Somewhere Between Dragons and Deadlines, I Remembered Who I Am | Benefits of Reading Beading books

I spend a rather concerning amount of my life thinking about medicine.

If I am not studying pathology, I am reviewing pharmacology. If I am not reviewing pharmacology, I am answering practice questions. And if I am not answering practice questions, there is a pretty good chance I am lying in bed thinking about the practice questions I should probably be answering.

It is a very glamorous existence.

So naturally, when I finally have a little free time, I choose to relax by immersing myself in fictional worlds filled with war, betrayal, devastating plot twists, emotionally unavailable men, and the occasional threat of death.

You know. Peaceful things.

Apparently, my idea of decompressing after a long day of medical school is becoming emotionally invested in characters whose problems make mine look like a minor scheduling inconvenience.

And I am not even remotely sorry about it.

At the time of writing this, I am approximately six emails deep into an ongoing campaign to acquire all the dragons from a fictional universe. Six. Emails. I have demonstrated a level of persistence in this endeavor that could probably be redirected toward my question bank, but unfortunately, the dragons have my attention.

My taste in fictional men is another conversation entirely. Let us just say that if some of these characters walked into a real-life clinical setting...I would have several concerns and possibly a mandatory reporting obligation.

But somewhere between the dragons, the morally questionable love interests, and the stories that have absolutely destroyed me emotionally, I have realized something.

Reading has become one of the few places where I can completely step outside the version of myself that is constantly working toward something.

For a little while, I do not have to be a medical student preparing for another exam. I do not have to think about the next milestone, the next deadline, or whether I have done enough today. I can simply be a girl who loves books.

And the funny thing is, the more time I have spent escaping into fictional worlds, the more I have found myself recognizing pieces of my own life in them.

Not necessarily in the dragons or the elaborate assassination plots. Thankfully. But in characters who are afraid and keep going anyway. In people who have to rebuild themselves after everything changes. In stories about grief, courage, love, belonging, and discovering strength in places you never expected to find it.

I pick up books because sometimes I need a break from my own world. And somehow, those stories have a way of helping me understand it a little better. Which is a surprisingly meaningful outcome for a hobby that also involves an alarming number of fictional men who should probably be in therapy.

When Your Brain Has Had Enough Medicine

There is a very particular kind of exhaustion that comes from spending most of your day learning things you are expected to remember for the rest of your professional life. Medical school has a way of making every hour feel accounted for, even the ones that technically belong to you.

There is always another lecture to review, another question bank block to complete, another concept that made perfect sense yesterday and has apparently decided to become a complete stranger today.

And the worst part? There is almost always something productive you could be doing.

That little word, could, has an impressive ability to ruin an otherwise perfectly lovely evening.

I could review another chapter. I could catch up on flashcards. I could get ahead for tomorrow. I could finally figure out why my brain has decided to retain an entire fictional family tree but occasionally struggles to remember a pharmacology mechanism I reviewed three hours ago. Instead, I would like to know whether the morally questionable man with the tragic backstory is going to survive the next chapter.

Priorities.

For a while, I think I treated reading like something I was allowed to do only after everything else was finished. A reward waiting at the end of a completed to-do list. Which sounds perfectly reasonable until you remember that a medical student's to-do list is less of a list and more of a mythical creature that regenerates three tasks every time you cross one off.

There is no magical evening when every lecture has been reviewed, every question has been answered, and every future responsibility has politely agreed to leave you alone. At some point, you have to decide that you have done enough for today. And I have discovered that making that decision can be surprisingly difficult.

Because when so much of your identity becomes wrapped up in working hard, taking time for something that has no obvious academic benefit can feel almost irresponsible.

Reading a textbook? Productive. Reading a novel about a fictional war college where teenagers are routinely subjected to circumstances that would generate an absolutely horrifying number of incident reports? Apparently questionable.

But I am beginning to realize that the hours I spend doing something I genuinely enjoy are not hours stolen from becoming a doctor. They are hours spent being a person.

I love medicine. I love learning how the human body works, understanding disease, and imagining the kind of forensic pathologist I hope to become. I have worked hard to get here, and I know there is still an enormous amount of work ahead of me.

But I also love stories. I love getting attached to characters, making predictions that are almost immediately proven wrong, and telling myself I will read one more chapter when both the clock and my rapidly deteriorating sleep schedule would strongly advise otherwise.

