That Monday in early October was the first morning I awoke to silence—no alarm, no hum of the automatic coffee maker. It was the day I curled over in bed when I should have been scuttling from the parking garage toward the medical complex in pointed heels and a professional skirt. It was the day I pressed send on a letter that would change the rest of my life—the day I dropped out of medical school.
As I lay in bed that morning, I looked out the window at the hilltop view of the trees and the sprawling city below, and I remembered for the first time in a long time what it was like to feel small. Those weeks of emotional strife leading up to my withdrawal from school had left my body more physically ill than it had ever been, and I could hardly speak, much less move from bed.
When the ringing of my phone cut into my silence, I answered it—in spite of the gravelly pit that my voice had become. It was the dean of the medical school… Keep reading!