Sami’s Version (Phase 1’s End)

From anatomy lab to Step 1 scars, I remember it all too well.

It’s been a long few years of medical school. From waking up at 4 a.m. and spending hours in the anatomy lab with my now friend for life, Kelsey, to standing up in lecture halls to argue that one quiz question absolutely needed to be dropped (if you know, you know), I’ve got one thing to say: goodbye, Phase 1.

Now, let’s be real. These last few years haven’t just been about school, they’ve been life. From a brutally tough undergrad experience, to a whirlwind gap year full of applications and solo train rides across Europe, to starting and quitting a job I wasn’t sure about, somehow, I made it. I’ve reached the first major milestone of medical training: passing Step 1.

Before I talk about what’s next, I want to take a minute to reflect on what it took to get here.

Step 1 was... humbling. And to be honest, deeply difficult. It’s one of those periods in life where everything feels heavy. We’re all human, we’re all dealing with our own stuff, and then there’s this massive exam looming over everything. For those outside medicine: Step 1 is an eight-hour board exam that covers the first two years of medical school. It spans over 800 pages of First Aid (our so-called Bible), 3,600+ questions in UWORLD, and another 2,000+ in AMBOSS. We take five-hour practice exams to predict our odds of passing. Oh, and it’s widely considered the hardest exam in the United States.

Medical students often make passing Step 1 seem “normal”, but it’s anything but. I walked out of that test fully convinced I failed. I remember talking to Jenna, Sergio, and others right afterward, and I know they could see it all over my face: pure panic, my entire future flashing before my eyes. I had unwavering confidence in everyone around me, I could see their brilliance so clearly, yet struggled to recognize any in myself.

Here’s what gets me, though. So many people, one-on-one, admitted they felt the same way, like they failed. But when we were all together in class, trying to talk openly about our struggles? Silence. Not a single person willing to show fear or vulnerability. I can’t help but wonder: why can’t we all just admit this is hard? Maybe if we did, we’d all feel a little less alone. I hate watching my friends struggle, watching myself struggle, while pretending this is all just... fine. Talking to faculty, it’s clear this isn’t normal. It’s insanely hard.

So to my med school peers, and to anyone watching this from the outside, this is hard. Hang in there. We do this for a reason. For our future patients.

Now what?

I passed. And with everything in me, I hope my friends still waiting for their results get the good news too. I hope the quiet ones passed. I hope we all did. But if you didn’t, please know I’m here for you. You’re still going to be an incredible doctor, no matter what anyone tries to tell you. If we believed every voice that told us we weren’t enough, would we have even made it this far? This message isn’t just for my fellow med students—it’s for all my friends, no matter what path you're on.

Keep going. You’ve got this.

But the moment I opened my score, the celebration didn’t last long.

Right after I saw that I passed, I got the call: my families store had been robbed. Shattered glass. Broken doors. Inventory gone. Instead of breathing a sigh of relief, I was out helping him clean up the damage, trying to make sense of the chaos. It was a reminder that while I had just passed a major exam, life doesn’t pause for wins.

That moment solidified something for me. This is why I’m here. This is why I want to be a doctor. To show up for people in their hardest moments. To help rebuild what’s broken, not just in the hospital, but in the communities that raised us. My families store is more than a business, it’s a lifeline in a warzone neighborhood. Watching it get torn apart reminded me that healing doesn’t just happen in ORs and clinics. It starts at home.

I’m about to start my first rotation in pediatric ENT, and I’ll be honest, I’m a little burnt out. Between finishing Step, transitioning into clinicals, attending a conference in Austin, and a dermatology conference last weekend, it’s been a lot. But after meeting some of the peds residents and physicians, I’m so amped. I got to head in with my friends Bodie and Maddie and experience "pink and purple day," complete with Swiftie beats playing in the background while we learned about pre-rounding. Iconic.

Tomorrow’s my first day of orientation. I’m excited to dress up, bring my sticker pack (featuring a solid lineup of Paw Patrol, princesses, and some Disney classics), and finally step into what it actually means to be a doctor. I’m also fully stocked with Lion King and Stitch Band-Aids, because let’s be honest, healing happens faster when there’s a little magic involved.

There is so much I don’t know. (What even are fluids?) But the most rewarding part of all this, beyond the tests and the scores and the pressure, is finally getting to meet patients. To take what I’ve learned and start using it to help someone. That’s why we’re here, right?

I know it won’t be easy. Life in the hospital isn’t always black and white. But I’m ready. Ready to learn everything I can, push myself harder than ever, and become the most compassionate doctor I can be.

As my friend Oma said best, “I told you so.” Whether your journey is medicine or something else entirely (because all of you who follow me are fearless, unique, and absolutely …ready for it), I’m here cheering you on, always. And if you ever feel like you’re caught in a moment you can’t shake, just remember it’s okay to take off the scarf, let the tears fall, and rewrite your story. Like All Too Well reminds us, sometimes the most painful chapters are the ones that teach us how to be stronger, braver, and ready to face whatever comes next.

Love,
Sami