And I do not think those two parts of my life have to compete for the right to exist.

Sometimes I need to put the medical books down because I am tired. Sometimes because I am overwhelmed. And sometimes because I am perfectly fine, my responsibilities are handled, and I simply want to read something that has absolutely nothing to do with the kidneys.

That last one matters, too.

Not every moment of rest needs to be justified by burnout. Not every hobby needs to improve my performance, sharpen my memory, or make me a more efficient future physician.

Sometimes enjoyment is a good enough reason. And sometimes the most useful thing I can do with my evening is close the question bank, open a novel, and let somebody else make catastrophically poor decisions for a change.

The Benefits of Reading Books Go Beyond Escaping Reality

There is something wonderful about opening a book and realizing that, for the next few hours, absolutely none of the problems inside it are yours. They might involve a kingdom on the brink of collapse, a centuries-old curse, an impending war, or a man whose emotional availability is somehow even worse than his criminal record.

But they are not your problems.

And after a long day of worrying about exams, deadlines, and the approximately seventeen thousand things I am supposed to know before becoming a physician, that distinction is surprisingly comforting.

I think that is part of what I love so much about fantasy and romance. The worlds are different enough from my own that I can genuinely disappear into them. There are unfamiliar rules, complicated histories, impossible creatures, and characters whose lives look nothing like mine.

I can spend an evening learning the political structure of a fictional kingdom without once worrying whether that information will appear on a standardized examination. Which is particularly funny considering how much fictional information my brain seems willing to retain voluntarily...ask me about a character's traumatic childhood, complicated lineage, or the exact sequence of events that led to a devastating betrayal, and suddenly my memory is functioning at an almost suspiciously impressive level.

Ask me to recall something I studied for an exam last week, and apparently we need to submit a formal retrieval request.

But the escape is not always about forgetting. Sometimes it is about having enough distance from my own life to recognize something I could not quite see while I was standing in the middle of it.

I might pick up a book because I want an adventure, only to find myself unexpectedly attached to a character who is terrified of failing. Or someone who has spent so long being strong for everyone else that she has forgotten what it feels like to ask for help. Or someone who is learning that surviving something difficult does not mean she has to pretend it never hurt.

And suddenly, somewhere between the magical creatures and questionable decision-making, I find myself thinking about my own life. Not because our circumstances are remotely comparable. I have never been required to fight for my life on a dragon's back, and I would very much like to keep that particular distinction intact.

But because the feelings underneath those stories are familiar.

Fear of disappointing people. Wanting to belong. Wondering whether you are strong enough for the life you have chosen. Learning how to trust yourself when things do not go according to plan. Those feelings do not become less recognizable simply because the person experiencing them happens to possess supernatural abilities.

And sometimes it is easier to understand an emotion when you are watching someone else move through it.

There is no pressure to immediately fix anything. No expectation that I should turn what I am reading into a lesson, a journal entry, or a plan for personal improvement. I can simply follow the story.

If something resonates with me, wonderful. If it makes me cry over a character who does not exist, slightly inconvenient, but apparently that is the price of admission. And if all I get out of the experience is several hours of entertainment and a new fictional man to add to my increasingly concerning collection? That is wonderful, too.

I do not think escapism has to mean running away from reality. Sometimes it means giving yourself enough room to return to it feeling a little more like yourself. And sometimes, without even trying, the fictional world you escaped into leaves you with something worth bringing home.

Apparently, Fictional Characters Have Been Teaching Me Things

I did not start reading fantasy because I was looking for inspirational role models. I started reading because I wanted a good story, an interesting world, and perhaps a romantic subplot involving a man who looks like he could bench-press a refrigerator.

I feel that these are reasonable expectations.

But somewhere along the way, I started noticing that the characters who stayed with me the longest were not necessarily the strongest, the most powerful, or even the ones who made the best decisions.

They were often the ones who struggled. The ones who were afraid. The ones who got things wrong. The ones who had to figure out how to keep moving when the life they expected was no longer the life they were living.

Take Violet Sorrengail from Fourth Wing, for example.

What I love about Violet is that her strength does not begin with being physically unstoppable. She enters a world that seems determined to remind her of everything she supposedly cannot do. She has limitations she cannot simply wish away, and she has to learn how to work with the body and abilities she has rather than the ones everyone expects her to have.

