outside the teaching hospital. They were right, but not for the reason I expected.
My work in the wellness space during veterinary school made me genuinely believe I understood what it meant to take care of myself in this profession. When I started as an emergency veterinarian, I realized I hadn’t fully learned how to cope with the emotional weight that comes when every recommendation, difficult conversation, and outcome ultimately belongs to you. I realized that some habits that had helped me become a veterinarian were not always the same habits that would allow me to enjoy being one.
There is a certain amount of baseline structure that every stage of vet school comes with, including didactic classes, clinics, and study schedules. At first, I was ecstatic about my work schedule: four days off a week. For the first few months, it was refreshing not to have to do anything related to veterinary medicine on my days off (if I did not want to). It became surprising to me how much I needed the structure outside of work. Instead of feeling liberated, I began to feel lost. For the first time, I didn’t have a clear goal to strive for. This is where my strong ability to build routines and set goals showed through. I built a routine around important habits such as exercise, grocery shopping, reading, and spending time with friends—which gave me back a sense of stability that work alone couldn’t provide.
During school, I often thought about wellness through the lens of healthy habits—exercise, eating well, taking breaks, making time for friends. Those things absolutely mattered, and they still do. But what surprised me most was realizing that well-being depends just as much on how you think as it does on what you do. The first realization going into practice—especially emergency practice—is that more often than not, you are practicing in a less-than-ideal situation. It was a big hurdle for me to get over not being able to practice the perfect medicine, work the case up exactly as I had been taught. I became stressed and frustrated, and I felt like a bad doctor. I had to quickly redefine what success or “perfect” looks like. Instead of measuring my success by whether I practiced perfect medicine, I measured it by whether I was able to help that pet and their family make the best decision they could within the context of that case. It gave my work more meaning and made my standards more realistic and sustainable. There is nothing wrong with holding yourself to a high standard of care. We all should; it can be detrimental if it is not defined by realistic goals.
Dealing with failure created a significant challenge for my mental health. The first patient I lost under anesthesia shook my confidence in a way I was not prepared for. I replayed every decision over and over, wondering what I could have done differently. Later, while talking with an anesthesiologist, she told me, “We all have this story.” It was comforting to know that my situation was not unique and that many of my colleagues had experienced it. After this experience, I began to learn that confidence is just as often saying, “I need help,” clearly communicating with your technicians, and trusting your team as it is knowing exactly what to do. Confidence is also about being brave in the face of mistakes and owning up to them with honesty and transparency. It is uncomfortable, but being uncomfortable or stressed helps you grow. The more I leaned on the people around me instead of trying to carry everything alone, the less stressful my days became, and the more able I was to help myself and my team through failures and mistakes.
There is a much deeper source of well-being than just getting cases right. As a new graduate, I initially worried so much about whether my team thought I knew what I was doing. I also struggled with how to steer the ship of a busy ER shift by myself. Ironically, the medicine became the easiest part of my day. Leading a team, supporting clients through impossible decisions, communicating clearly under stress, and learning to trust myself—that was the difficult part.
Then I had a mentor tell me it’s not about showing what you know; it’s about showing that you care. Once I saw my day-to-day in the clinic through this lens, my work had more meaning and became more fulfilling. It is not simply about treating patients; it is about helping families, supporting and leading the team, and growing others.
Looking back, I finally understand what that resident meant when they told me, “It gets harder once you graduate.”
The medicine becomes more complex. The responsibility becomes heavier. But with time, I’ve learned something else: the habits that sustain us also evolve. Wellness isn’t something we master before graduation. It’s something we continually redefine as our careers—and we ourselves—change.
My goal is no longer simply to become the best veterinarian I can be. It’s to become a veterinarian who can continue loving this profession for decades to come.
