Resiliency Campaign

The Resiliency Campaign is meant to act as creative storytelling for medical students to connect with one another on the experiences one may have during their studies.

All stories submitted should be submitted with alias names as to keep the stories anonymous. All story submissions are confidential and your name will never be attached to the story you submit.

With your permission, we will recognize the names of all those who submitted stories in a general thank you on our website.

If you have any questions or concerns, please contact the Resiliency Portfolio lead, Joelynn, at joelynn.ak@dal.ca.

*This story is meant to be fictional and can take any form you wish; it could be reflective, intuitive or abstract-like; lessons/takeaways/reflections can be attached/outlined in the optional prompt at the end of the form.*

Fictional Story 1:

The text came in late afternoon, right after he got the OR list.

“OR 8am.”

That night, his apartment looked like a mini library exploded: anatomy textbook open to the hip

replacement, notes on intermedullary nail fixation, YouTube tabs for ortho-techniques. He didn’t

have access to the patient charts, so he did what he could—learned the operations cold and hoped

it would be enough.

The OR the next morning was freezing and too bright. Monitors beeped, metal clinked, everyone

moved like they’d done this a thousand times. His preceptor finally looked at him.

“You read up on this patient?”

He hesitated. “I read up on the procedure. I haven’t seen the full chart yet.”

His expression shut down.

“So you came in unprepared,” she snapped. “Third year and you don’t think reading the

*patient* matters?”

The questions came fast after that. Anatomy, complications, obscure details. He answered a lot of

them, but it didn’t matter—every answer just unlocked a harder question. When he didn’t know,

she pounced.

“This is incompetence.”

His glasses started to fog; his hands wouldn’t quite stop shaking. He could feel tears building but

tried to blink them back, focusing on the field, on the actual human on the table. By the end of

the case, he could barely get words out at all.

When the surgeon left, the room felt like someone had opened a window. The circulating nurse

came over quietly.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Don’t take it too personally. That’s… kind of how she is.”

There were four more surgeries with her that day. Same tone, same drilling questions, same

sinking feeling. By the time he got to his car, he felt emptied out and embarrassed.

At home, his wife opened the door and just pulled him into a hug. He started sobbing before he

could say a word.

“I tried so hard to be ready,” he choked out.

“I know you did,” she said. “One surgeon having zero people skills doesn’t get to decide who

you are.”

Later, he called a few friends: what he’d said, how small he’d felt, how he’d frozen. He expected

“that’s just surgery” and “toughen up.” Instead, he got:

“That’s not okay.”

“You’re one of the most prepared people I know.”

Lying in bed, he kept replaying his voice in his head. But over it, his friends’ words and his

wife’s voice slowly got louder.

He’d still study, still show up. But he decided one thing was non-negotiable:

“I am not what he said I am.”

And for the first time since “OR 8am” popped up on his phone, that actually felt true.

Fictional Story 2:

The email said he’d been assigned his primary preceptor for the year.

He sent a polite message:

“Hi Dr. X, I’m looking forward to working with you. Anything specific you’d like me to prepare

for our first day?”

She wrote back:

“No, just think about what goals you have for the year.”

It sounded fine—encouraging, even.

On day one, that changed fast. From 8:30 a.m. until 4:45 p.m., she quizzed him nonstop. When

he got something right, she immediately pushed to a harder, more obscure question, just to show

how much more she knew. When he got something wrong, she’d smile a little and say, “Yeah, I

don’t expect you to know this,” like it was nothing.

This was their very first encounter. And he was scheduled to be with him every week.

Before each clinic day, he’d prep like crazy—guidelines, differentials, management plans—heart

pounding at the thought of disappointing him. After each shift, he’d ask for feedback. She’d start

with, “Overall you did well,” then spend the rest of the time pointing out what he’d missed.

On his written evaluations, it was worse. She wrote things he’d never told him to his face, and

again highlighted his weaknesses without mentioning what he’d done well.

Month after month, the same pattern. The night-before anxiety. The knot in his stomach walking

to her office. The feeling that no matter how hard he tried, she’d always zoom in on the one thing he didn’t do perfectly. His confidence started to fray; he began to dread seeing her name on his schedule.

On his last shift with her, he nailed almost everything: clear differentials, solid management

plans, organized presentations. At the end of the day, she said, “You did well overall,” then

immediately found one small thing to criticize and stayed there.

Walking out, he felt that familiar wave of “I’ll never be enough” rising—and then he caught

himself.

He thought about the patients he’d managed, the work he’d put in, the other preceptors who’d

told him he was doing great.

In the hallway, he took a slow breath and told himself:

“I’m doing well. One person’s nitpicking doesn’t erase that.”

He was still anxious, still tired—but he kept showing up, reminding himself to look at the full

picture of who he was becoming, not just the one flaw she circled in red.