As someone who has spent plenty of time feeling overwhelmed by the expectations of medical school, I find something deeply reassuring about that. Not because my exams are equivalent to surviving Basgiath War College. Although some question-bank explanations do feel unnecessarily hostile. But because Violet's story reminds me that strength does not always mean approaching a challenge with the same advantages as everyone else. Sometimes it means being resourceful. Adapting. Learning to trust what you bring to the table, even when it looks different from what the people around you possess.

And then there is Nesta Archeron from A Court of Silver Flames.

Oh, Nesta.

She is complicated, difficult, frequently infuriating, and absolutely not interested in being everyone's favorite person. Which, frankly, makes her interesting.

What stayed with me about Nesta was not that she always handled things well. She very much did not.

It was watching someone who had been carrying so much anger, grief, and shame slowly confront the ways those feelings had shaped her life. Her story does not suggest that pain automatically makes someone kind or that surviving something difficult excuses every hurtful thing they do. And I appreciate that.

Because resilience is not always pretty. Sometimes people withdraw. Sometimes they lash out. Sometimes they convince themselves that they are beyond help, beyond forgiveness, or simply too difficult to love. And sometimes the hardest part of moving forward is accepting that you deserve the opportunity to try.

And finally, there is Bryce Quinlan from Crescent City.

My girl. My absolute favorite. A woman I will defend with an enthusiasm that probably warrants its own dedicated article.

I know Bryce is not everyone's favorite heroine. People criticize her attitude, her decisions, her stubbornness, and the fact that she occasionally seems to believe explaining herself is an entirely optional activity.

And listen, I understand some of the frustration. But I also think that is part of what makes her such an interesting character.

Bryce is sarcastic, fiercely loyal, impulsive, emotional, stubborn, and completely unwilling to let other people decide who she is supposed to be. She can be frustrating and brilliant in the same breath. She makes mistakes, sometimes spectacularly, but she also refuses to sit quietly while the people she loves are in danger.

And perhaps the thing I love most about her is that she does not have to stop being feminine to be powerful. She loves beautiful clothes. She enjoys looking feminine. She has a personality that takes up space, a mouth that occasionally gets her into trouble, and absolutely no interest in making herself more palatable for people who have already decided to underestimate her.

And underneath all of that is someone who has experienced enormous grief, carries complicated feelings about herself and her place in the world, and still manages to find reasons to fight for the people she loves.

There is something about Bryce that feels incredibly familiar to me.

Not the supernatural abilities, unfortunately. I remain deeply disappointed about that particular oversight. But the way she refuses to separate her femininity from her strength.

I have spent years pursuing a career in forensic pathology, a field that people do not always associate with the kind of woman who loves pink, fashion, romance novels, and getting dressed up. And I have never particularly understood why those things are supposed to be mutually exclusive.

I can love medicine and a beautiful outfit. I can be serious about my career and still be sarcastic, emotional, and occasionally a little dramatic. I can want to work in an autopsy suite and also care very deeply about what shade of pink I am wearing.

Bryce reminds me that I do not have to edit out the softer, louder, more feminine, or less conventional parts of myself to prove that I belong somewhere. And I love her for that.

She is not a perfect heroine. I would not want her to be. I want the woman who makes questionable decisions, loves her friends fiercely, wears what she wants, and occasionally has absolutely no business being as confident as she is. Because there is something wonderful about a female character who is allowed to be complicated without losing the right to be extraordinary.

I think that is what makes Violet, Nesta, and Bryce so meaningful to me.

They are three very different women. Their struggles are different, their personalities are different, and their approaches to difficult situations could not be further apart. But none of their stories require them to become an entirely different person before they can begin finding strength.

Violet learns to recognize the value of what makes her different.

Nesta has to confront the parts of herself she has been using as armor.

Bryce refuses to let other people's expectations define the limits of who she can become.

And all three stories, in their own ways, explore what happens when a woman begins to believe she might be capable of more than the story she has been telling herself.

I think about that sometimes when medical school feels particularly overwhelming. There have been moments when I have doubted myself, questioned whether I was keeping up, or struggled to recognize the progress I was making because I was so focused on everything I still had left to accomplish.

