Lynne Lederman

From the outside, residency looks like the culmination of a dream. Match Day photos glow with joy and optimism, but the truth is that the glow fades. July arrives, the pager tone becomes synonymous with dread, and the first “low” hits. Then another. And another. Before long, the walls of the hospital feel like they are closing in, and you catch yourself wondering how you got here and why you’re still doing this. Recently, I watched one of my junior residents describe her experience at a conference.

A young man once sat across from me, hollow-eyed, trembling, and confused. He had tapered off his psychiatric medication and started using cannabis to help him sleep. “It worked,” he told me quietly. “Then it didn’t. Now I can’t tell what’s real anymore.” I see versions of him almost every week. Some arrive hearing voices. Others are gripped by paranoia or overwhelming anxiety. Most are young. Many are using high-potency cannabis.

Walking away from the bedside meant redefining how I make a difference. The day I moved into the classroom was the day my impact multiplied; I stopped treating one patient at a time and started shaping the physicians who ultimately treat thousands of patients. Transitioning from hospital-based care to a career in the classroom felt like a departure from medicine.