"Choose the calling that fits"

White coats smelled of antiseptic and the cafeteria food tasted of too much salt, a background for long shifts that left my feet numb. Everyone applauded when my acceptance letter arrived and the applause became the ceiling I was afraid to hit. The pressure to keep climbing made my sketchbook gather dust, pages curling at the edges like forgotten leaves.

The day I quit, I sat on a bench with a paper bag sandwich and sketched the hands of a woman I had just seen in clinic. The lines I drew felt like permission. Friends called to ask if I regretted it and I realized I missed the quiet of making rather than managing someone else's life. Selling my stethoscope for brushes was terrifying and the air smelled like possibility.

Everyone clapped when I got in. Nobody asked if I wanted it.