And no, reading about a fictional heroine overcoming impossible circumstances does not magically solve those feelings. I still have to do the work. I still have to study. I still have to figure out how to navigate the difficult days in my own life. But sometimes a story gives me a different way to think about what strength can look like.

It reminds me that struggling does not automatically mean failing. That needing support does not erase independence. That growth can be uncomfortable, inconsistent, and occasionally accompanied by decisions that make you want to reach into the book and shake someone by the shoulders.

And perhaps most importantly, that becoming stronger does not have to mean becoming someone who never struggles again.

I do not need fictional characters to provide a blueprint for my life. I just appreciate the moments when their stories make me feel a little less alone in figuring out my own. And sometimes, those reminders follow me long after I have closed the book.

I have pieces of jewelry inspired by the stories I love, and I wear them as little physical reminders of the characters, words, and ideas that have stayed with me. To anyone else, they probably look like ordinary accessories. But to me, they carry something much more personal.

One of the quotes I keep coming back to is: “I am the rock against which the surf crashes.”

There is something about those words that feels especially meaningful to me. Not because I believe being strong means being completely unaffected by the things happening around me. Rocks weather. Waves leave their marks. Even the strongest things can change under enough pressure. But the image reminds me that being battered by something and being defeated by it are not necessarily the same thing.

And I think that is a distinction I have needed at different points in my life.

Medical school has challenged me in ways I expected and in ways I absolutely did not. There have been moments when I have felt confident and capable, and others when I have questioned whether I was strong enough for everything I was trying to accomplish.

Sometimes resilience has looked like pushing forward. Sometimes it has looked like asking for help, changing my approach, or accepting that I needed a moment to recover before trying again. I do not want to measure my strength by how much I can endure without showing it. I want to remember that I can be affected by difficult things without allowing them to become the entirety of who I am.

And I love that something as simple as a piece of jewelry can remind me of that in the middle of an otherwise ordinary day.

A little piece of a fictional world, quietly reminding me of something real.

Of course, I also appreciate a well-written plot twist, an emotionally devastating confession, and a dragon with an attitude problem.

I contain multitudes.

My Taste in Fictional Men Is Between Me and My Bookshelf

Now, before anyone gets the impression that my reading habits consist exclusively of empowering female characters and profound lessons about resilience, I feel obligated to disclose something.

My taste in fictional men is deeply concerning.

Not in a way that worries me, personally. I am having a wonderful time.

But I do recognize that a significant percentage of my favorite fictional love interests would be considered walking red flags in any reasonable real-world setting. Some of them have committed crimes. Some have questionable relationships with authority. Others appear to believe that healthy communication is best accomplished through threats, brooding silences, and occasionally setting something on fire.

And somehow, I am sitting there turning the pages like this is the most romantic thing I have ever witnessed.

I am aware of the optics.

There is something particularly funny about studying medicine all day, learning to recognize concerning signs and symptoms, and then spending my evenings enthusiastically ignoring every warning sign presented by a fictional man.

In the hospital? We investigate red flags. On my bookshelf? Apparently, we collect them.

But I think part of the appeal of morally gray characters, dark romance, and complicated fictional relationships is precisely that they are fictional. A book gives us the freedom to explore situations, personalities, and dynamics that we would never want to experience ourselves. We can be fascinated by a character without endorsing his behavior. We can enjoy a dangerous romance without wanting danger in our own relationships. And we can recognize that a man who is entertaining on paper would be an absolute administrative nightmare in real life.

I have no desire to be involved in an elaborate kidnapping plot, become the object of an obsessive centuries-old vendetta, or discover that my significant other has been concealing a collection of extremely important secrets for three consecutive books.

I would simply like to read about it from the comfort of my bed, preferably with a snack.

There is also something undeniably entertaining about a character who is completely terrifying to everyone else but somehow becomes embarrassingly devoted to one particular woman.

Is it realistic? Frequently not. Is it healthy relationship advice? Absolutely not. Am I going to giggle when the emotionally unavailable, morally compromised man finally admits that he is hopelessly in love? Unfortunately, yes.

And sometimes I think we make enjoying fiction far more complicated than it needs to be.

Not every book has to reflect our personal values in a straightforward way. Not every character we find compelling has to be someone we admire. And not every story we enjoy needs to be defended as though we are presenting evidence before a jury. Sometimes a character is interesting because he is complicated, unpredictable, or spectacularly bad at making decisions.

