People often ask me if I had always wanted to be doctor. The truth is, I’m not sure I ever really had much of a choice. My parents, having risked their lives to travel by boat across the Pacific Ocean to escape poverty, Communism and the Vietnam War, had high hopes for me.

My aunt immigrated to the United States from Vietnam when she was 20 years old. My dad, who had immigrated to the States several years earlier, sponsored her, along with another sister and their mother (my grandmother). She came over with no education, no knowledge of the English language or American culture, and no job prospects.

At the end of one of my appointments, my patient turned to me before stepping out of my office and said “Thank you for what you do.” I had just evaluated her for what was likely a mild case of Covid-19 infection, collected a PCR swab, reassured her that everything suggested she would be fine, but also gave further guidance on red-flag symptoms and how to prevent spreading the infection to others. That was ten months ago.

Even though my residency training was only three years of my life, I felt like I had aged thirty years by the time I was done. The biggest reason was the immense pressure put on me to absorb an overwhelming volume of knowledge and skills in rapid sequence while not killing anyone in the process. Think Neo from the Matrix, when Morpheus shows up at his door telling him it’s his responsibility to save the world, and then helps him download a crap ton of information on how to fly helicopters, dodge bullets and master kung-fu.

During the second year of my medical training, I decided to apply for the role of chief resident. It was a position given to three individuals who had completed their three years of training, and had demonstrated strong leadership, clinical excellence and dedication to education among their peers. In other words, it’s kind of a big deal.

This probably should have been my first post, but I didn’t realize I would have such an internal struggle to publish my blog until it finally came down to clicking that “Launch” button. For a serious second, I considered not launching my site because the thought of other people reading my words terrified me. I thought maybe I could just write for myself and keep the blog private. But that seemed silly, and it wouldn’t be a blog at all, it would just be sad.

A few weeks ago, I had a telehealth visit with one of my patients, who also happened to be a New Zealand native. She had just returned to the United States after a 2.5 month hiatus in her home country.