Sometimes the tension is the entire point. And sometimes a girl simply wants to read about a six-foot-something fictional menace who would burn down a kingdom for the woman he loves.

I am not asking him to manage my finances. I am asking him to make the plot interesting.

The distinction is important.

In my actual life, I value kindness, respect, emotional maturity, and the ability to have a conversation without somebody dramatically disappearing into the shadows (thank you, Mani, you are the bestest!).

In my fictional life, however, I am willing to entertain a considerably more chaotic cast of characters. Because when I close the book, I get to leave the chaos behind. No emotional cleanup. No complicated legal proceedings. No explaining to my parents why my boyfriend is wanted in seventeen kingdoms.

Just me, my slightly questionable reading history, and the satisfaction of having enjoyed a really good story. And if that story happens to feature a dangerously attractive man with a tragic backstory, an alarming skill set, and absolutely no interest in following the rules?

Well.

I never claimed my bookshelf was a respectable establishment.

The Books That Took Me Somewhere Else

If there is one thing I have learned about myself as a reader, it is that I do not do anything halfway.

I do not simply enjoy a book. I become invested. I develop opinions about people who do not exist. I form emotional attachments to fictional locations. I begin treating complicated family histories and political alliances like information I might reasonably need in an emergency.

And when a series really gets its hooks into me, finishing it can feel like being abruptly evicted from a place I had started to consider home.

There are three fictional worlds, in particular, that have made it exceptionally difficult for me to behave like a normal person.

Crescent City - Sarah J. Maas

Oh, Crescent City.

My beloved. My obsession. My hill to die on.

I am fully aware that this series has its critics. I have heard the complaints, witnessed the discourse, and watched people passionately explain why it does not deserve the same love as Sarah J. Maas's other worlds.

Respectfully, I disagree.

And I will be defending this series with the enthusiasm of a woman who has apparently decided that fictional literature is a personal cause.

There is something about Crescent City that has completely captured my heart. The world is enormous, the politics are messy, the characters are complicated, and the emotional stakes are absolutely devastating. It has everything I love about fantasy: intricate world-building, unexpected alliances, dangerous secrets, incredible friendships, and the kind of plot twists that make you close the book, stare at the wall, and seriously reconsider your ability to trust an author.

But what makes this series so special to me is Bryce Quinlan.

And yes, I know Bryce gets criticized. She is stubborn. She is sarcastic. She makes questionable decisions. She can be impulsive, frustrating, and spectacularly unwilling to explain herself when a perfectly reasonable conversation might save everyone a considerable amount of trouble.

And I love her.

Not because she is perfect, but because she is so unapologetically herself.

Bryce is a woman who has experienced tremendous loss and still refuses to let the world decide what she is allowed to become. She is fiercely loyal, deeply protective, and willing to challenge people who have spent their entire lives believing they are untouchable.

She is also funny, dramatic, occasionally infuriating, and perfectly capable of making me want to shake her by the shoulders. Which, in my opinion, makes her a much more interesting character than someone who gets everything right.

I love that Bryce can be feminine, enjoy herself, have an attitude, and still be an absolute force to be reckoned with. She does not have to abandon the parts of herself that other people underestimate in order to prove that she is powerful. And as a woman pursuing a career in a field where femininity and seriousness are sometimes treated like opposing concepts, I find that particularly satisfying.

But more than anything, I love the way Crescent City explores grief and the relationships that help people survive it.

The friendships in this series are not decorative additions to the romance. They are central to the story. Love is not confined to romantic relationships, and some of the most powerful moments come from the lengths people will go to for the friends and family they refuse to abandon.

There are moments in these books that have genuinely broken my heart. And others that have reminded me why I love reading in the first place.

Of course, we also need to discuss Ruhn Danaan. Because I would be doing a tremendous disservice to this article if I pretended that man has not had a profound impact on my reading experience.

The tattoos. The piercings. The attitude. The loyalty. The fact that he somehow manages to be both an absolute menace and one of the most compelling men in the series.

Your honor, I have lost the plot.

And I am perfectly comfortable admitting that Ruhn Danaan could ruin my ability to make rational decisions with very little effort.

But even beyond my extremely reasonable appreciation for the Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae, Crescent City is a series I love because it makes me feel everything. It is funny and heartbreaking, chaotic and tender, ridiculous and deeply moving. It gives us characters who make mistakes, love fiercely, grieve imperfectly, and keep fighting for the people who matter to them.

And while I understand that not every book is going to resonate with every reader, I do not need a story to be universally adored for it to mean something to me.

Crescent City is one of those fictional worlds I will happily return to again and again. Criticism, discourse, and all.

Bryce Quinlan, you will always be famous in this household.

Fourth Wing - Rebecca Yarros

If Crescent City gives me a sprawling world to get lost in, Fourth Wing gives me the particular experience of being unable to put a book down because everyone I care about appears to be in immediate danger.

There are dragons, deadly challenges, political secrets, complicated loyalties, and an academic environment with a truly astonishing disregard for student safety.

As someone currently attending medical school, I have several concerns about Basgiath's institutional policies. And yet, I would still like a dragon.

Actually, I would like several.

My commitment to this particular interest has already extended beyond the reasonable limits of casual fandom, and I see no reason to correct course now.

But the dragons are only part of why I love this series.

There is something irresistible about a story where the stakes are enormous, trust is complicated, and the characters have to make difficult decisions without knowing whether they will get another chance to make things right.

And then there is Xaden Riorson.

A man who is practically constructed from shadows, secrets, and an impressive number of reasons to reconsider one's judgment.

Do I recognize that his communication skills occasionally leave something to be desired? Absolutely.

Would I still be turning pages at an unreasonable hour to find out what happens next? Without hesitation.

What makes Fourth Wing such an enjoyable escape is that it demands my attention completely. There is very little room to think about tomorrow's responsibilities when I am busy worrying about whether my favorite characters will survive the next fifty pages.

Sometimes that is exactly what I need.

A Court of Thorns and Roses - Sarah J. Maas

And then we have A Court of Thorns and Roses.

A series that somehow convinced me to become deeply emotionally invested in an entire collection of fictional people, their relationships, their personal histories, and a world I would very much like to visit under carefully negotiated safety conditions.

What keeps drawing me back to ACOTAR is not simply the romance or the magic, although I am certainly not complaining about either.

It is the sense of belonging that develops throughout the series. The friendships. The chosen family. The quiet moments between enormous, world-altering events. The idea that even after everything changes, people can still find somewhere they feel understood.

And, naturally, Azriel.

The shadowsinger.

The quiet, mysterious, emotionally complicated man who has somehow managed to become an extremely significant part of my fictional preferences.

I am beginning to notice a pattern.

Apparently, give me a man with shadows, a complicated past, and an intense sense of loyalty, and I will immediately lose the ability to behave sensibly.

This is information I have chosen to accept about myself.

But what I love most about ACOTAR is that beneath the fantasy and romance, there are stories about people trying to find their place in the world. Some of them are healing. Some are learning to trust. Some are discovering that the future they once imagined is not necessarily the future they want anymore.

And there is something comforting about spending time in a fictional world where belonging is not always immediate or effortless, but can still be found.

The Part That Stays With Me

These series are wildly different in their settings, characters, and stories, but they give me something similar.

They make me excited to read.

Not because I should be reading more, or because it is supposed to be good for me, or because I can somehow turn every fictional adventure into a lesson about becoming a physician.

Simply because I love it.

I love the anticipation of starting a new book. I love the moment a story becomes so absorbing that I stop noticing how much time has passed. I love texting about characters as though they are mutual acquaintances and finishing a chapter with the immediate need to discuss what just happened.

And yes, I love the fictional men.

Ruhn Danaan, Xaden Riorson, and Azriel have done absolutely nothing to improve my ability to recognize a healthy fictional attachment.

But they have certainly made reading entertaining.

The best part, though, is how these stories remind me that I still have interests that belong entirely to me.

I can spend my day learning medicine and my evening getting lost in Lunathion, Basgiath, or Velaris. I can care deeply about my future career and still become completely unreasonable over a fictional plot twist. I can be ambitious, serious about my education, and genuinely passionate about forensic pathology while also having very strong opinions about which fictional man deserves my attention.

Those things are not contradictions. They are simply different parts of a life I am learning to enjoy while I build it.

And if anyone needs me, I will probably be somewhere between a medical textbook and a fictional kingdom, making absolutely no progress toward having a normal relationship with my bookshelf.

I Am Allowed to Be Someone Outside of Medicine

I think one of the strangest things about pursuing a dream that requires so much of you is how easily it can begin to feel like the only thing you are allowed to care about.

Medical school is demanding. It requires commitment, sacrifice, and an enormous amount of time spent doing things that are not particularly glamorous. There are days when my schedule revolves almost entirely around studying, and weeks when the next exam feels like the only event on the calendar. And because becoming a physician is something I have wanted for so long, I sometimes forget that I am allowed to want other things, too.

Not necessarily enormous, life-changing things. Sometimes I just want an afternoon with a book, a good snack, and absolutely no reason to check the time.

I want to get excited about a new release. I want to talk about fictional characters with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for major life events. I want to wear my book-inspired jewelry, get dressed up for no particular reason, and occasionally spend an unreasonable amount of energy trying to acquire fictional dragons.

I want to have interests that do not need to be explained through the lens of my future career.

And I think that last part has been particularly important for me to recognize. Because there is a temptation, especially when you are working toward something as all-consuming as medicine, to turn every part of your life into another opportunity for self-improvement.

Reading becomes a way to reduce stress so you can study more effectively. Exercise becomes a way to increase productivity. Hobbies become tools for preventing burnout. Even rest starts to sound like something you should be doing strategically. And while there is nothing inherently wrong with recognizing the benefits of those things, I do not want to spend my entire life evaluating my interests by how useful they make me.

I want to be allowed to enjoy something simply because it makes me happy. I do not need to justify reading a fantasy novel by explaining how it improves my empathy or strengthens my resilience.

Sometimes it does give me a new perspective. Sometimes a character's story helps me understand something about myself that I have been struggling to put into words. And sometimes I spend an entire evening obsessing over a fictional man who has never demonstrated a healthy understanding of interpersonal communication.

Both experiences are valid.

The beautiful thing about having a life outside of medicine is that it does not diminish how much I care about becoming a doctor. If anything, it reminds me why I want to build a life that I actually enjoy living.

I do not want to reach the end of medical school and realize that I spent years treating every other part of myself like an inconvenience I would eventually have time to revisit. I want to remember the books I read between exams. The characters I fell in love with. The stories that made me laugh when I was exhausted and the ones that made me cry when I was absolutely convinced I had picked up something lighthearted.

I want to remember the little things that made ordinary days feel like mine.

Because I am proud of the woman who studies medicine, who loves forensic pathology, and who is working toward becoming the kind of physician she has imagined for years. But I am also proud of the woman who loves pink, who gets emotionally attached to fictional worlds, who wears jewelry inspired by her favorite stories, and who apparently considers collecting dragons a perfectly reasonable use of her time.

They are not two different people. They are both me.

And I think that is what reading has given me more than anything else. Not an escape from the person I am becoming, but a reminder that there is still so much of me worth enjoying along the way.

I will always have another chapter of medicine to learn. But I would also like to have another chapter of a really good book waiting for me when I am done.

And with that, welcome to the very first Off the Clock piece here on Forensic Fashionista.

This little corner of the blog is for everything that makes life interesting outside the lecture halls, textbooks, and career plans. The books I cannot stop thinking about, the hobbies I refuse to outgrow, the little joys that make ordinary days memorable, and the parts of life that deserve attention even when there is a mountain of work waiting.

Because becoming a doctor is not the only thing I am becoming. And if there is one thing I hope you take away from this particular literary confession, it is that you are allowed to have a life that exists alongside your ambitions. You can be serious about your goals and completely unserious about your fictional crushes. You can work incredibly hard for your future and still enjoy the present.

You do not have to wait until you have accomplished everything to make room for the things you love.

Now, I have a very important question for you. What fictional world would you happily disappear into for a weekend? And, perhaps more importantly, which fictional character has you defending behavior that would be an immediate dealbreaker in real life?

I promise this is a judgment-free zone. My bookshelf has absolutely no moral authority here.

Thank you for spending a little time with me outside the world of medicine and exploring the benefits of reading books. I hope you will stick around for more stories, little life updates, and whatever other adventures find their way into this corner of the internet.

Until next time, keep chasing the things you love, making room for the things that make you happy, and remembering that there is so much more to your story than the next milestone.

XOXO,

Kenzie

The Forensic Fashionista